Remount the hollow horse, and pant in secret there. But, ah! what use of valour can be made, When heaven's propitious powers refuse their aid? Behold the royal prophetess, the fair Cassandra, dragged by her dishevelled hair, Whom not Minerva's shrine, nor sacred bands, In safety could protect from sacrilegious hands: On heaven she cast her eyes, she sighed, she cried-- 'Twas all she could--her tender arms were tied. So sad a sight Chorœbus could not bear; But, fired with rage, distracted with despair, Amid the barbarous ravishers he flew. Our leader's rash example we pursue: But storms of stones, from the proud temple's height, Pour down, and on our battered helms alight: We from our friends received this fatal blow, Who thought us Grecians, as we seemed in show. They aim at the mistaken crests, from high; And ours beneath the ponderous ruin lie. Then, moved with anger and disdain, to see Their troops dispersed, the royal virgin free, The Grecians rally, and their powers unite, With fury charge us, and renew the fight. The brother kings with Ajax join their force, And the whole squadron of Thessalian horse. Thus, when the rival winds their quarrel try, Contending for the kingdom of the sky, South, east, and west, on airy coursers borne-- The whirlwind gathers, and the woods are torn: Then Nereus strikes the deep: the billows rise, And, mixed with ooze and sand, pollute the skies. The troops we squandered first, again appear From several quarters, and inclose the rear. They first observe, and to the rest betray, Our different speech; our borrowed arms survey. Oppressed with odds, we fall; Chorœbus first, At Pallas' altar, by Peneleus pierced. Then Ripheus followed, in the unequal fight; Just of his word, observant of the right: Heaven thought not so. Dymas their fate attends, With Hypanis, mistaken by their friends. Nor, Panthûs, thee thy mitre, nor the bands Of awful Phœbus, saved from impious hands. Ye Trojan flames! your testimony bear, What I performed, and what I suffered there; No sword avoiding in the fatal strife, Exposed to death, and prodigal of life. Witness, ye heavens! I live not by my fault: I strove to have deserved the death I sought. But, when I could not fight, and would have died, Borne off to distance by the growing tide, Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence, With Pelias wounded, and without defence. New clamours from the invested palace ring: We run to die, or disengage the king. So hot the assault, so high the tumult rose, While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose, As all the Dardan and Argolic race Had been contracted in that narrow space; Or as all Ilium else were void of fear, And tumult, war, and slaughter, only there. Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes, Secure advancing, to the turrets rose: Some mount the scaling-ladders; some, more bold,