Page:Ovid's Metamorphoses (Vol. 2) - tr Garth, Dryden, et. al. (1727).djvu/208

Farewel, dear Troy, the captive Matrons cry;
Yes, we must leave our long-lov'd native Sky.
Then prostrate on the Shore they kiss the Sand,
And quit the smoking Ruins of the Land.
Last Hecuba on board, sad Sight! appears;
Found weeping o'er her Childrens Sepulchers:
Drag'd by Ulysses from her slaughter'd Sons,
Whilst yet she graspt their Tombs, and kist their mouldring Bones,
Yet Hector's Afhes from his Urn she bore,
And in her Bosom the sad Relique wore:
Then scatter'd on his Tomb her hoary Hairs,
A poor Oblation mingled with her Tears.
Oppos'd to Ilium lye the Thracian Plains,
Where Polymestor safe in Plenty reigns.
King Priam to his Care commits his Son
Young Polydore, the chance of War to shun.
A wise Precaution! had not Gold, consign'd
For the Child's Use, debauch'd the Tyrant's Mind.
When sinking Troy to its last Period drew,
With impious Hands his Royal Charge he slew;
Then in the Sea the lifeless Coarse, is thrown;
As with the Body he the Guilt could drown.
The Greeks now riding on the Thracian Shore,
Till kinder Gales invite, their Vessels moor.
Here the wide-op'ning Earth to sudden View
Disclos'd Achilles, Great as when he drew
The vital Air, but fierce with proud Disdain,
As when he sought Briseis to regain;
When stern Debate, and rash injurious Strife
Unsheath'd his Sword, to reach Atrides' Life.
And will ye go? He said. Is then the Name
Of the once Great Achilles lost to Fame?
Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue
In vain for Honours to my Manes due.
For this just End, Polyxena I doom
With Victim-Rites to grace my slighted Tomb.

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