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 In vain, it seems, you Phrygian boy 1 pacing with dainty step among your golden chalices, do you fill high the cup of Zeus, a lovely service;  the land of your birth is being consumed by fire. The shore re-echoes to our cries; and, as a bird bewails its young,  so we bewail our husbands or our children, or our old mothers. The dew-fed springs where you bathed, the course where you trained,  are now no more; but you beside the throne of Zeus are sitting with a calm, sweet smile upon your fair young face, while the spear of Hellas has destroyed the land of Priam.
1 Ganymede, a son of Tros.
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