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,