The walls of Troy--the walls of Troy!
'Tis an old tale you will enjoy:
A foe is there amid the fire,
A foe 'twixt foemen in their ire.
Aeneas takes a pious load
With upward prayer to his god;
E'en his old father, whose gray head
Lay 'mong the dying and the dead:
O venerable spoil in truth,
Fit from the demons to fetch ruth.
Fierce roar the flames, and fiercer still
Rages the fight on plain and hill.
'Spare the old man,' Aeneas cries;
'Spare the white hairs; or if he dies,
Be mine the privilege of his pyre;
Be mine with him at once t'expire.'
Scarcely are the true words spoken,
When through line of battle broken
Swift he passes; and this brave son
His father bears in triumph on;
Reck'ning that he a trophy has
That the conquerors' doth surpass.
He safely goes: for, lo, amaz'd,
The foe upon them wistful gaz'd:
The conquerors the conquer'd are
By filial love so strong, so fair.
The flames Troy willingly receives,
Jubilant that the old man lives;
Welcomes the torches, that the night
May not conceal this deed of light.
All praise to thee, high-hearted son!
Thou an undying name hast won:
The debt of love thou hast repaid
Unto thy father, who is made
Thy debtor now; for life he gave,
And thou in turn his life dost save.
Happy the son whom thus we see
Father of his own sire to be. G.