Many Shining Actions Owe Their

Our Fruitless Labours Mourn, And Only Rich In Barren Fame Return.

Yet While My Hector Still Survives, I See My Father, Mother, Brethren, All In Thee.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

His Native Home Deep Imag'd In His Soul.

Fear, O Achilles, The Wrath Of Heaven; Think On Your Own Father And Have Compassion Upon Me, Who Am The More Pitiable