ent her tottering steps,
With torn and scatter'd locks down to the shore.
And as the hapless wretch--"O, Trojans!"--cry'd,
"An urn supply to draw the liquid waves;"--
The corse of Polydore, flung on the beach
She saw, pierc'd deep with wounds of Thracian steel.
Loud shriek'd the Trojan matrons; she by grief
Dumb-stricken stood. Affliction keen suppress'd
Her rising moans, and ready-springing tears:
Stupid, and like a rigid stone she stood.
Now on the earth her eyes are fixt; and now
To heaven her furious countenance she lifts:
Now dwells she on his face, now on the wounds
Her son receiv'd, and on the wounds the most:
And now her bosom with collected rage
Furiously burning, all on vengeance fierce
Her soul is bent, as still in power a queen.
As storms a lioness robb'd of her cub,
The track pursuing of her flying foe,
Whom yet she sees not: rage and grief were mixt
Just so in Hecuba; of her old years
Regardless, mindful of her ire alone.
She Polymnestor seeks, of the dire deed
The perpetrator, and his ear demands--
That more of gold, intended for her boy,
Her wish was to disclose. The Thracian king
Heard credulous; lur'd by his wonted love
Of gain, with her withdrew, and wily thus;
With coaxing words;--"quick, Hecuba!"--exclaim'd,
"Give for thy son the treasure. By the gods!
"I swear, all shall be his; what more thou giv'st,
"And what thou gav'st before."--Him, speaking so,
And falsely swearing, savagely she view'd,
And her fierce bosom swell'd with double rage.
Then instant on him, by the captive dames
Fast held, she flies; in his perfidious face
Digs deep; her fingers (rage all strength supply'd)
Tear from their orbs his eyes; bury'd her hands,
Streaming with blood, where once the eyes had been;
Widening the wounds, for eyes no more remain'd.

Fir'd at their monarch's fate the Thracian crowd
With stones and darts t'attack the queen began.
The queen with harsher voice, as they pursue,
Bites at th' assailing stones, and, trying words,
Barkings her jaws produce. The place remains
Nam'd from the change. She, of her ancient woes
Long mindful, grieving still, Sithonia's fields
With howlings fill'd. Her fate with pity mov'd
Her fellow Trojans; and the hostile Greeks;
Nay, all the gods above; and all deny,
(Ev'n she, the sister-wife of mighty Jove)
That Hecuba so harsh a lot deserv'd.

Nor leisure now Aur