Then from all parts Ulyffes, Ajax then,
And then th' Atridæ, rally all their men ;
As winds, that meet from feveral coafts, conteft,
Their prifons being broke, the south and weft,
And Eurus on his winged courses born,
Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn,
And chafing Nereus with his trident throws
The billows from the bottom; then all thofe
Who in the dark our fury did escape,
Returning, know our borrow'd arms, and shape,
And differing dialect: then their numbers fwell
And grow upon us ; firft Chorobus fell
Before Minerva's altar, next did bleed
Juft 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,
Nor confecrated mitre, from the fame
Ill fate could fave; my country's funeral flame
And Troy's cold afhes I atteft, and call
To witness for myself, that in their fall
No foes, no death, nor danger, I declin'd,
Did, and deferv'd no lefs, my fate to find.
Now Iphitus 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
Th' affault fo hot, as if t'were only there,
And all the reft fecure from foes or fear :
The Greeks the gates approach'd, their targets caft
Over their heads, fome fcaling ladders plac'd
Against the walls, the reft the fteps afcend,
And with their fhields on their left arms defend
Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast
The battlement; on them the Trojans caft
Stones, rafters, pillars, beams; fuch arms as these,
Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize.
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 laft effort to fave the king,
Relieve the fainting, and fucceed the dead.
A private gallery 'twixt th' apartments led,
Not to the foe yet known, or not obferv'd
(The way for Hector's haplefs wife referv'd,
When to the aged king, her little fon
She would prefent); through this we pafs, and run
Up to the higheft battlement, from whence
The Trojans threw their darts without offence,
A tower so high, it seem'd to reach the sky,
Stood on the roof, from whence we could defcry
All Ilium---both the camps, the Grecian fleet;
This, where the beams upon the columns meet,
We loofen, which like thunder from the cloud
Breaks on their heads, as fudden and as loud,
But others ftill fucceed: meantime, nor ftones
Nor any kind of weapons ceafe.
Before the gate in gilded armour shone
Young Pyrrhus, like a fnake, his skin new grown,
Who fed on poisonous herbs, all winter lay
Under the ground, and now reviews the day
Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young,
Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue,
And lifts his fcaly breast against the sun ;
With him his father's fquire, Automedon,
And Peripas who drove his winged steeds,
Enter the court; whom all the youth fucceeds
Of Scyros' ifle, who flaming firebrands flung
Up to the roof; Pyrrhus himself among
The foremost with an axe an entrance hews
Through beams of folid oak, then freely views
The chambers, galleries, and rooms of state,
Where Priam and the ancient monarchs fate.
At the firft gate an armed guard appears;
But th' inner court with horror, noise, and tears,
Confus'dly fill'd, the womens fhrieks and cries
The arched vaults re-echo to the fkies;
Sad matrons wandering through the fpacious rooms
Embrace and kiss the posts: then Pyrrhus comes
Full of his father, neither men nor walls
His force fuftain, the torn port-cullis falls,
Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce,
And where the way they cannot find, they force.
Not with fuch rage a fwelling torrent flows
Above his banks, th' oppofing dams o'erthrows,
Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep,
Shepherds and folds, the foaming furges fweep.
And now between two fad extremes I ftood,
Here Pyrrhus and th' Atridæ drunk with blood,
There th' hapless queen amongst an hundred dames,
And Priam quenching from his wounds thofe flames
Which his own hands had on the altar laid,
Then they the fecret cabinets invade,
Where ftood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopes
Of that great race; the golden posts, whofe tops
Old hoftile spoils adorn'd, demolish'd lay,
Or to the foe, or to the fire a prey,
Now Priam's fate perhaps you may enquire :
Seeing his empire loft, his Troy on fire,
And his own palace by the Greeks poffeft,
Arms long difus'd his trembling limbs invest ;
Thus on his foes he throws himself alone,
Not for their fate, but to provoke his own:
There ftood an altar open to the view
Of heaven, near which an aged laurel grew,
Whose fhady arms the houshold gods embrac'd;
Before whose feet the queen herself had caft
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 cried,
Alas, my wretched husband, what pretence
To bear thofe arms, and in them what defence?
Such aid fuch times require not, when again
If Hector were alive, he liv'd in vain,
Or here we shall a fanctuary find,
Or as in life we shall in death be join'd.
Then weeping, with kind force held and embrac'd, And on the fecret feat the king the plac'd.
Meanwhile Polites, one of Priam's fons,
Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs
Through foes and fwords, and ranges all the court
And empty galleries, amaz'd and hurt;
Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills,
And his laft blood in Priam's prefence spills.
The king (though him fo many deaths inclofe)
Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows;
The gods requite thee (if within the care
Of thofe above th' affairs of mortals are)
Whofe fury on the fon but loft had been,
Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen :
Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'ft to be
Thy father) fo inhuman was to me;
He blusht, when I the rights of arms implor'd;
To me my Hector, me to Troy restor❜d :
This faid, his feeble arm a javelin flung,
Which on the founding shield, scarce entering, rung.
Then Pyrrhus; Go a messenger to hell
my black deeds, and to my father tell
The acts of his degenerate race. So through
His fon's warm blood the trembling king he drew
To th' altar; in his hair one hand he wreaths;
His fword the other in his bofom fheaths.
Thus fell the king, who yet furviv'd the state,
With fuch a fignal and peculiar fate,
Under fo vaft a ruin, not a grave,
Nor in fuch flames a funeral fire to have:
He whom fuch titles fwell'd, fuch power
To whom the fceptres of all Afia bow'd,
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