_Band of Trojan women:_ Alas, how bitter, yet how sweet a thing, This love of life we mortals cherish so! What madness, when the door stands open wide 590 That frees us from our ills, and death calls loud And welcomes us to everlasting rest! Who finds that refuge, fears no more These nameless terrors, these assaults, These insolent assaults of fate, And sidelong-glancing bolts of Jove. 595 Deep peace of death! No frenzied burgher-throng to fear, No victor's threatening madness here; No wild seas ruffled by the blast; No hosts in serried battle massed, Where whirling clouds of dust disclose 600 The savage riders to their foes; No nation falling with its city's fall, 'Mid smouldering battlement and crumbling wall; No wasting fires, No burning pyres, And all the horrors impious war inspires. They from the servile bonds of fate 605 This human life emancipate, Who fickle fortune dare to brave, And face the terrors of the grave; Who joyful view the joyless Styx, And dare their mortal span to fix. How like a king, how like a god on high Is he who faces death nor fears to die! 610 In one dark night we saw our city doomed, When Doric fires the Dardan homes consumed; But not in battle, not by warlike arts, As once it fell beneath Alcides' darts. No son of Thetis dealt the blow 615 Which wrought our final overthrow, Nor his loved friend, Patroclus hight, When once, in borrowed armor dight, He put our Trojan chiefs to flight; Nor when Pelides' self gave o'er 620 The fierce resentment that he bore, And sped him forth on vengeance bent-- Not even in such evils pent, Did Troy to cruel fortune bend, But struggled bravely to the end. Her bitter fate--for ten long years to stand, And fall at last by one vile trickster's hand. 625 In memory still we see the monstrous bulk Of that pretended and most fatal gift, The Grecian horse, which we, too credulous, With our own hands into our city led. The noisy-footed monster stumbled oft 630 Upon the threshold of the city gate, While in its roomy hold crouched kings and war. And we might well have turned their crafty arts To work their own destruction. But alas, We neither saw nor heeded. Oftentimes The sound of clashing shields smote on our ears, And low and angry mutterings within 635 Where Pyrrhus 'gainst the shrewd Ulysses strove. Now free from fear our Trojan youth Crowd round to touch the sacred cords With joyous hands. Astyanax Here leads his youthful playmates on, While 'midst the maidens gaily comes The maid Polyxena, foredoomed