Aeneid

to that vast horse and hid them in its maw.

But woe is me! If gods their help withhold,

't is impious to be brave. That very hour

the fair Cassandra passed us, bound in chains,

King Priam's virgin daughter, from the shrine

and altars of Minerva; her loose hair

had lost its fillet; her impassioned eyes

were lifted in vain prayer,—her eyes alone!

For chains of steel her frail, soft hands confined.

Coroebus' eyes this horror not endured,

and, sorrow-crazed, he plunged him headlong in

the midmost fray, self-offered to be slain,

while in close mass our troop behind him poured.

But, at this point, the overwhelming spears

of our own kinsmen rained resistless down

from a high temple-tower; and carnage wild

ensued, because of the Greek arms we bore

and our false crests. The howling Grecian band,

crazed by Cassandra's rescue, charged at us

from every side; Ajax of savage soul,

the sons of Atreus, and that whole wild horde

Achilles from Dolopian deserts drew.

'T was like the bursting storm, when gales contend,

west wind and South, and jocund wind of morn

upon his orient steeds—while forests roar,

and foam-flecked Nereus with fierce trident stirs

the dark deep of the sea. All who did hide

in shadows of the night, by our assault

surprised, and driven in tumultuous flight,

now start to view. Full well they now can see

our shields and borrowed arms, and clearly note

our speech of alien sound; their multitude

o'erwhelms us utterly. Coroebus first

at mailed Minerva's altar prostrate lay,

pierced by Peneleus, blade; then Rhipeus fell;

we deemed him of all Trojans the most just,

most scrupulously righteous; but the gods

gave judgment otherwise. There Dymas died,

and Hypanis, by their compatriots slain;

nor thee, O Panthus, in that mortal hour,

could thy clean hands or Phoebus, priesthood save.

O ashes of my country! funeral pyre

of all my kin! bear witness that my breast

shrank not from any sword the Grecian drew,

and that my deeds the night my country died

deserved a warrior's death, had Fate ordained.

But soon our ranks were broken; at my side

stayed Iphitus and Pelias; one with age

was Iong since wearied, and the other bore

the burden of Ulysses' crippling wound.

Straightway the roar and tumult summoned us

to Priam's palace,where a battle raged

as if save this no conflict else were known,

and all Troy's dying brave were mustered there.

There we beheld the war-god unconfined;

The Greek besiegers to the roof-tops fled;

or, with shields tortoise-back, the gates assailed.

Ladders were on the walls; and round by round,

up the huge bulwark as they fight their way,

the shielded left-hand thwarts the falling spears,

the right to every vantage closely clings.

The Trojans hurl whole towers and roof-tops down

upon the mounting foe; for well they see

that the last hour is come, and with what arms

the dying must resist. Rich gilded beams,

with many a beauteous blazon of old time,

go crashing down. Men armed with naked swords

defend the inner doors in close array.

Thus were our hearts inflamed to stand and strike

for the king's house, and to his body-guard

bring succor, and renew their vanquished powers.

A certain gate I knew, a secret way,

which gave free passage between Priam's halls,

and exit rearward; hither, in the days

before our fall, the lone Andromache

was wont with young Astyanax to pass

in quest of Priam and her husband's kin.

This way to climb the palace roof I flew,

where, desperate, the Trojans with vain skill

hurled forth repellent arms. A tower was there,

reared skyward from the roof-top, giving view

of Troy's wide walls and full reconnaissance

of all Achaea's fleets and tented field;

this, with strong steel, our gathered strength assailed,

and as the loosened courses offered us

great threatening fissures, we uprooted it

from its aerial throne and thrust it down.

It fell with instantaneous crash of thunder

along the Danaan host in ruin wide.

But fresh ranks soon arrive; thick showers of stone

rain down, with every missile rage can find.

Now at the threshold of the outer court

Pyrrhus triumphant stood, with glittering arms

and helm of burnished brass. He glittered like

some swollen viper, fed on poison-leaves,

whom chilling winter shelters underground,

till, fresh and strong, he sheds his annual scales

and, crawling forth rejuvenate, uncoils

his slimy length; his lifted gorge insults

the sunbeam with three-forked and quivering tongue.