Cleared, as I thought, and fully fixed at length To learn the cause, I tugged with all my strength: I bent my knees against the ground: once more The violated myrtle ran with gore. Scarce dare I tell the sequel: from the womb Of wounded earth, and caverns of the tomb, A groan, as of a troubled ghost, renewed My fright, and then these dreadful words ensued:-- "Why dost thou thus my buried body rend? O! spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend! Spare to pollute thy pious hands with blood: The tears distil not from the wounded wood; But every drop this living tree contains, Is kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins. O! fly from this inhospitable shore, Warned by my fate; for I am Polydore! Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued, Again shoot upward, by my blood renewed." My faultering tongue and shivering limbs declare My horror, and in bristles rose my hair. When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent, } Old Priam, fearful of the war's event, } This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent: } Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far } From noise and tumults, and destructive war, } Committed to the faithless tyrant's care; } Who, when he saw the power of Troy decline, Forsook the weaker with the strong to join-- Broke every bond of nature and of truth, And murdered, for his wealth, the royal youth. O sacred hunger of pernicious gold! What bands of faith can impious lucre hold? Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears, I call my father, and the Trojan peers-- Relate the prodigies of heaven--require What he commands, and their advice desire. All vote to leave that execrable shore, Polluted with the blood of Polydore; But, ere we sail, his funeral rites prepare, Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear. In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round, } With baleful cypress and blue fillets crowned, } With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound. } Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour, And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore. Now, when the raging storms no longer reign, But southern gales invite us to the main, We launch our vessels, with a prosperous wind, And leave the cities and the shores behind. An island in the Ægæan main appears: Neptune and watery Doris claim it theirs. It floated once, till Phœbus fixed the sides To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides. Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore, } With needful ease our weary limbs restore, } And the Sun's temple and his town adore. } Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crowned, His hoary locks with purple fillets bound, Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend, Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend; Invites him to his palace; and, in sign