Yet bright Aurora, partial as she was To Troy, and those that loved the Trojan cause, Nor Troy nor Hecuba can now bemoan, But weeps a sad misfortune, more her own. Her offspring Memnon, by Achilles slain, She saw extended on the Phrygian plain: She saw, and straight the purple beams, that grace The rosy morning, vanish’d from her face; A deadly pale her wonted bloom invades, And veils the lowering skies with mournful shades. But when his limbs upon the pile were laid, The last kind duty that by friends is paid, His mother to the skies directs her flight, Nor could sustain to view the doleful sight: But frantic, with her loose neglected hair, Hastens to Jove, and falls a suppliant there. “Oh king of heaven, oh father of the skies,” The weeping goddess passionately cries; “Though I the meanest of immortals am, And fewest temples celebrate my fame, Yet still a goddess, I presume to come Within the verge of your ethereal dome; Yet still may plead some merit, if my light “With purple dawn controls the powers of night;