I saw, and all her daughters, and poor old Priam, His blood polluting the altars he had hallowed. The fifty marriage-chambers, the proud hope Of an everlasting line, are violated, The doors with the golden spoil are turned to splinters. Whatever the fire has spared the Greeks take over. You would ask, perhaps, about the fate of Priam? When he saw the city fall, and the doors of the palace Ripped from the hinge, and the enemy pouring in, Old as he was, he went and found his armor, Unused so many years, and his old shoulders Shook as he put it on. He took his sword, A useless weapon, and, doomed to die, went rushing Into the midst of the foe. There was an altar In the open court-yard, shaded by a laurel Whose shadow darkened the household gods, and here Hecuba and her daughters had come thronging, Like doves by a black storm driven. They were praying Here at the altar, and clinging to the gods, Whatever image was left. And the queen saw Priam In the arms of his youth. ‘O my unhappy husband,’ She cried, ‘have you gone mad, to dress yourself For battle, so? It is all no use; the time Needs better help than yours; not even my Hector Could help us now. Come to me, come to the altar; It will protect us, or at least will let us Die all together.’ And she drew him to her. Just then through darts, through weapons, came Polites, A son of Priam, fleeing deadly Pyrrhus, Down the long colonnades and empty hallways, Wounded, and Pyrrhus after him, vicious, eager For the last spear-thrust, and he drives it home; Polites falls, and his life goes out with his blood, Father and mother watching. And then Priam, In the very grip of death, cried out in anger:-- ‘If there is any righteousness in heaven, To care about such wickedness, the gods Will have the right reward and thanks to offer A man like this, who has made a father witness The murder of his son, the worst pollution! You claim to be Achilles’ son. You liar! Achilles had some reverence, respected A suppliant’s right and trust; he gave me back My Hector’s lifeless body for the tomb, And let me go to my kingdom.’ With the word He flung a feeble spear, which dropped, deflected From the rough bronze; it had hung there for a moment. And Pyrrhus sneered: ‘So, go and tell my father The latest news: do not forget to mention, Old messenger-boy, my villainous behavior, And what a bastard Pyrrhus is. Now die!’ He dragged the old man, trembling, to the altar, Slipping in his son’s blood; he grabbed his hair With the left hand, and the right drove home the sword Deep in the side, to the hilt. And so fell Priam, Who had seen Troy burn and her walls come down, once monarch, Proud ruler over the peoples and lands of Asia. He lies, a nameless body, on the shore,