Again the clash is East, the Gates are barred.
The rolling echoes of of Troy arise
With trebled sound: its weary threshold scarred
With scattered dead once more, and wild with cries.

The noise that dinned when siting Hellas reeled
Before the brave defence of Hector’s horde,
The blows that burst on Agamemmnon’s shield,
Or echoed from Achilles’ threshing sword
Were weak and small. Before this mighty blast
They seem the tinklings of a timid past.
To-day the Grecian arms are still and deep
Within the tomb: those heroes deep in dust;
The eyes of Attic honour closed with sleep,
And wise Ulysses’ arrows red with rust.