Now Dardan* swains before the king With clamorous demonstration bring, His hands fast bound, a youth unknown, Across their casual pathway thrown By cunning purpose of his own, If so his simulated speech For Greece the walls of Troy might breach, Nerved by strong courage to defy The worst, and gain his end or die. The curious Trojans round him flock, With rival zeal a foe to mock. Now listen while my tongue declares The tale you ask of Danaan snares, And gather from a single charge Their catalogue of crimes at large. There as he stands, confused, unarmed, Like helpless innocence alarmed, His wistful eyes on all sides throws, And sees that all around are foes, "What land," he cries, "what sea is left, To hold a wretch of country reft, Driven out from Greece while savage Troy Demands my blood with clamorous joy?" That anguish put our rage to flight, And stayed each hand in act to smite: We bid him name and race declare, And say why Troy her prize should spare. Then by degrees he laid aside His fear, and presently replied: *[Footnote: The Trojans were called _Dardans_, from Dardanus, the founder of Troy.] "Truth, gracious king, is all I speak, And first I own my nation Greek: No; Sinon may be Fortune's slave; She shall not make him liar or knave, If haply to your ears e'er came Belidan Palamedes'* name, Borne by the tearful voice of Fame, Whom erst, by false impeachment sped, Maligned because for peace he pled, Greece gave to death, now mourns him dead,-- His kinsman I, while yet a boy, Sent by a needy sire to Troy. While he yet stood in kingly state, 'Mid brother kings in council great, I too had power: but when he died, By false Ulysses' spite belied (The tale is known), from that proud height I sank to wretchedness and night, And brooded in my dolorous gloom On that my guiltless kinsman's doom. Not all in silence; no, I swore, Should Fortune bring me home once more, My vengeance should redress his fate, And speech engendered cankerous hate. Thence dates my fall: Ulysses thence Still scared me with some fresh pretence, With chance-dropt words the people fired, Sought means of hurt, intrigued, conspired. Nor did the glow of hatred cool, Till, wielding Calchas* as his tool-- But why a tedious tale repeat, To stay you from your morsel sweet? If all are equal, Greek and Greek, Enough: your tardy vengeance wreak. My death will Ithacus* delights, And Atreus'* sons the boon requite."