Then from her locks the helm Achilles tore
And boasted o'er the slain; but lo, the face
Of her thus lying in the dust and gore
Seem'd lovelier than is the maiden grace
Of Artemis, when weary from the chase,
She sleepeth in a haunted dell unknown.
And all the Argives marvell'd for a space,
But most Achilles made a heavy moan:
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