Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls
By mighty Phœbus reared, shall cumber earth
In smouldering ruins. Yet the gods of Troy
Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs;—Heaven grants
One proud last gift—in grief a deathless name.
Ye cypresses and palms! by princely hands
Of Priam’s daughters planted! ye shall grow,
Watered full soon, alas! by widows’ tears!
Guard ye my fathers! He who shall withhold
The impious axe from your devoted trunks,