But why dost thou bewail the city's fall, With ancient gossip's prattle? Turn thy mind, Unhappy one, to nearer woes than these. Troy's fall, though sad, is ancient story now. I saw the horrid slaughter of the king, Defiling the holy altar with its stain, 45 When bold Aeacides, with savage hand Entwined in helpless Priam's hoary locks, Drew back his sacred head, and thrust the sword Hilt-buried in his unresisting side. And when he plucked the deep-driven weapon back, So weak and bloodless was our agéd king, The deadly blade came almost stainless forth. 50 Whose thirst for blood had not been satisfied By that old man just slipping o'er the verge Of life? Whom would not heavenly witnesses Restrain from crime? Who would not stay his hand Before the sacred altar, last resort Of fallen thrones? Yet he, our noble Priam, The king, and father of so many kings, Lies like the merest peasant unentombed; 55 And, though all Troy's aflame, there's not a brand To light his pyre and give him sepulture. And still the heavenly powers are not appeased. Behold the urn; and, subject to its lot, The maids and matrons of our princely line, Who wait their future lords. To whom shall I, An agéd and unprized allotment, fall? One Grecian lord has fixed his longing eyes On Hector's queen; another prays the lot To grant to him the bride of Helenus; 60 Antenor's spouse is object of desire, And e'en thy hand, Cassandra, hath its suitor: My lot alone they deprecate and fear. And can ye cease your plaints? O captive throng, Come beat upon your breasts, and let the sound Of your loud lamentations rise anew, The while we celebrate in fitting wise Troy's funeral; let fatal Ida, seat 65 Of that ill-omened judgment, straight resound With echoes of our pitiful refrain. _Chorus:_ Not an untrained band, to tears unknown, Thou callest to grief, for our tears have rained In streams unending through the years, Since the time when the Phrygian guest arrived At the friendly court of Tyndarus, 70 Sailing the sea in his vessel framed From the sacred pines of Cybele. Ten winters have whitened Ida's slopes, So often stripped for our funeral pyres; Ten years have ripened the waving grain Which the trembling reaper has garnered in From wide Sigean harvest-fields: 75 But never a day was without its grief, Never a night but renewed our woe. Then on with the wailing and on with the blows; And thou, poor fate-smitten queen, be our guide, 80 Our mistress in mourning; we'll obey thy commands, Well trained in the wild liturgy of despair.