"Much-musing, to the woodland nymphs I pray, And Mars, the guardian of the Thracian plain, With favouring grace the omen to allay, And bless the dreadful vision.

Then again A third tall shaft I grasp, with sinewy strain And firm knees pressed against the sandy ground; When O! shall tongue make utterance or refrain?
Forth from below a dismal, groaning sound Heaves, and a piteous voice is wafted from the mound: VII.

"'Spare, O AEneas, spare a wretch, nor shame Thy guiltless hands, but let the dead repose.
From Troy, no alien to thy race, I came.
O, fly this greedy shore, these cruel foes! Not from the tree--from Polydorus flows This blood, for I am Polydorus.

Here An iron crop o'erwhelmed me, and uprose Bristling with pointed javelins.'-- Mute with fear, Perplext, aghast I stood, and upright rose my hair.
VIII.

"This Polydorus Priam from the war To Thracia's King in secret had consigned With store of gold, when, girt with siege, he saw Troy's towers, and trust in Dardan arms resigned.
But when our fortune and our hopes declined, The treacherous King the conqueror's cause professed, And, false to faith, to friendship and to kind, Slew Polydorus, and his wealth possessed.
Curst greed of gold, what crimes thy tyrant power attest! IX.