Imatges de pÓgina
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E said, and past with sad presaging heart

To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part; At home he fought her, but he fought in vain : She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had thence retir’d; and with her second joy, The young Altyanax, the hope of Troy, Pensive she stood on Ilion's tow'ry height, Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the light;



There her fad eyes in vain her Lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.
But he who found not whom his soul defir'd,
Whose virtue charm’d him as her beauty fir'd,
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 fought her sisters in the Trojan court?
Not to the court, (reply'd th' attendant train)
Nor mix'd with matrons to Minerva's fane :
To Ilion's Ateepy tow'r 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.
The nurse attended with her infant boy,
The young Altyanax, the hope of Troy.

Hector, this heard, return'd without delay;
Swift thro’ the town he trod his former way,
Thro’ streets of palaces, and walks of state;
And met the moarner at the Scæan gate.
With halte to meet him sprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir :
(Cilician Thebè great Aëtion sway'd,
And Hippoplacus' wide extended shade)
The nurse stood near, in whose embraces preft,
His only hope hung smiling at her breast,


Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream ;
Aftyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,
From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warrior smil'd, and pleas'd resign’d
To tender passions all his mighty mind:
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Too daring prince ! ah whither dost thou run?
Ah too forgetful of thy wife and fon!
And think it thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, an helpless orphan he !
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.
Greece in her single heroes ftrove in vain ;
Now hoits oppose thee, and thou must be slain !
Oh grant me, Gods ! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ak of heav'n, an early tomb!

So shall my days in one sad tenour run,
And end with sorrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and flew my warlike fire!

His fate compaffion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preserv'd from hoitile spoil,
And laid him decent on the fun’ral pile ;
Then rais'd a mountain where his bones were burn'd:
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d,
Jove's filvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

By the same arm my fev'n brave brothers fell;
In onc fad day beheld the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed;
Amid their fields the haples heroes bled!
My mother liv’d to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's filvan lands :
Redeem'd too late, the scarce beheld again
Her pleafing empire and her native plain,
When ah! opprest by life-consuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector still survives; I see
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!

molt the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon' wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy :
Thou, from this tow'r defend th' important poft ;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful hot,


That pass Tydides, Ajax, ftrive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv’n,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heav'n ;
Let others in the field their arins employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.

The chief reply'd: That poft shall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the

ground, Attaint the lustre of


former name,
Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul impels me to th’embattl'd plains :
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father’s glories and my own.

Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;
(How heart trembles while my tongue relates !)
The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, ,
My mother's death, the ruin of

Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore,
Not all my brothers gałping on the shore ;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;

see thee trembling, weeping, captive led !
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which lo large a part was thine !
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