Whose thirst for blood had not been satisfied
By that old man just slipping o'er the verge
Of life? Whom would not heavenly witnesses
Restrain from crime? Who would not stay his hand
Before the sacred altar, last resort
Of fallen thrones? Yet he, our noble Priam,
The king, and father of so many kings,
Lies like the merest peasant unentombed; 55
And, though all Troy's aflame, there's not a brand
To light his pyre and give him sepulture.
And still the heavenly powers are not appeased.
Behold the urn; and, subject to its lot,
The maids and matrons of our princely line,
Who wait their future lords. To whom shall I,
An agéd and unprized allotment, fall?
One Grecian lord has fixed his longing eyes
On Hector's queen; another prays the lot
To grant to him the bride of Helenus; 60
Antenor's spouse is object of desire,
And e'en thy hand, Cassandra, hath its suitor:
My lot alone they deprecate and fear.
And can ye cease your plaints? O captive throng,
Come beat upon your breasts, and let the sound
Of your loud lamentations rise anew,
The while we celebrate in fitting wise
Troy's funeral; let fatal Ida, seat 65
Of that ill-omened judgment, straight resound
With echoes of our pitiful refrain.
Chorus: Not an untrained band, to tears unknown,
Thou callest to grief, for our tears have rained
In streams unending through the years,
Since the time when the Phrygian guest arrived
At the friendly court of Tvndarus, 70
Sailing the sea in his vessel framed
From the sacred pines of Cybele.
Ten winters have whitened Ida's slopes,
So often stripped for our funeral pyres;
Ten years have ripened the waving grain
Which the trembling reaper has garnered in
