_Messenger:_ When headlong from the tower the lad had sprung, And all the Grecian throng bewailed the crime Which it had seen and done; that selfsame throng Returned to witness yet another crime 1120 Upon Achilles' tomb. The seaward side Is beaten by Rhoeteum's lapping waves; While on the other sides a level space, And rounded, gently sloping hills beyond, Encompass it, and make a theater. Here rush the multitude and fill the place 1125 With eager throngs. A few rejoice that now Their homeward journey's long delay will end, And that another prop of fallen Troy Is stricken down. But all the common herd Look on in silence at the crime they hate. The Trojans, too, attend the sacrifice, 1130 And wait with quaking hearts the final scene Of Ilium's fall. When suddenly there shone The gleaming torches of the wedding march; And, as the bride's attendant, Helen came With drooping head. Whereat the Trojans prayed: "Oh, may Hermione be wed like this, 1135 With bloody rites; like this may Helena Return unto her lord." Then numbing dread Seized Greeks and Trojans all, as they beheld The maid. She walked with downcast, modest eyes, But on her face a wondrous beauty glowed In flaming splendor, as the setting sun Lights up the sky with beams more beautiful, 1140 When day hangs doubtful on the edge of night. All gazed in wonder. Some her beauty moved, And some her tender age and hapless fate; But all, her dauntless courage in the face 1145 Of death. Behind the maid grim Pyrrhus came; And as they looked, the souls of all were filled With quaking terror, pity, and amaze. But when she reached the summit of the mound And stood upon the lofty sepulcher, 1150 Still with unfaltering step the maid advanced. And now she turned her to the stroke of death With eyes so fierce and fearless that she smote The hearts of all, and, wondrous prodigy, E'en Pyrrhus' bloody hand was slow to strike. But soon, his right hand lifted to the stroke, 1155 He drove the weapon deep within her breast; And straight from that deep wound the blood burst forth In sudden streams. But still the noble maid Did not give o'er her bold and haughty mien, Though in the act of death. For in her fall She smote the earth with angry violence, As if to make it heavy for the dead. Then flowed the tears of all. The Trojans groaned 1160 With secret woe, since fear restrained their tongues; But openly the victors voiced their grief. And now the savage rite was done. The blood Stood not upon the ground, nor flowed away; But downward all its ruddy stream was sucked, As if the tomb were thirsty for the draught.