My hero! thou hast fall'n in prime of life,
Me leaving here a widow, and the fruit
Of our ill-fated loves—a helpless child,
Whom grown to manhood I despair to see.
For, ere that season, from her topmost height
Precipitated shall this city fall,
Since thou hast perish'd, once her sure defence,
Faithful protector of her spotless wives
And all their little ones. Those wives shall soon
In Grecian barks capacious hence be borne,