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,