"'Twas now the time, when on tired mortals crept First slumber, sweetest that celestials pour.
Methought I saw poor Hector, as I slept, All bathed in tears and black with dust and gore, Dragged by the chariot and his swoln feet sore With piercing thongs.

Ah me! how sad to view, How changed from him, that Hector, whom of yore Returning with Achilles' spoils we knew, When on the ships of Greece his Phrygian fires he threw.
XXXVII.

"Foul is his beard, his hair is stiff with gore, And fresh the wounds, those many wounds, remain, Which erst around his native walls he bore.
Then, weeping too, I seem in sorrowing strain To hail the hero, with a voice of pain.
'O light of Troy, our refuge! why and how This long delay?
Whence comest thou again, Long-looked-for Hector?
How with aching brow, Worn out by toil and death, do we behold thee now! XXXVIII.

"'But oh! what dire indignity hath marred The calmness of thy features?
Tell me, why With ghastly wounds do I behold thee scarred ?' To such vain quest he cared not to reply, But, heaving from his breast a deep-drawn sigh, 'Fly, Goddess-born! and get thee from the fire! The foes,' he said, 'are on the ramparts.

Fly! All Troy is tumbling from her topmost spire.
No more can Priam's land, nor Priam's self require.
XXXIX.