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Yet once, but once your succour lend:
'Twas you the wretch would make his friend,
To you his secret thoughts confide:
You only know his softer side.
Go now, my sister, suppliant go,
And thus accost our haughty foe;
Not I with Greece at Aulis joined
To sweep his Trojans from mankind;
I sent no fleet to Ilium's coast,
Nor vexed Anchises' buried ghost;
Why should he change his ears to stone,
And close their portals on my moan?
One boon I sue for—let him bide
Till fair the breeze and smooth the tide.
Not now I ask him to restore
The ancient marriage he forswore,
Resign his lovely Latian town,
Or abdicate Italians crown.
My prayer is for a transient grace,
To give this madness breathing-space,
Till fortune's discipline shall school
My vanquished heart to grieve by rule.
Vouchsafe this aid, the last I crave,
And take requital from my grave.'

So pleads she: and her woful prayers
Again, again her sister bears:
He stands immovable by tears,
Nor tenderest words with pity hears.
Fate bars the way: a hand above
His gentle ears makes deaf to love.
As some strong oak, the mountain's pride,
Fierce Alpine blasts on either side
Are striving to o'erthrow:
It creaks and strains beneath the shock,
And from the weather-beaten stock
Thick leaves the ground bestrow: