Nor is great Hector lost by me alone; Your sole defence, your guardian power is gone! I see your blood the fields of Phrygia drown, I see the ruins of your smoking town! O send me, gods! ere that sad day shall come, A willing ghost to Pluto's dreary dome!" He said, and feebly drives his friends away: The sorrowing friends his frantic rage obey. Next on his sons his erring fury falls, Polites, Paris, Agathon, he calls; His threats Deiphobus and Dius hear, Hippothous, Pammon, Helenes the seer, And generous Antiphon: for yet these nine Survived, sad relics of his numerous line. "Inglorious sons of an unhappy sire! Why did not all in Hector's cause expire? Wretch that I am! my bravest offspring slain. You, the disgrace of Priam's house, remain! Mestor the brave, renown'd in ranks of war, With Troilus, dreadful on his rushing car,(293) And last great Hector, more than man divine, For sure he seem'd not of terrestrial line! All those relentless Mars untimely slew, And left me these, a soft and servile crew, Whose days the feast and wanton dance employ, Gluttons and flatterers, the contempt of Troy! Why teach ye not my rapid wheels to run, And speed my journey to redeem my son?" The sons their father's wretched age revere, Forgive his anger, and produce the car. High on the seat the cabinet they bind: The new-made car with solid beauty shined; Box was the yoke, emboss'd with costly pains, And hung with ringlets to receive the reins; Nine cubits long, the traces swept the ground: These to the chariot's polish'd pole they bound. Then fix'd a ring the running reins to guide, And close beneath the gather'd ends were tied. Next with the gifts (the price of Hector slain) The sad attendants load the groaning wain: Last to the yoke the well-matched mules they bring, (The gift of Mysia to the Trojan king.) But the fair horses, long his darling care, Himself received, and harness'd to his car