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;