And both his hands, and ravaged earless head,
And cut nostrils–dishonourable wounds.
Yet could he recognize the quaking ghost
That strove to veil the horror of its face
And called him in the voice he could well know:–
"Deiphobus, Hero of old Trojan blood,
Who willed you this vile punishment? To whom
Was power against you given. Rumour told me
On that last night how on a tower of dead,
Weary with slaughter of the Greeks, you lay
Prone. It was I then raised on Rhætian shore
The empty mound and thrice with a loud cry
Summoned thy wraith. Arms and a name preserve
That place–but thee, dear friend, I could not find
To bury e'er I left my native land."
But Priam’s son:—"Friend, what couldst thou do more?
Thou hast paid every due to death and me.
But me my destiny true the sin
Of that She-murderess of Spartan brood
Whelmed in these woes: these are her monuments.
How in deceitful pleasure that last night
We spent, well dost thou know, too well must know,
When with a leap o’er steep-stoned Pergamon
Pregnant with soldiery, the fatal horse
Its bristling burden flung. She, she it was
With traitor dance led round our Phrygian dames
The wild Evoe proclaiming! A huge torch
She shook above the revel, which did call
The Danaans from Troy Tower. I heavily
Slept the meanwhile on couch of doom, and me
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