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196 Fame told me that with slaying tired

Upon the night of Troy's last sleep,

You sank exhausted on a heap

Of Grecian carnage, and expired.

Then I upon Rhœtean ground

Upraised an empty funeral mound

And called your shade thrice o'er.

Your name, your arms the spot maintain:

Yourself, poor friend, I sought in vain,

To give you, ere I crossed the main,

A tomb on Ilium's shore.'

'Nay, gentle friend' said Priam's son

'Your duty nought has left undone:

Deiphobus's dues are paid

And satisfied his mournful shade.

No; 't was my fate and the foul crime

Of Sparta's dame that plunged me here:

She bade me bear through after time

These memories of her dalliance dear.

In what a dream of false delight

We Trojans spent our latest night

You know: nor need I idly tell

What recollection minds too well.

When the fell steed with fatal leap

Sprang o'er Troy's wall and scaled the steep,

And brought in its impregnate womb

The armed host that wrought our doom,

An orgie dance she chose to feign,

Led through the streets a matron train,

And from the turret, torch in hand,

Gave signal to the Grecian band.

I, wearied out, had laid my head

On our unhappy bridal bed,

Sunk in a lethargy of sleep,

Most like to death, so calm, so deep.