Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold: Their left hand gripes their bucklers in the ascent, While with the right they seize the battlement. From the demolished towers, the Trojans throw Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe: And heavy beams and rafters from the sides, (Such arms their last necessity provides!) And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high, The marks of state, and ancient royalty. The guards below, fixed in the pass, attend The charge undaunted, and the gate defend. Renewed in courage with recovered breath, A second time we ran to tempt our death, To clear the palace from the foe, succeed The weary living, and revenge the dead. A postern-door, yet unobserved and free, Joined by the length of a blind gallery, To the king's closet led--a way well known To Hector's wife, while Priam held the throne-- Through which she brought Astyanax, unseen, To cheer his grandsire, and his grandsire's queen. Through this we pass, and mount the tower, from whence With unavailing arms the Trojans make defence. From this the trembling king had oft descried The Grecian camp, and saw their navy ride. Beams from its lofty height with swords we hew, Then, wrenching with our hands, the assault renew; And, where the rafters on the columns meet, We push them headlong with our arms and feet. The lightning flies not swifter than the fall, Nor thunder louder than the ruined wall: Down goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into death. Yet more succeed, and more to death are sent: We cease not from above, nor they below relent. Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threatening loud, With glittering arms conspicuous in the crowd. So shines, renewed in youth, the crested snake, Who slept the winter in a thorny brake, And, casting off his slough when spring returns, Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns, Restored with poisonous herbs; his ardent sides Reflect the sun; and, raised on spires, he rides High o'er the grass: hissing he rolls along, And brandishes by fits his forky tongue. Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon, His father's charioteer, together run To force the gate: the Scyrian infantry Rush on in crowds, and the barred passage free. Entering the court, with shouts the skies they rend; And flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend. Himself, among the foremost, deals his blows, And with his axe repeated strokes bestows On the strong doors; then all their shoulders ply, Till from the posts the brazen hinges fly. He hews apace: the double bars at length Yield to his axe, and unresisted strength. A mighty breach is made: the rooms concealed Appear, and all the palace is revealed-- The halls of audience, and of public state, And where the lonely queen in secret sate. Armed soldiers now by trembling maids are seen, With not a door, and scarce a space, between.