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Iliad of Homer, Rendered into English Blank Verse

<h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> THE DEATH OF HECTOR. The Trojans being safe within the walls, Hector only stays to oppose Achilles. Priam is struck at his approach, and tries to persuade his son to re-enter the town. Hecuba joins his entreaties, but in vain. Hector consults within himself what measures to take; but, at the advance of Achilles, his resolution fails him, and he flies: Achilles pursues him thrice round the walls of Troy. The gods debate concerning the fate of Hector; at length Minerva descends to the aid of Achilles. She deludes Hector in the shape of Deiphobus; he stands the combat, and is slain. Achilles drags the dead body at his chariot, in the sight of Priam and Hecuba. Their lamentations, tears, and despair. Their cries reach the ears of Andromache, who, ignorant of this, was retired into the inner part of the palace; she mounts up to the walls, and beholds her dead husband. She swoons at the spectacle. Her excess of grief and lamentation. The thirtieth day still continues. The scene lies under the walls, and on the battlements of Troy. <h2>BOOK XXII.</h2> Thus they from panic flight, like timorous fawns. Within the walls escaping, dried their sweat, And drank, and quench’d their thirst, reclining safe On the fair battlements; but nearer drew, With slanted shields, the Greeks; yet Hector still In front of Ilium and the Scaean gate, Stay’d by his evil doom, remain’d without; Then Phoebus thus to Peleus’ godlike son: “Achilles, why with active feet pursue, Thou mortal, me Immortal? know’st thou not My Godhead, that so hot thy fury burns? Or heed’st thou not that all the Trojan host Whom thou hast scar’d, while thou art here withdrawn, Within the walls a refuge safe have found? On me thy sword is vain! I know not death!” Enrag’d, Achilles, swift of foot, replied: “Deep is the injury, far-darting King, Most hostile of the Gods, that at thy hand I bear, who here hast lur’d me from the walls, Which many a Trojan else had fail’d to reach, Ere by my hand they bit the bloody dust. Me of immortal honour thou hast robb’d, And them, thyself from vengeance safe, hast sav’d. Had I the pow’r, that vengeance thou shouldst feel.” Thus saying, and on mightiest deeds intent, He turn’d him city-ward, with fiery speed; As when a horse, contending for the prize, Whirls the swift car, and stretches o’er the plain, E’en so, with active limbs, Achilles rac’d. Him first the aged Priam’s eyes discern’d, Scouring the plain, in arms all dazzling bright, Like to th’ autumnal star, whose brilliant ray Shines eminent amid the depth of night, Whom men the dog-star of Orion call; The brightest he, but sign to mortal man Of evil augury, and fiery heat: So shone the brass upon the warrior’s breast. The old man groan’d aloud, and lifting high His hands, he beat his head, and with loud voice Call’d on his son, imploring; he, unmov’d, Held post before the gates, awaiting there Achilles’ fierce encounter; him his sire, With hands outstretch’d and piteous tone, address’d: “Hector, my son, await not here alone That warrior’s charge, lest thou to fate succumb, Beneath Pelides’ arm, thy better far! Accurs’d be he! would that th’ immortal Gods So favour’d him as I! then should his corpse Soon to the vultures and the dogs be giv’n! (So should my heart a load of anguish lose) By whom I am of many sons bereav’d, Many and brave, whom he has slain, or sold To distant isles in slav’ry; and e’en now, Within the city walls I look in vain For two, Lycaon brave, and Polydore, My gallant sons, by fair Laothoe: If haply yet they live, with brass and gold Their ransom shall be paid; good store of these We can command; for with his daughter fair A wealthy dowry aged Altes gave. But to the viewless shades should they have gone, Deep were their mother’s sorrow and my own; But of the gen’ral public, well I know Far lighter were the grief, than if they heard That thou hadst fall’n beneath Achilles’ hand. Then enter now, my son, the city gates, And of the women and the men of Troy, Be still the guardian; nor to Peleus’ son, With thine own life, immortal glory give. Look too on me with pity; me, on whom, E’en on the threshold of mine age, hath Jove A bitter burthen cast, condemn’d to see My sons struck down, my daughters dragg’d away In servile bonds; our chambers’ sanctity Invaded; and our babes by hostile hands Dash’d to the ground; and by ferocious Greeks Enslav’d the widows of my slaughter’d sons. On me at last the rav’ning dogs shall feed, When by some foeman’s hand, by sword or lance, My soul shall from my body be divorc’d; Those very dogs which I myself have bred, Fed at my table, guardians of my gate, Shall lap my blood, and over-gorg’d shall lie E’en on my threshold. That a youth should fall Victim, to Mars, beneath a foeman’s spear, May well beseem his years; and if he fall With honour, though he die, yet glorious he! But when the hoary head and hoary beard, And naked corpse to rav’ning dogs are giv’n, No sadder sight can wretched mortals see.” The old man spoke, and from, his head he tore The hoary hair; yet Hector firm remain’d. Then to the front his mother rush’d, in tears, Her bosom bare, with either hand her breast Sustaining, and with tears address’d him thus: “Hector, my child, thy mother’s breast revere; And on this bosom if thine infant woes Have e’er been hush’d, bear now in mind, dear child, The debt thou ow’st; and from within the walls Ward off this fearful man, nor in the field Encounter; curs’d be he! should he prevail, And slay thee, not upon the fun’ral bed, My child, my own, the offspring of my womb, Shall I deplore thee, nor thy widow’d wife, But far away, beside the Grecian ships, Thy corpse shall to the rav’ning dogs be giv’n.” Thus they, with tears and earnest pray’rs imploring, Address’d their son; yet Hector firm remain’d, Waiting th’ approach of Peleus’ godlike son. As when a snake upon the mountain side, With deadly venom charg’d, beside his hole, Awaits the traveller, and fill’d with rage, Coil’d round his hole, his baleful glances darts; So fill’d with dauntless courage Hector stood, Scorning retreat, his gleaming buckler propp’d Against the jutting tow’r; then, deeply mov’d, Thus with his warlike soul communion held: “Oh woe is me! if I should enter now The city gates, I should the just reproach Encounter of Polydamas, who first His counsel gave within the walls to lead The Trojan forces, on that fatal night When great Achilles in the field appear’d. I heeded not his counsel; would I had! Now, since my folly hath the people slain, I well might blush to meet the Trojan men, And long-rob’d dames of Troy, lest some might say, To me inferior far, ‘This woful loss To Hector’s blind self-confidence we owe.’ Thus shall they say; for me, ’twere better far, Or from Achilles, slain in open fight, Back to return in triumph, or myself To perish nobly in my country’s cause. What if my bossy shield I lay aside, And stubborn helmet, and my pond’rous spear Propping against the wall, go forth to meet Th’ unmatch’d Achilles? What if I engage That Helen’s self, and with her all the spoil, And all that Paris in his hollow ships Brought here to Troy, whence first this war arose, Should be restor’d; and to the Greeks be paid An ample tribute from the city’s stores, Her secret treasures; and hereafter bind The Trojans by their Elders’ solemn oaths Nought to withhold, but fairly to divide Whate’er of wealth our much-loved city holds? But wherefore entertain such thoughts, my soul? Should I so meet him, what if he should show Nor pity nor remorse, but slay me there, Defenceless as a woman, and unarm’d? Not this the time, nor he the man, with whom By forest oak or rock, like youth and maid, To hold light talk, as youth and maid might hold. Better to dare the fight, and know at once To whom the vict’ry is decreed by Heav’n.” Thus, as he stood, he mus’d; but near approach’d Achilles, terrible as plumed Mars; From his right shoulder brandishing aloft The ashen spear of Peleus, while around Flash’d his bright armour, dazzling as the glare Of burning fire, or of the rising sun. Hector beheld, and trembled at the sight; Nor dar’d he there await th’ attack, but left The gates behind, and, terror-stricken, fled. Forward, with flying foot, Pelides rush’d. As when a falcon, bird of swiftest flight, From some high mountain-top, on tim’rous dove Swoops fiercely down; she, from beneath, in fear, Evades the stroke; he, dashing through the brake, Shrill-shrieking, pounces on his destin’d prey; So, wing’d with desp’rate hate, Achilles flew, So Hector, flying from his keen pursuit, Beneath the walls his active sinews plied. They by the watch-tow’r, and beneath the wall Where stood the wind-beat fig-tree, rac’d amain Along the public road, until they reach’d The fairly-flowing fount whence issu’d forth, From double source, Scamander’s eddying streams. One with hot current flows, and from beneath, As from a furnace, clouds of steam arise; ’Mid summer’s heat the other rises cold As hail, or snow, or water crystalliz’d; Beside the fountains stood the washing-troughs Of well-wrought stone, where erst the wives of Troy And daughters fair their choicest garments wash’d, In peaceful times, ere came the sons of Greece. There rac’d they, one in flight, and one pursuing; Good he who fled, but better who pursu’d, With fiery speed; for on that race was stak’d No common victim, no ignoble ox: The prize at stake was mighty Hector’s life. As when the solid-footed horses fly Around the course, contending for the prize, Tripod, or woman of her lord bereft; So rac’d they thrice around the walls of Troy With active feet; and all the Gods beheld. Then thus began the Sire of Gods and men: “A woful sight mine eyes behold; a man I love in flight around the walls! my heart For Hector grieves, who, now upon the crown Of deeply-furrow’d Ida, now again On Ilium’s heights, with fat of choicest bulls Hath pil’d mine altar; whom around the walls, With flying speed Achilles now pursues. Give me your counsel, Gods, and say, from death If we shall rescue him, or must he die, Brave as he is, beneath Pelides’ hand?” To whom the blue-ey’d Goddess, Pallas, thus: “O Father, lightning-flashing, cloud-girt King, What words are these? wouldst thou a mortal man, Long doom’d by fate, again from death preserve? Do as thou wilt, but not with our consent.” To whom the Cloud-compeller thus replied: “Be of good cheer, my child! unwillingly I speak, yet both thy wishes to oppose: Have then thy will, and draw not back thy hand.” His words fresh impulse gave to Pallas’ zeal, And from Olympus’ heights in haste she sped. Meanwhile on Hector, with untiring hate. The swift Achilles press’d: as when a hound, Through glen and tangled brake, pursues a fawn, Rous’d from its lair upon the mountain side; And if awhile it should evade pursuit, Low crouching in the copse, yet quests he back, Searching unwearied, till he find the trace; So Hector sought to baffle, but in vain, The keen pursuit of Peleus’ active son. Oft as he sought the shelter of the gates Beneath the well-built tow’rs, if haply thence His comrades’ weapons might some aid afford; So oft his foeman, with superior speed, Would cut him off, and turn him to the plain. He tow’rd the city still essay’d his flight; And as in dreams, when one pursues in vain, One seeks in vain to fly, the other seeks As vainly to pursue; so could not now Achilles reach, nor Hector quit, his foe. Yet how should Hector now the doom of death Have ’scap’d, had not Apollo once again, And for the last time, to his rescue come, And giv’n him strength and suppleness of limb? Then to the crowd Achilles with his head Made sign that none at Hector should presume To cast a spear, lest one might wound, and so The greater glory obtain, while he himself Must be contented with the second place. But when the fourth time in their rapid course The founts were reach’d, th’ Eternal Father hung His golden scales aloft, and plac’d in each The lots of doom, for great Achilles one, For Hector one, and held them by the midst: Down sank the scale, weighted with Hector’s death, Down to the shades, and Phoebus left his side. Then to Pelides came the blue-ey’d Maid, And stood beside him, and bespoke him thus: “Achilles, lov’d of Heav’n, I trust that now To thee and me great glory shall accrue In Hector’s fall, insatiate of the fight. Escape he cannot now, though at the feet Of aegis-bearing Jove, on his behalf, With earnest pray’r Apollo prostrate fall. But stay thou here and take thy breath, while I Persuade him to return and dare the fight.” So Pallas spoke; and he with joy obeying, Stood leaning on his brass-barb’d ashen spear. The Goddess left him there, and went (the form And voice assuming of Deiphobus) In search of godlike Hector; him she found, And standing near, with winged words address’d: “Sorely, good brother, hast thou been bested By fierce Achilles, who around the walls Hath chas’d thee with swift foot; now stand we both For mutual succour, and his onset wait.” To whom great Hector of the glancing helm: “Deiphobus, of all my brothers, sons Of Hecuba and Priam, thou hast been Still dearest to my heart; and now the more I honour thee who dar’st on my behalf, Seeing my peril, from within the walls To sally forth, while others skulk behind.” To whom the blue-ey’d Goddess thus replied: “With many pray’rs, good brother, both our sire And honour’d mother, and our comrades all Successively implored me to remain; Such fear is fall’n on all; but in my soul On thine account too deep a grief I felt. Now, forward boldly! spare we not our spears; Make trial if Achilles to the ships From both of us our bloody spoils can bear, Or by thine arm himself may be subdued.” Thus Pallas lur’d him on with treach’rous wile; But when the two were met, and close at hand, First spoke great Hector of the glancing helm: “No more before thee, Peleus’ son, I fly: Thrice have I fled around the walls, nor dar’d Await thine onset; now my spirit is rous’d To stand before thee, to be slain, or slay. But let us first th’ immortal Gods invoke; The surest witnesses and guardians they Of compacts: at my hand no foul disgrace Shalt thou sustain, if Jove with victory Shall crown my firm endurance, and thy life To me be forfeit; of thine armour stripp’d I promise thee, Achilles, to the Greeks Thy body to restore; do thou the like.” With fierce regard Achilles answer’d thus: “Hector, thou object of my deadly hate, Talk not to me of compacts; as ’tween men And lions no firm concord can exist, Nor wolves and lambs in harmony unite, But ceaseless enmity between them dwells: So not in friendly terms, nor compact firm, Can thou and I unite, till one of us Glut with his blood the mail-clad warrior Mars. Mind thee of all thy fence; behoves thee now To prove a spearman skill’d, and warrior brave. For thee escape is none; now, by my spear, Hath Pallas doom’d thy death; my comrades’ blood, Which thou hast shed, shall all be now aveng’d.” He said, and poising, hurl’d his weighty spear; But Hector saw, and shunn’d the blow; he stoop’d, And o’er his shoulder flew the brass-tipp’d spear, And in the ground was fix’d; but Pallas drew The weapon forth, and to Achilles’ hand, All unobserv’d of Hector, gave it back. Then Hector thus to Peleus’ matchless son: “Thine aim has fail’d; nor truly has my fate, Thou godlike son of Peleus, been to thee From Heav’n reveal’d; such was indeed thy boast; But flippant was thy speech, and subtly fram’d To scare me with big words, and make me prove False to my wonted prowess and renown. Not in my back will I receive thy spear, But through my breast, confronting thee, if Jove Have to thine arm indeed such triumph giv’n. Now, if thou canst, my spear in turn elude; May it be deeply buried in thy flesh! For lighter were to Troy the load of war, If thou, the greatest of her foes, wert slain.” He said, and poising, hurl’d his pond’rous spear; Nor miss’d his aim; full in the midst he struck Pelides’ shield; but glancing from the shield The weapon bounded off. Hector was griev’d, That thus his spear had bootless left his hand. He stood aghast; no second spear was nigh: And loudly on Deiphobus he call’d A spear to bring; but he was far away. Then Hector knew that he was dup’d, and cried, “Oh Heav’n! the Gods above have doom’d my death! I deem’d indeed that brave Deiphobus Was near at hand; but he within the walls Is safe, and I by Pallas am betray’d. Now is my death at hand, nor far away: Escape is none; since so hath Jove decreed, And Jove’s far-darting son, who heretofore Have been my guards; my fate hath found me now. Yet not without a struggle let me die, Nor all inglorious; but let some great act, Which future days may hear of, mark my fall.” Thus as he spoke, his sharp-edged sword he drew, Pond’rous and vast, suspended at his side; Collected for the spring, and forward dash’d: As when an eagle, bird of loftiest flight, Through the dark clouds swoops downward on the plain, To seize some tender lamb, or cow’ring hare; So Hector rush’d, and wav’d his sharp-edg’d sword. Achilles’ wrath was rous’d: with fury wild His soul was fill’d: before his breast he bore His well-wrought shield; and fiercely on his brow Nodded the four-plum’d helm, as on the breeze Floated the golden hairs, with which the crest By Vulcan’s hand was thickly interlac’d; And as amid the stars’ unnumber’d host, When twilight yields to night, one star appears, Hesper, the brightest star that shines in Heav’n, Gleam’d the sharp-pointed lance, which in his right Achilles pois’d, on godlike Hector’s doom Intent, and scanning eagerly to see Where from attack his body least was fenc’d. All else the glitt’ring armour guarded well, Which Hector from Patroclus’ corpse had stripp’d; One chink appear’d, just where the collar-bone The neck and shoulder parts, beside the throat, Where lies expos’d the swiftest road of death. There levell’d he, as Hector onward rush’d; Right through the yielding neck the lance was driv’n, But sever’d not the windpipe, nor destroy’d His pow’r of speech; prone in the dust he fell; And o’er him, vaunting, thus Achilles spoke: “Hector, Patroclus stripping of his arms, Thy hope was that thyself wast safe; and I, Not present, brought no terror to thy soul: Fool! in the hollow ships I yet remain’d, I, his avenger, mightier far than he; I, who am now thy conqu’ror. By the dogs And vultures shall thy corpse be foully torn, While him the Greeks with fun’ral rites shall grace.” Whom answer’d Hector of the glancing helm, Prostrate and helpless: “By thy soul, thy knees, Thy parents’ heads, Achilles, I beseech, Let not my corpse by Grecian dogs be torn. Accept the ample stores of brass and gold, Which as my ransom by my honour’d sire And mother shall be paid thee; but my corpse Restore, that so the men and wives of Troy May deck with honours due my fun’ral pyre.” To whom, with fierce aspect, Achilles thus: “Knee me no knees, vile hound! nor prate to me Of parents! such my hatred, that almost I could persuade myself to tear and eat Thy mangled flesh; such wrongs I have to avenge, He lives not, who can save thee from the dogs; Not though with ransom ten and twenty fold He here should stand, and yet should promise more; No, not though Priam’s royal self should sue To be allow’d for gold to ransom thee; No, not e’en so, thy mother shall obtain To lay thee out upon the couch, and mourn O’er thee, her offspring; but on all thy limbs Shall dogs and carrion vultures make their feast.” To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm, Dying: “I know thee well; nor did I hope To change thy purpose; iron is thy soul. But see that on thy head I bring not down The wrath of Heav’n, when by the Scaean gate The hand of Paris, with Apollo’s aid, Brave warrior as thou art, shall strike thee down.” E’en as he spoke, his eyes were clos’d in death; And to the viewless shades his spirit fled, Mourning his fate, his youth and vigour lost. To him, though dead, Achilles thus replied: “Die thou! my fate I then shall meet, whene’er Jove and th’ immortal Gods shall so decree.” He said, and from the corpse his spear withdrew, And laid aside; then stripp’d the armour off, With, blood besmear’d; the Greeks around him throng’d, Gazing on Hector’s noble form and face, And none approach’d that did not add a wound: And one to other look’d, and said, “Good faith, Hector is easier far to handle now, Then when erewhile he wrapp’d our ships in fire.” Thus would they say, then stab the dead anew. But when the son of Peleus, swift of foot, Had stripp’d the armour from the corpse, he rose, And, standing, thus th’ assembled Greeks address’d: “O friends, the chiefs and councillors of Greece, Since Heav’n hath granted us this man to slay, Whose single arm hath wrought us more of ill Than all the rest combin’d, advance we now Before the city in arms, and trial make What is the mind of Troy; if, Hector slain, They from the citadel intend retreat, Or still, despite their loss, their ground maintain. But wherefore entertain such thoughts, my soul? Beside the ships, unwept, unburied, lies Patroclus: whom I never can forget, While number’d with the living, and my limbs Have pow’r to move; in Hades though the dead May be forgotten, yet e’en there will I The mem’ry of my lov’d companion keep. Now to the ships return we, sons of Greece, Glad paeans singing! with us he shall go; Great glory is ours, the godlike Hector slain, The pride of Troy, and as a God rever’d.” He said, and foully Hector’s corpse misus’d; Of either foot he pierc’d the tendon through, That from the ancle passes to the heel, And to his chariot bound with leathern thongs, Leaving the head to trail along the ground; Then mounted, with the captur’d arms, his car, And urg’d his horses; nothing loth, they flew. A cloud of dust the trailing body rais’d: Loose hung his glossy hair; and in the dust Was laid that noble head, so graceful once; Now to foul insult doom’d by Jove’s decree, In his own country, by a foeman’s hand. So lay the head of Hector; at the sight His aged mother tore her hair, and far From off her head the glitt’ring veil she threw, And with loud cries her slaughter’d son bewail’d. Piteous, his father groan’d; and all around Was heard the voice of wailing and of woe. Such was the cry, as if the beetling height Of Ilium all were smould’ring in the fire. Scarce in his anguish could the crowd restrain The old man from issuing through the Dardan gates; Low in the dust he roll’d, imploring all, Entreating by his name each sev’ral man: “Forbear, my friends; though sorrowing, stay me not; Leave me to reach alone the Grecian ships, And there implore this man of violence, This haughty chief, if haply he my years May rev’rence, and have pity on my age. For he too has a father, like to me; Peleus, by whom he was begot, and bred, The bane of Troy; and, most of all, to me The cause of endless grief, who by his hand Have been of many stalwart sons bereft. Yet all, though griev’d for all, I less lament, Than one, whose loss will sink me to the grave, Hector! oh would to Heav’n that in mine arms He could have died; with mourning then and tears We might have satisfied our grief, both she Who bore him, hapless mother, and myself.” Weeping, he spoke; and with him wept the crowd: Then, ’mid the women, Hecuba pour’d forth Her vehement grief: “My child, oh whither now, Heart-stricken, shall I go, of thee bereft, Of thee, who wast to me by night and day A glory and a boast; the strength of all The men of Troy, and women? as a God They worshipp’d thee: for in thy life thou wast The glory of all; but fate hath found thee now.” Weeping, she spoke; but nought as yet was known To Hector’s wife; to her no messenger Had brought the tidings, that without the walls Remained her husband; in her house withdrawn A web she wove, all purple, double woof, With varied flow’rs in rich embroidery, And to her neat-hair’d maidens gave command To place the largest caldrons on the fire, That with warm baths, returning from the fight, Hector might be refresh’d; unconscious she, That by Achilles’ hand, with Pallas’ aid, Far from the bath, was godlike Hector slain. The sounds of wailing reach’d her from the tow’r; Totter’d her limbs, the distaff left her hand, And to her neat-hair’d maidens thus she spoke: “Haste, follow me, some two, that I may know What mean these sounds; my honour’d mother’s voice I hear; and in my breast my beating heart Leaps to my mouth; my limbs refuse to move; Some evil, sure, on Priam’s house impends. Be unfulfill’d my words! yet much I fear Lest my brave Hector be cut off alone, By great Achilles, from the walls of Troy, Chas’d to the plain, the desp’rate courage quench’d, Which ever led him from the gen’ral ranks Far in advance, and bade him yield to none.” Then from the house she rush’d, like one distract, With beating heart; and with her went her maids. But when she reach’d the tow’r, where stood the crowd, And mounted on the wall, she look’d around, And saw the body which with insult foul The flying steeds were dragging towards the ships; Then sudden darkness overspread her eyes; Backward she fell, and gasp’d her spirit away. Far off were flung th’ adornments of her head, The net, the fillet, and the woven bands; The nuptial veil by golden Venus giv’n, That day when Hector of the glancing helm Led from Eetion’s house his wealthy bride. The sisters of her husband round her press’d, And held, as in the deadly swoon she lay. But when her breath and spirit return’d again, With sudden burst of anguish thus she cried: “Hector, oh woe is me! to misery We both were born alike; thou here in Troy In Priam’s royal palace; I in Thebes, By wooded Placos, in Eetion’s house, Who nurs’d my infancy; unhappy he, Unhappier I! would I had ne’er been born! Now thou beneath the depths of earth art gone, Gone to the viewless shades; and me hast left A widow in thy house, in deepest woe; Our child, an infant still, thy child and mine, Ill-fated parents both! nor thou to him, Hector, shalt be a guard, nor he to thee: For though he ’scape this tearful war with Greece, Yet nought for him remains but ceaseless woe, And strangers on his heritage shall seize. No young companions own the orphan boy: With downcast eyes, and cheeks bedew’d with tears, His father’s friends approaching, pinch’d with want, He hangs upon the skirt of one, of one He plucks the cloak; perchance in pity some May at their tables let him sip the cup, Moisten his lips, but scarce his palate touch; While youths, with both surviving parents bless’d, May drive him from their feast with blows and taunts, ‘Begone! thy father sits not at our board:’ Then weeping, to his widow’d mother’s arms He flies, that orphan boy, Astyanax, Who on his father’s knees erewhile was fed On choicest marrow, and the fat of lambs; And, when in sleep his childish play was hush’d, Was lull’d to slumber in his nurse’s arms On softest couch, by all delights surrounded. But grief, his father lost, awaits him now, Astyanax, of Trojans so surnam’d, Since thou alone wast Troy’s defence and guard. But now on thee, beside the beaked ships, Far from thy parents, when the rav’ning dogs Have had their fill, the wriggling worms shall feed; On thee, all naked; while within thy house Lies store of raiment, rich and rare, the work Of women’s hands; these will I burn with fire; Not for thy need—thou ne’er shalt wear them more,— But for thine honour in the sight of Troy.” Weeping she spoke; the women join’d her wail. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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