In HELEN'S house (Ulysses counted dead)
The hearts of all by sorrow's wave were swept,
And host and guests, unshamed, together wept,
Yet wept not all for great Ulysses sped:
Though plenteous tears the youth from Pylos shed,
Seizing the tearful chance like grief's adept,
He mourned his own, his brother dear, who slept
Where hostile soil with best Greek blood was fed.

Thus I—if fortune would so far befriend
To hither bring some spirit scourgèd sore,
Some wrong that loudly knocks at pity's door—
Might seem in charity those tears to spend,
That otherwise I dare not let descend
To ease my heart of grief's occulted store!