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.