Nor the brow with chaplets bound
Breathing balmy odours round,
1200
Nor the social glow of soul
1200
Kindling o'er the generous bowl,
Nor the dulcet strain that rings
Jocond from the sounding strings,
Nor endearing love's delight
That with rapture fills the night,
Me will he permit to prove;
1205
He, alas! hath murder'd love.
1205
But neglected here I lie
Open to th' inclement sky;
And my rough and matted hair
Drinks the dews of night's moist air,
Memorials sad of Troy!
1210
Ajax. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.