* * * * * "A spacious breach is made; the town lies bare; Some hoisting levers, some the wheels prepare, And fasten to the horse's feet; the rest With cables haul along th' unwieldy beast: Each on his fellow for assistance calls. At length the fatal fabric mounts the walls, Big with destruction. Boys with chaplets crowned, And choirs of virgins, sing and dance around. Thus raised aloft, and then descending down, It enters o'er our heads, and threats the town. O sacred city, built by hands divine! O valiant heroes of the Trojan line! Four times he struck; as oft the clashing sound Of arms was heard, and inward groans rebound. Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate, We haul along the horse in solemn state, Then place the dire portent within the tower. Cassandra cried and cursed th' unhappy hour, Foretold our fate; but, by the gods' decree, All heard, and none believed the prophecy. With branches we the fane adorn, and waste In jollity the day ordained to be the last." --The Æneid. Book II.--DRYDEN. In the dead of night Sinon unlocked the horse, the Greeks rushed out, opened the gates of the city, and raised torches as a signal to those at Tenedos, who returned, and Troy was soon captured and given over to fire and the sword. Then followed the rejoicings of the victors, and the weeping and wailing of the Trojan women about to be carried away captive into distant lands, according to the usages of war. The stately walls of Troy had sunken, Her towers and temples strewed the soil; The sons of Hellas, victory-drunken, Richly laden with the spoil, Are on their lofty barks reclined Along the Hellespontine strand; A gleesome freight the favoring wind Shall bear to Greece's glorious land; And gleesome chant the choral strain, As toward the household altars now Each bark inclines the painted prow-- For Home shall smile again! And there the Trojan women, weeping, Sit ranged in many a length'ning row; Their heedless locks, dishevelled, sweeping Adown the wan cheeks worn with woe. No festive sounds that peal along, Their mournful dirge can overwhelm; Through hymns of joy one sorrowing song, Commingled, wails the ruined realm. "Farewell, beloved shores!" it said: "From home afar behold us torn, By foreign lords as captives borne-- Ah, happy are the dead!" --SCHILLER. For ten long years the Greeks at Argos had watched nightly for the beacon fires, lighted from point to point, that should announce the doom of Troy. When, in the Agamemnon of ÆSCHYLUS, Clytemnes'tra declares that Troy has fallen, and the chorus, half incredulous, demands what messenger had brought the intelligence, she replies: