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Her bitter fate—for ten long years to stand. And fall at last by one vile trickster's hand. In memory still we see the monstrous bulk Of that pretended and most fatal gift, The Grecian horse, which we, too credulous, With our own hands into our city led. The noisy-footed monster stumbled oft Upon the threshold of the city gate, While in its roomy hold crouched kings and war. And we might well have turned their crafty arts To work their own destruction. But alas, We neither saw nor heeded. Oftentimes The sound of clashing shields smote on our ears, And low and angry mutterings within Where Pyrrhus 'gainst the shrewd Ulysses strove.

Now free from fear our Trojan youth Crowd round to touch the sacred cords With joyous hands. Astyanax Here leads his youthful playmates on, While 'midst the maidens gaily comes The maid Polyxena, foredoomed To bleed upon Achilles' tomb. Mothers in festal garments bring Their votive offerings to the gods, And sires press gaily round the shrines. Throughout the town all faces tell One tale of joy, e'en Hecuba, Who, since her Hector's fatal pyre, Had never ceased her tears, was glad. But now, unhappy grief, what first, What last, dost thou prepare to weep? Our city walls in ruin laid, Though built by heavenly hands? our shrines Upon their very gods consumed? Nay, nay; long since our weary eyes Have dried their tears for these. But now We weep, O father, king, for thee. We saw, with our own eyes we saw,

The old man slain by Pyrrhus' impious hand,