He who could often, and alone, withstand The foe, the fire, and Jove’s own partial hand, Now cannot his unmaster’d grief sustain, But yields to rage, to madness, and disdain; Then snatching out his falchion, “Thou,” said he, “Art mine; Ulysses lays no claim to thee. Oh often tried, and ever-trusty sword, Now do thy last kind office to thy lord: ’Tis Ajax who requests thy aid, to show None but himself himself could overthrow:” He said, and with so good a will to die, Did to his breast the fatal point apply. It found his heart, a way till then unknown, Where never weapon enter’d but his own. No hands could force it thence, so fix’d it stood, Till out it rush’d, expell’d by streams of spouting blood. The fruitful blood produced a flower, which grew On a green stem, and of a purple hue: Like his, whom unaware Apollo slew: Inscribed in both, the letters are the same, But those express the grief, and these the name.