Forth from the ravished grove he strode 855 With its golden fruit full laden; in vain Did the deadly, sleepless dragon guard Hear the sound of the musical metal. By triple chains to the upper world The hound of hell was meekly dragged; 860 His three great mouths in silence gaped, Amazed by the light of day. And, greatest of toils, beneath his might, The lying house of Dardanus Was overthrown, and felt the force Of that dread bow which it was doomed In far-off time to feel again. Ten days sufficed for Troy's first overthrow; 865 As many years her second ruins know. ACT V _Cassandra_ [_alone upon the stage, standing where she can see the interior of the palace, describes what is going on there; or else she sees it by clairvoyant power_]: Great deeds are done within, the cruel match For ten long years of suffering at Troy. Alas, what do they there? Arise, my soul, And take reward for thy mad prophecies. The conquered Phrygians are victors now. 'Tis well! O Troy, thou risest from the dust, 870 For thou hast now to equal ruin brought Mycenae too. Low lies thy conqueror. Oh, ne'er before has my prophetic soul So clearly seen the things of which it raved. I see, and no false image cheats my sight, I see it plainly, there, within the hall, 875 A royal feast is spread, and thronged with guests, Like that last fatal feast of ours at Troy. The couches gleam with Trojan tapestries; Their wine they quaff from rare old cups of gold That once cheered great Assaracus; and see, The king himself, in 'broidered vestment clad, Sits high in triumph at the table's head, 880 With Priam's noble spoils upon his breast. Now comes his queen and bids him put away The garment which his enemy has worn, And don instead the robe which she has made With loving thoughts of him. Oh, horrid deed! I shudder at the sight. Shall that base man, That exile, smite a king? the paramour The husband slay? The fatal hour has come. 885 The second course shall flow with royal blood, And gory streams shall mingle with the wine. And now the king has donned the deadly robe, Which gives him bound and helpless to his fate. His hands no outlet find; the clinging gown Enwraps his head in dark and smothering folds. With trembling hand the coward paramour 890 Now smites the king, but not with deadly wound; For in mid stroke his nerveless hand is stayed. But, as some shaggy boar in forest wilds, Within the net's strong meshes caught, still strives And strains to burst his bonds, yet all in vain: So Agamemnon seeks to throw aside 895 The floating, blinding folds. In vain; and yet,