_Cassandra:_ But ills like mine o'erleap the bounds of fear. 695 I'll supplicate the heavenly gods no more, For now am I beyond their power to harm, And I have drained to dregs the cup of fate. No country have I left, no sister, sire; For tombs and altars have my blood consumed. 700 Where is that happy throng of brothers now? Departed all! And only weak old men Remain within the lonely palace walls To serve the wretched king; and these, alas, Throughout those stately chambered halls behold, Save Spartan Helen, none but widowed wives. And Hecuba, proud mother of a race 705 Of kings, herself the queen of Phrygia, Fecund for funeral pyres, became the mock Of fickle fate; and now in bestial form, Barks madly round the ruins of her home, Surviving Troy, son, husband, and herself. _Band:_ Why falls this sudden silence on her? See 710 Her cheeks are pale, and fits of trembling fear Possess her frame; her locks in horror rise, And we can hear, though pent within her breast, The loud pulsations of her fluttering heart. Her glance uncertain wanders; and anon Her eyes seem backward turned into herself, 715 Then fix again and harshly stare abroad. Now higher than her wont she lifts her head And walks with stately step; and now she strives To open her reluctant lips. At last, Though struggling still against th' inspiring god, The maddened priestess speaks with muttered words.