O Nike, daughter of the god of war,
From storied heights you, goddess, ever soar!
The fame the hero has after he’s fought
And won the battle can never be bought;
From you it comes, the wreath of laurel leaves;
Such fame can comfort even he who grieves
For valiant men, who’ve fallen on the field:
Their deeds survive in word, and glory yield.
Achilles still slays Hector in his rage,
Unable still his sorrow to assuage
For Patroclus; and Ajax, on his sword,
Falls, for that he received not the award;
Odysseus shows himself the winner,
Making a bloodbath at the suitors’ dinner.
These had victory from you for warlike deeds,
And all their fame yet further glory breeds.
The victory of battle is your trust,
Awarded to the best side, as is just.