“When on the banks her son in ghastly hue Transfixed with Thracian arrows strikes her view, The matrons shrieked; her big swoln grief surpassed The power of utterance; she stood aghast; She had nor speech, nor tears to give relief: Excess of woe suppressed the rising grief. Lifeless as stone, on earth she fix’d her eyes; And then look’d up to Heav’n with wild surprise, Now she contemplates o’er with sad delight Her son’s pale visage; then her aking sight Dwells on his wounds: she varies thus by turns, Till with collected rage at length she burns, Wild as the mother-lion, when among The haunts of prey she seeks her ravished young: Swift flies the ravisher; she marks his trace, And by the print directs her anxious chase. So Hecuba with mingled grief and rage Pursues the king, regardless of her age. ⋮ Fastens her forky fingers in his eyes; Tears out the rooted balls; her rage pursues, And in the hollow orbs her hand imbrues.