"Within the palace, open to the day, There stood a massive altar.

Overhead, With drooping boughs, a venerable bay Its shadowy foliage o'er the home-gods spread.
Here, with her hundred daughters, pale with dread, Poor Hecuba and all her female train, As doves, that from the low'ring storm have fled, And cower for shelter from the pelting rain, Crouch round the silent gods, and cling to them in vain.
LXX.

"But when in youthful arms came Priam near, 'Ah, hapless lord!' she cries, 'what mad desire Arms thee for battle?
Why this sword and spear?
And whither art thou hurrying?
Times so dire Not such defenders nor such help require.
Not e'en, were Hector here, my Hector's aid Could save us.

Hither to this shrine retire, And share our safety or our death.'-- She said, And to his hallowed seat the aged monarch led.
LXXI.

"See, now, Polites, one of Priam's sons, Scarce slipt from Pyrrhus' butchery, and lame, Through foes, through darts, along the cloisters runs And empty courtyards.