Meanwhile, when Hector reach’d the oak beside The Scaean gate, around him throng’d the wives Of Troy, and daughters, anxious to enquire The fate of children, brothers, husbands, friends; He to the Gods exhorted all to pray, For deep the sorrows that o’er many hung. But when to Priam’s splendid house he came, With polish’d corridors adorn’d—within Were fifty chambers, all of polish’d stone, Plac’d each by other; there the fifty sons Of Priam with their wedded wives repos’d; On th’ other side, within the court were built Twelve chambers, near the roof, of polish’d stone, Plac’d each by other; there the sons-in-law Of Priam with their spouses chaste repos’d; To meet him there his tender mother came, And with her led the young Laodice, Fairest of all her daughters; clasping then His hands, she thus address’d him: “Why, my son, Why com’st thou here, and leav’st the battle-field? Are Trojans by those hateful sons of Greece, Fighting around the city, sorely press’d? And com’st thou, by thy spirit mov’d, to raise, On Ilium’s heights, thy hands in pray’r to Jove? But tarry till I bring the luscious wine, That first to Jove, and to th’ Immortals all, Thou mayst thine off’ring pour; then with the draught Thyself thou mayst refresh; for great the strength Which gen’rous wine imparts to men who toil, As thou hast toil’d, thy comrades to protect.” To whom great Hector of the glancing helm: “No, not for me, mine honour’d mother, pour The luscious wine, lest thou unnerve my limbs, And make me all my wonted prowess lose. The ruddy wine I dare not pour to Jove With hands unwash’d; nor to the cloud-girt son Of Saturn may the voice of pray’r ascend From one with blood bespatter’d and defil’d. Thou, with the elder women, seek the shrine Of Pallas; bring your gifts; and on the knees Of fair-hair’d Pallas place the fairest robe In all the house, the amplest, best esteem’d; And at her altar vow to sacrifice Twelve yearling kine, that never felt the goad; So she have pity on the Trojan state, Our wives, and helpless babes; and turn away The fiery son of Tydeus, spearman fierce, The Minister of Terror; to the shrine Of Pallas thou; to Paris I, to call If haply he will hear; would that the earth Would gape and swallow him! for great the curse That Jove thro’ him hath brought on men of Troy, On noble Priam, and on Priam’s sons. Could I but know that he were in his grave, Methinks my sorrows I could half forget.”