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142 conquerors. No longer forced to sleep on the damp ground, the victors take their ease in the Trojan palaces; but even in their success there is danger of that pride which brings reverses. All is not safe yet; the dangers of return are to be encountered, and even then, if any new offence should be committed, Troy may yet be avenged.

The irony is scarcely concealed.

Now comes a new choric song, a prayer to Zeus, whose judgments cannot fail; who against Paris "bent his bow and made it ready,"—decreed and it was done; who "marks that race from son to son" that dares too much, and grows insolent in over-great prosperity. In moderation is the only safety. Then is described the curse that Paris brought on Troy when Helen came:—

Bequeathing the wild fray to her own nation

Of clashing spears, and the embattled fleet,

Bearing to Troy her dowry—desolation,

She glided through the gate with noiseless feet,

Daring the undareable! But in their grief

Deep groaned the prophets of that ancient race:

'Woe to the palace! woe to its proud Chief,

The bed warm with the husband's fond embrace!'

Silent there she stood,

Too false to honour, too fair to revile;

For her, far off over the ocean flood,

Yet still most lovely in her parting smile,

A spectre queens it in that haunted spot.

Odious, in living beauty's place,

Is the cold statue's fine-wrought grace.

Where speaking eyes are wanting, love is not."