Sing, Goddess, of Ruinous Wrath!
For the Sake of Helen: Princess, Prize
Since I went away and left my native land
You will never be lovelier than you are now
Handsome, Woman-Crazed Deceiver
Her luscious neck and ravishing breasts, the brilliance of her eyes
When Strife First Appears, She Is Small
Cattle can be had for the raiding
Know when speech is proper and when silence
Clanless, Lawless, Homeless Men
Beneath the sun and starry skies
This reckless courage will destroy you
Stay your anger and keep clear from fighting
All beguilements and loveliness
Black blood flowed from his wounds
Men steeped in quarrel and contention
His slave girl or his wedded wife
No joy for us in the sumptuous feast
I wish I were the wife of a better man
My heart is balanced between two paths
Amid Jutting Cliffs and Steep Ravines
Come after me full-tilt and run me down
Thus the Gods Have Spun the Threads
Wouldst thou rob me of my prize?
This one is a fool, and will pay for it one day
Bitch that I am—a cause of evil and a curse!
The People of Troy Cried Out in Fear
A seething flood of flame rolled closer
Here we will stand our ground!
Would that this frailty had afflicted someone else!
Ah, if you and I could escape this fray!
Dense the Battle-Haze That Engulfs the Brave
Strife strides across the earth
Drunkard! Dog-faced, quivering, deer-hearted coward!
Respite in war is all too brief
No time for speeches now. ’Tis time to fight!
On they strode, like a consuming fire
Payment for My Brother’s Blood
Headlong destruction swings our way
What atonement for blood spilt upon the earth?
Cut down through their own reckless folly
The Gods Will Deal Death to Those Who Kill
Those left alive after hateful carnage
The bravest is hit. The best will die.
O, my brother! I have been the death of you!
Wretched mortals! They live in grief.
Now There Will Be Killing Until the Score Is Paid
Stir up strength to battle on!
I will be called coward and a man of no worth
This Is the Poison of Deep Grief
Come back from the battle and the dread affray
My pride and glory die, but the life that’s left me will be long
Who in Future Will Speak Well of You?
Pile up your riches and your luxury
Say the prayers. Heal the wounds.
On the sad threshold of old age
Give the bard his share of honor
The stroke of death will not come quickly
For Generations Still Unborn, He Will Live in Song
One generation dies away, another rises up