"The assembled host of Greece before the tomb
Stood in full ranks at this sad sacrifice—
Achilles' son, holding the virgin's hand
On the mound's summit: near to him I stood;
Of chosen youths an honourable train
Were ready there her strugglings to restrain."
When silence has been proclaimed through the host, and libations poured to the shade of Achilles, Pyrrhus spoke these words:—
"O son of Peleus, my father,
Accept my offering, soothing to the dead;
Drink this pure crimson stream of virgin-blood,
Loose all our cables, fill our sails, and grant
Swift passage homeward to the Grecian host."
The people joined in the prayer: Pyrrhus drew from its scabbard his golden sword, and
"At his nod
The noble youths stept forth to hold the maiden,
Which she perceiving, with these words addressed them:
'Willing I die; let no hand touch me; boldly
To the uplifted sword I hold my neck.
You give me to the gods, then give me free.'
Loud the applause, then Agamemnon cried:
'Let no man touch her:' and the youths drew back.
Soon as she heard the royal words, she clasped
Her robe, and from her shoulder rent it down,
And bared her snow-white bosom, beauteous
Beyond the deftest sculptor's nicest art.
Then bending to the earth her knee, she said—
Ear never yet has heard more mournful words—
'If 'tis thy will, young man, to strike this breast,
Strike; or my throat dost thou prefer, behold
It stretched to meet thy sword.'"
