Then to the city, terrible and strong, With high and haughty steps he tower'd along, So the proud courser, victor of the prize, To the near goal with double ardor flies. Him, as he blazing shot across the field, The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld Not half so dreadful rises to the sight Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night, Orion's dog* (the year when autumn weighs), And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays; Terrific glory! for his burning breath Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death, So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage: He strikes his reverend head, now white with age; He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests* the skies; He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries: The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare, Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war; While the sad father on the rampart stands, And thus adjures him with extended hands: *[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.] *[Footnote: _Orion's dog_ means Sirius, the dog star, which was believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.] *[Footnote: _Obtests_ means _entreats_.] *[Footnote: _Expects_ here means _awaits_.] "Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone; Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son! Mehinks already I behold thee slain, And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain, Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be To all the gods no dearer than to me! Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore, And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore. How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd, Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd, Or, worse than slaughter'd, sold in distant isles To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils, What sorrows then must their sad mother know, What anguish I? unutterable woe! Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me, Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee. Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall; And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all! Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save. Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs; While yet thy father feels the woes he bears, Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage (All trembling on the verge of helpless age) Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain! The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain: To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes, And number all his days by miseries! Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best, Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast. But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age, In dust the reverend lineaments deform, And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm: This, this is misery! the last, the worst, That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"