Again The Clash Is East

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.