The winds now call to sea; brisk northern gales Sing in the shrouds, and court the spreading sails. “Farewell, dear Troy,” the captive matrons cry: “Yes, we must leave our long-loved native sky.” Then prostrate on the shore they kiss the sand, And quit the smoking ruins of the land. Last Hecuba on board, sad sight! appears; Found weeping o’er her children’s sepulchres: Dragg’d by Ulysses from her slaughter’d sons, While yet she grasp’d their tombs, and kiss’d their mouldering bones. Yet Hector’s ashes from his urn she bore, And in her bosom the sad relic wore: Then scatter’d on his tomb her hoary hairs, A poor oblation mingled with her tears.

Opposed to Ilium lie the Thracian plains, Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns. King Priam to his care commits his son, Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun. A wise precaution! had not gold, consign’d For the child’s use, debauch’d the tyrant’s mind. When sinking Troy to its last period drew, With impious hands his royal charge he slew; Then in the sea the lifeless corse is thrown; As with the body he the guilt could drown.

The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore, Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor. Here the wide-opening earth to sudden view Disclosed Achilles, great as when he drew The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain, As when he sought Briseis to regain; When stern debate, and rash injurious strife Unsheathed his sword, to reach Atrides’ life. “And will ye go?” he said. “Is then the name Of the once great Achilles lost to fame? Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue In vain for honours to my manes due. For this just end, Polyxena I doom With victim rites to grace my slighted tomb.”

The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey’d, And to the tomb led the devoted maid Snatch’d from her mother, who with pious care Cherish’d this last relief of her despair. Superior to her sex, the fearless maid Approach’d the altar, and around survey’d The cruel rites, and consecrated knife, Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life. Then, as with stern amaze intent he stood: “Now strike,” she said; “now spill my generous blood; Deep in my breast or throat your dagger sheathe, While thus I stand prepared to meet my death: For life on terms of slavery I despise: Yet sure no god approves this sacrifice. Oh! could I but conceal this dire event From my sad mother, I should die content. Yet should she not with tears my death deplore, Since her own wretched life demands them more. But let not the rude touch of man pollute A virgin victim; ’tis a modest suit. It best will please, whoe’er demands my blood, That I untainted reach the Stygian flood. Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard, To Priam’s daughter pay this last regard;

’Tis Priam’s daughter, not a captive, sues; Do not the rites of sepulture refuse. To my afflicted mother, I implore, Free without ransom my dead corse restore: Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold: But be her tears the price if I am sold: Time was she could have ransom’d me with gold.”