Thou, O my husband, roam’st a flitting shade,
To thee are all funereal rites denied,
To thee no lustral drops supplied:
But I by the swift bark shall be conveyed
Where Argos’ cloud-capped fortress stands,
Erected by the Cyclops’ skilful hands.
Before our doors assembling children groan,
And oft repeat with clamorous moan
A mother’s name. Alone shall I be borne
Far from thy sight, by the victorious host
Of Greece, and leaving Ilion’s coast,
O’er ocean’s azure billows sail forlorn,
Either to Salamis, that sacred land,
Or where the Isthmian summit o’er two seas
A wide extended prospect doth command,
Seated in Pelops’ straits where Greece the prize decrees.