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And Eurus on his winged coursers borne,
Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn,
And chasing Nereus with his trident throws 405
The billows froin their bottom : then all those
Who in the dark our fury did escape
Returning, know our borrow'd arms and shape,
And difiring dialect : then their numbers swell
And grow upon us. First Chorcebus fell

Before Minerva's altar; next did bleed
Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed
In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed.
Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by
Their friends : nor thee, Pantheus! thy piety 415
Nor consecrated mitre from the same
Ill fate could save. My country's fun'ral flame,
And Troy's cold ashes, I attest and call
To witness for myself, that in their fall
No foes, no death, nor danger, I declin'd, 420
Did and deserv'd no less my fate to find.
Now Ipiritus with me, and Pelias,
Slowly retire ; the one retarded was
By feeble age, the other by a wound.
To court the cry directs us, where we found 425
Th’ assault so hot, as if ’twere only there,
And all the rest secure from foes or fear :
The Greeks the gates approach'd, their targets cast
Over their heads ; some scaling ladders plac'd

Against the walls, the rest the steps ascend, 430
And with their shields on their left arms defend
Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast
The battlement: on them the Trojans cast
Stones, rafters, pillars, beams; such arms as these,
Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize, 435
The gilded roofs, the marks of ancient state,
They tumble down ; and now against the gate
Of th' inner court their growing force they bring :
Now was our last effort to save the king,
Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead, 440
A private gallery 'twixt th' apartments led,
Not to the foe yet known, or not observ'd :
(The way for Hector's hapless wife reserv’d,
When to the aged king her little son
She would present) thro' this we pass, and run 445
Up to the highest battlement from whence
The Trojans threw their darts without offence,
A tow'r so high, it seem'd to reach the sky,
Stood on the roof from whence we could descry
All Ilium-both the camps, the Grecian fleet : 450
This, where the beams upon the columns meet,
We loosen ; which like thunder froin the cloud
Breaks on their heads, as sudden and as luud;
But others still succeed. Mean-time nor stones
Nor any kind of weapons cease.

455 Before the gate in gilded armour shone Young Pyrrhus, like a snake, his skin new grown,

Who, fed on pois’nous herbs, all winter lay
Under the ground, and now reviews the day
Fresh, in his new apparel, proud and young, 460
Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue,
And lifts his scaly breast against the sun :
With him his father's squire Automedon,
And Peripas, who drove his winged steeds,
Enter the court; whom all the youth succeeds 465
Of Scyros' isle, who flaming firebrands flung
Up to the roof : Pyrrhus himself among
The foremost with an axe an entrance hews
Thro' beams of solid oak, then freely views
The chambers, galleries, and rooms of state, 470
Where Prizm and the ancient monarchs sat,
At the first gate an armed guard appears,
But th' inner court with horror, noise, and tears,
Confuz’dly fill'd, the women's shrieks and cries
The arched vaults re-echo to the skies; 475
Sad matrons wand'ring thro' the spacious rooms,
Embrace and kiss the posts : then Pyrrhus comes ; 1
Full of his father, neither men nor walls
His force sustain : the torn portcullis falls;
Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce,
And where the way they cannot find they force. 481
Not with such rage a swelling torrent flows,
Above his banks th’opposing dams o’erthrows,
Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep,
Shepherds, and folds, the foaming surges sweep..

And now between two sad extremes I stood, 486 Here Pyrrhus and th' Atridæ drunk with blood, There th' hapless queen amongst an hundred dames, And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames Which bis own hands had on the altar laid :

490 Then they the secret cabinets invade Where stood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopes Of that great race : the golden posts, whose tops Old hostile spoils adorn d, demolish'd lay, Or to the foe or to the fire a prey.

425 Now Priam's fate perbaps you may inquire. Seeing his empire lost, bis Troy on fire. And his own palace by the Greeks possest, Arms long disus’d his trembling limbs invest; Thus on his foes he throws himself alone, 500 Not for their fate but to provoke his own. There stood an altar open to the view Of heav'n, near which an aged laurel grew, Whose shady arms the household gods embrac'd, Before whose feet the queen herself had cast

505 With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives, As doves whom an approaching tempest drives, And frights into one flock; but having spy'd Old Priam clad in youthful arms, she cry'd, “ Alas! my wretched husband! what pretence 510 - To bear those arms! and in them what defence ? « Such aid such times require not, when again "If Hector were alive he liv'd in vain :

" Or here we shall a sanctuary find,
" Or as in life we shall in death he join'd." 515
Then, weeping, with kind force held and embrac'd,
And on the secret seat the king she plac'h.
Mean-wliile Polites, one of Priam's sons,
Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs
Thro' foes and swords, and ranges all the court 520
And empty galleries, amaz’d and hurt;
Pyrrhus pursues him, now o’ertakes, now kills,
And his last blood in Priam's presence spills.
The king (tho' him so many deaths inclose)
Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows :

525 “ The gods requite thee : (if within the care “ Of those above th' affairs of mortals are) “Whose fury on the son but lost had been, “ Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen. « Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be 530 « Thy father) so inhuman was to me ; “ He blush'd when I the rights of arms implord, To me my Hector, me to Troy, restor'd." This said, his feeble arm a jav'lin flung, Which on the sounding shield, scarce ent’ring, rung. Then Pyrrhus; “ Go a messenger to hell “ Of my black deeds, and to my father tell " The acts of his degen’rate race.” So thro' His son's warm blood the trembling king he drew To th’altar : in his hair one hand he wreaths, 540 His sword the other in his bosom sheaths.


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