_Messenger:_ One lofty tower of fallen Troy is left, Well known to Priam, on whose battlements He used to sit and view his warring hosts. 1070 Here in his arms his grandson he would hold With kind embrace, and bid the lad admire His father's warlike deeds upon the field, Where Hector, armed with fire and sword, pursued The frightened Greeks. Around this lofty tower 1075 Which lately stood, the glory of the walls, But now a lonely crag, the people pour, A motley, curious throng of high and low. For some, a distant hill gives open view; While others seek a cliff, upon whose edge 1080 The crowd in tiptoed expectation stand. The beech tree, laurel, pine, each has its load; The whole wood bends beneath its human fruit. One climbs a smouldering roof; unto another A crumbling wall precarious footing gives; 1085 While others (shameless!) stand on Hector's tomb. Now through the thronging crowd with stately tread Ulysses makes his way, and by the hand He leads the little prince of Ilium. With equal pace the lad approached the wall; 1090 But when he reached the lofty battlement, He stood and gazed around with dauntless soul. And as the savage lion's tender young, Its fangless jaws, all powerless to harm, Still snaps with helpless wrath and swelling heart; 1095 So he, though held in that strong foeman's grasp, Stood firm, defiant. Then the crowd of men, And leaders, and Ulysses' self, were moved. But he alone wept not of all the throng Who wept for him. And now Ulysses spake In priestly wise the words of fate, and prayed, 1100 And summoned to the rite the savage gods; When suddenly, on self-destruction bent, The lad sprang o'er the turret's edge, and plunged Into the depths below.-- _Andromache:_ What Colchian, what wandering Scythian, What lawless race that dwells by Caspia's sea 1105 Could do or dare a crime so hideous? No blood of helpless children ever stained Busiris' altars, monster though he was; Nor did the horses of the Thracian king E'er feed on tender limbs. Where is my boy? Who now will take and lay him in the tomb? 1110 _Messenger:_ Alas, my lady, how can aught remain From such a fall, but broken, scattered bones, Dismembered limbs, and all those noble signs In face and feature of his royal birth, Confused and crushed upon the ragged ground? Who was thy son lies now a shapeless corse. 1115 _Andromache:_ Thus also is he like his noble sire.