Thus as she pray’d, one common shower of tears Burst forth, and stream’d from every eye but hers. Ev’n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse Plunged in her heart the steel’s resistless force. Her slacken’d limbs sunk gently to the ground, Dauntless her looks, unalter’d by the wound. And as she fell, she strove with decent pride To guard what modest women care to hide. The Trojan matrons the pale corse receive, And the whole slaughter’d race of Priam grieve. Sad they recount the long disastrous tale, Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail; Thy widow’d mother too, who flourish’d late The royal pride of Asia’s happier state: A captive lot now to Ulysses born, Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn, Were she not Hector’s mother: Hector’s fame Scarce can a master for his mother claim! With strict embrace the lifeless corse she view’d; And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew’d, With which she lately mourn’d so many dead; Tears for her country, sons, and husband shed. With the thick-gushing stream she bathed the wound; Kiss’d her pale lips; then weltering on the ground,

“Behold a mother’s last dear pledge of wo! Yes, ’tis the last I have to suffer now. Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown: Already in thy fate I feel my own. ’Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed One should unslaughter’d fall, even thou must bleed: And yet I hoped thy sex had been thy guard: But neither has thy tender sex been spared. The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate Thy brothers fell, urged thy untimely fate! The same Achilles, whose destructive rage Laid waste my realms, has robb’d my childless age. When Paris’ shafts with Phoebus’ certain aid At length had pierced this dreadful chief, I said, ‘Secure of future ills, he can no more:’ But see, he still pursues me as before. With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn; And his yet murdering ghost my wretched home must mourn. This tyrant’s lust of slaughter I have fed With large supplies from my too fruitful bed. Troy’s towers lie waste; and the wide ruin ends The public wo; but me fresh wo attends. Troy still survives to me; to none but me;

And from its ills I never must be free. I who so late had power, and wealth, and ease, Bless’d with my husband, and a large increase, Must now in poverty an exile mourn; Ev’n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn: Given to Penelope, who, proud of spoil, Allots me to the loom’s ungrateful toil; Points to her dames, and cries, with scorning mien, ‘See Hector’s mother, and great Priam’s queen!’ And thou, my child, sole hope of all that’s lost, Thou now art slain, to soothe this hostile ghost. Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe! Then what am I, who still survive this wo? Say, cruel gods! for what new scenes of death Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath? Troy fallen, to whom could Priam happy seem? Yet was he so; and happy must I deem His death; for, oh, my child! he saw not thine, When he his life did with his Troy resign. Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace; And thou shalt sleep amid thy kingly race. Alas, my child! such fortune does not wait Our suffering house in this abandon’d state. A foreign grave, and thy poor mother’s tears,

Are all the honours that attend thy hearse. All now is lost! Yet no; one comfort more Of life remains, my much-loved Polydore, My youngest hope. Here on this coast he lives, Nursed by the guardian king, he still survives. Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood, And wash away these stains of guiltless blood.”