sword, my daughters dragged away Into captivity, their chambers made A spoil, our infants dashed against the ground By cruel hands, the consorts of my sons Borne off by the ferocious Greeks; and last, Perchance the very dogs which I have fed Here in my palaces and at my board, The guardians of my doors, when, by the spear Or sword, some enemy shall take my life, And at my threshold leave me stretched a corpse, Will rend me, and, with savage greediness, Will lap my blood, and in the porch lie down. When one in prime of youth lies slain in war, Gashed with the spear, his wounds become him well, And honor him in all men’s eyes; but when An aged man is slain, and his white head And his white beard and limbs are foully torn By ravening dogs, there is no sadder sight.”
So the old monarch spake, and with his hands Tore his gray hair, but moved not Hector thus. Then came, with lamentations and in tears, The warrior’s mother forward. One hand laid Her bosom bare; she pressed the other hand Beneath it, sobbed, and spake these wingèd words:—
“Revere this bosom, Hector, and on me Have pity. If when thou wert but a babe I ever on this bosom stilled thy cries, Think of it now, beloved child; avoid That dreadful chief; withdraw within the walls, Nor madly think to encounter him alone, Son of my love and of my womb! If he Should slay thee, I shall not lament thy death Above thy bier—I, nor thy noble wife— But far from us the greedy dogs will throng To mangle thee beside the Grecian fleet.”
Thus, weeping bitterly, the aged pair Entreated their dear son, yet moved him not. He stood and waited for his mighty foe Achilles, as a serpent at his den, Fed on the poisons of the wild, awaits The traveller, and, fierce with hate of man, And glaring fearfully, lies coiled within. So waited Hector with a resolute heart, And kept his ground, and, leaning his bright shield Against a tower that jutted from the walls, Conferred with his great soul impatiently:—