Despoil'd him not, but burn'd the breathless corse With all it's splendid armor, and, above It's ashes, heap'd a monument of earth. The mountain nymphs, of Ægis-bearing Jove Immortal daughters, planted round the tomb A grove of elms, in honor of the dead.-- My brethren, too,--seven gallant heroes,--all In one sad day, to Pluto's dark abode Went down together; for the swift and strong Achilles slew them all, among their herds And fleecy flocks.--My mother, who had reigned The queen of Hypoplacus' sylvan land, Was hither brought, with other spoils of war, And, for a ransom infinite, releas'd;-- But, home return'd, within her father's halls, Diana's arrow pierc'd her mournful heart.-- Yet, Hector, thou alone, art all to me;-- Father, and honor'd mother, brother too;-- My husband dear, and partner of my youth. Oh then, have pity now, and here remain Upon this tower; lest thy hapless son An orphan, and thy wife a widow be.-- The people, station at the fig-tree, where The town is most accessible, and wall May be ascended:--there, a fierce assault, The bravest of our foes have thrice essayed;-- The two Ajaces, fam'd Idomeneus, Th' Atridæ also, and the mighty son Of Tydeus;--whether by some soothsay'r mov'd In heavenly tokens skill'd, or their own minds Impelling them with animating hope. To her the mighty Hector made reply:-- All thou hast said, employs my thoughtful mind. But, from the Trojans, much I dread reproach, And Trojan dames whose garments sweep the ground, If, like a coward, I should shun the war:-- Nor does my soul to such disgrace incline; Since, to be always bravest, I have learn'd, And with the first of Troy to lead the fight;-- Asserting so, my father's lofty claim To glory, and my own renown in arms:-- For well I know, in heart and mind convinc'd, A day will come, when sacred Troy must fall, And Priam, and the people of renown'd Spear-practis'd Priam!--Yet, for this to me Not such concern arises;--not the woes Of all the Trojans;--not my mother's griefs;-- Not royal Priam's, nor my brethren's death, Many and brave, (who, slain by cruel foes, Will be laid low in dust,)--so wring my heart, As thy distress, when some one of the Greeks In brazen armor clad, will drive thee hence, Thy days of freedom gone, a weeping slave!-- Perhaps, at Argos, thou may'st ply the loom For some proud mistress, or may'st water bring From Messa's or Hyperia's fountain;--sad, And much reluctant, stooping to the weight Of hard necessity; and some one, then, Seeing thee weep, will say--"behold the wife Of Hector, who was first in martial might Of all the warlike Trojans, when they fought Around the walls of Ilion!"--So will speak Some heedless passer by, and grief renew'd Excite in thee, for such an husband lost, Whose arm could slavery's evil day avert. But me, may then an heap of earth conceal