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.