(So fair the promise of a future reign)
And spoil-deckt pillars of barbaric gold,
A wreck; where fails the flame, its place the Danaans hold.

LXVIII. "Haply the fate of Priam thou would'st know.
Soon as he saw the captured city fall,
The palace-gates burst open, and the foe
Dealing wild riot in his inmost hall,
Up sprang the old man and, at danger's call,
Braced o'er his trembling shoulders in a breath
His rusty armour, took his belt withal,
And drew the useless falchion from its sheath,
And on their thronging spears rushed forth to meet his death.

LXIX. "Within the palace, open to the day,
There stood a massive altar. Overhead,
With drooping boughs, a venerable bay
Its shadowy foliage o'er the home-gods spread.
Here, with her hundred daughters, pale with dread,
Poor Hecuba and all her female train,
As doves, that from the low'ring storm have fled,
And cower for shelter from the pelting rain,
Crouch round the silent gods, and cling to them in vain.

LXX. "But when in youthful arms came Priam near,
'Ah, hapless lord!' she cries, 'what mad desire
Arms thee for battle? Why this sword and spear?
And whither art thou hurrying? Times so dire
Not such defenders nor such help require.
Not e'en, were Hector here, my Hector's aid
Could save us. Hither to this shrine retire,
And share our safety or our death.'--She said,
And to his hallowed seat the aged monarch led.

LXXI. "See, now, Polites, one of Priam's sons,
Scarce slipt from Pyrrhus' butchery, and lame,
Through foes, through darts, along the cloisters runs
And empty courtyards. At his heels, aflame
With rage, comes Pyrrhus. Lo, in act to aim,
Now, now, he clutches him,--a moment more,
E'en as before his parent's eyes he came,
The long spear reached him. Prostrate on the floor
Down falls the hapless youth, and welters in his gore.

LXXII. "Then Priam, though hemmed with death on every side,
Spared not his utterance, nor his wrath controlled;
'To thee, yea, thee, fierce miscreant,' he cried,
'May Heaven,--if Heaven with righteous eyes behold
So foul an outrage and a deed so bold,
Ne'er fail a fitting guerdon to ordain,
Nor worthy quittance for thy crime withhold,
Whose hand hath made me see my darling slain,
And dared with filial blood a father's eyes profane.

LXXIII. "'Not so Achilles, whom thy lying tongue