The tears distil not from the wounded wood; But ev’ry drop this living tree contains Is kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins. O fly from this unhospitable shore, Warn’d by my fate; for I am Polydore! Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued, Again shoot upward, by my blood renew’d.’ “My falt’ring tongue and shiv’ring limbs declare My horror, and in bristles rose my hair. When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent, Old Priam, fearful of the war’s event, This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent: Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far From noise and tumults, and destructive war, Committed to the faithless tyrant’s care; Who, when he saw the pow’r of Troy decline, Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join; Broke ev’ry bond of nature and of truth, And murder’d, for his wealth, the royal youth. O sacred hunger of pernicious gold! What bands of faith can impious lucre hold? Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears, I call my father and the Trojan peers; Relate the prodigies of Heav’n, require What he commands, and their advice desire. All vote to leave that execrable shore, Polluted with the blood of Polydore; But, ere we sail, his fun’ral rites prepare, Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear. In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round, With baleful cypress and blue fillets crown’d, With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound. Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour, And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore. “Now, when the raging storms no longer reign, But southern gales invite us to the main, We launch our vessels, with a prosp’rous wind, And leave the cities and the shores behind. “An island in th’ Aegaean main appears; Neptune and wat’ry Doris claim it theirs. It floated once, till Phoebus fix’d the sides To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides. Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore, With needful ease our weary limbs restore, And the Sun’s temple and his town adore.