But thou, atoned by penitence and prayer,
Ourselves, our infants, and our city, spare!'
So pray'd the priestess in her holy fane;
So vow'd the matrons, but they vow'd in vain.
While these appear before the power with
Hector to Paris' lofty dome repairs. [prayers,
Himself the mansion raised; from every part
Assembling architects of matchless art.

Near Priam's court and Hector's palace stands
The pompous structure, and the town commands.
A spear the hero bore of wondrous strength
Of full ten cubits was the lance's length;
The steely point with golden ringlets join'd,
Before him brandish'd, at each motion shined.
Thus entering, in the glittering rooms he found
His brother-chief, whose useless arms lay round,
His eyes delighting with their splendid show,
Brightening the shield, and polishing the bow.
Beside him Helen with her virgins stands,
Guides their rich labours, and instructs their hands.
Him thus unactive, with an ardent look
The prince beheld, and high-resenting spoke.
Thy hate to Troy, is this the time to show?
(O wretch ill-fated, and thy country's foe!)
Paris and Greece against us, both conspire;
Thy close resentment, and their vengeful ire.
For thee great Ilion's guardian heroes fall,
Till heaps of dead alone defend her wall;
For thee the soldier bleeds, the matron mourns,
And wasteful war in all its fury burns.
Ungrateful man! deserves not this thy care,
Our troops to hearten, and our toils to share?
Rise, or behold the conquering flames ascend,
And all the Phrygian glories at an end.'

'Brother, 'tis just, (replied the beauteous youth) Thy free remonstrance proves thy worth and truth: Yet charge my absence less, O generous chief! On hate to Troy, than conscious shame and grief: Here, hid from human eyes, thy brother sat, And mourn'd, in secret, his and Ilion's fate. "Tis now enough: now glory spreads her charms, And beauteous Helen calls her chief to arms. Conquest to-day my happier sword may bless, 'Tis man's to fight, but Heaven's to give success. But while I arm, contain thy ardent mind;

Or

go, and Paris shall not lag behind.'

He said, nor answer'd Priam's warlike son; When Helen thus with lowly grace begun

O generous brother! (if the guilty dame, That caused these woes, deserve a sister's name!) Would heaven, ere all these dreadful deeds were done,

The day, that show'd' me to the golden Sun,
Had seen my
death! why did not whirlwinds bear
The fatal infant to the fowls of air?

Why sunk I not beneath the whelming tide,
And midst the roarings of the waters died?
Heaven fill'd up all my ills, and I accursed
Bore all, and Paris of those ills the worst.
Helen at least a braver spouse might claim,
Warm'd with some virtue, some regard of fame!
Now tired with toils, thy fainting limbs recline,
With toils, sustain'd for Paris' sake and mine:
The gods have link'd our miserable doom,
Our present woe, and infamy to come:
Wide shall it spread, and last through ages long,
Example sad! and theme of future song.'

The chief replied—This time forbids to rest; The Trojan bands, by hostile fury press'd,

Demand their Hector, and his arm require;
The combat urges, and my soul's on fire.
Urge thou thy knight to march where glory calls,
And timely join me, ere I leave the walls.
Ere yet I mingle in the direful fray,

My wife, my infant, claim a moment's stay;
This day (perhaps the last that sees me here)
Demands a parting word, a tender tear:
This day, some god who hates our Trojan land
May vanquish Hector by a Grecian hand.'

He said, and pass'd with sad presaging heart
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part;
At home he sought her, but he sought in vain:
She, with one maid of all her menial train,
Had thence retired; and with her second joy,
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy,
Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height,
Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight;
There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.

But he who found not whom his soul desired, Whose virtue charm'd him as her beauty fired, Stood in the gates, and ask'd 'what way she bent Her parting step? If to the fane she went, Where late the mourning matrons made resort; Or sought her sisters in the Trojan court?' 'Not to the court, (replied the' attendant train) Nor mix'd with matrons to Minerva's fane: To Ilion's steepy tower she bent her way, To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day. Troy fled, she heard, before the Grecian sword; She heard, and trembled for her absent lord: Distracted with surprise, she seem'd to fly, Fear on her cheek, and sorrow in her eye.