I lie here desolate beneath the dust,
Mycenae, less to see than any knoll.
And yet whoever who looks on Ilium,
That famous town whose walls I trampled down,
And purged the house of Priam — they shall know
What strength I owned. If age has slighted me,
I am content in Homer’s witnessing.
I, sacred Ilium, that storied town
Whose tower-studded walls were famed in song:
Stranger, the dust of time has eaten me.
In Homer, though, I rest inviolate,
Behind my gates of bronze. Achaean spears
That ruined Troy can never root me thence;
I shall be reside upon the very lips
Of every single Hellene yet to come.