At his heels, aflame With rage, comes Pyrrhus.

Lo, in act to aim, Now, now, he clutches him,--a moment more, E'en as before his parent's eyes he came, The long spear reached him.

Prostrate on the floor Down falls the hapless youth, and welters in his gore.
LXXII.

"Then Priam, though hemmed with death on every side, Spared not his utterance, nor his wrath controlled; 'To thee, yea, thee, fierce miscreant,' he cried, 'May Heaven,--if Heaven with righteous eyes behold So foul an outrage and a deed so bold, Ne'er fail a fitting guerdon to ordain, Nor worthy quittance for thy crime withhold, Whose hand hath made me see my darling slain, And dared with filial blood a father's eyes profane.
LXXIII.

"'Not so Achilles, whom thy lying tongue Would feign thy father; like a foeman brave, He scorned a suppliant's rights and trust to wrong, And sent me home in safety,--ay, and gave My Hector's lifeless body to the grave.' The old man spoke and, with a feeble throw, At Pyrrhus with a harmless dart he drave.
The jarring metal blunts it, and below The shield-boss, down it hangs, and foils the purposed blow.
LXXIV.