In Helen sure, to Troy’s imperial towers
Young Paris wafted no engaging bride,
But when he led her to those nuptial bowers,
Some fiend infernal crossed the billowy tide.
With brandished javelin and devouring flame,
For her the Grecian warriors to thy shore,
O Ilion, in a thousand vessels came,
And drenched thy smould’ring battlements with gore.
Around the walls, my Hector, once thy boast,
Fixed to his car, was by Achilles borne,
And from my chamber hurried to the coast
I veiled my head in servitude forlorn.
Much wept these streaming eyes, when in the dust
My city, palace, husband, prostrate lay.
Subject to fierce Hermione’s disgust,
Why should I still behold the hated day?
Harassed with insults from that haughty dame,
Round Thetis’ bust my suppliant arms I fling,
And here with gushing tears bewail my shame,
As from the rock bursts forth the living spring.