The Traitress through the festal city led
A chorus of Bacchantes, at its head
Waving a flaming torch; and, with the cry
Of ‘Evan,’ from the Citadel on high,
Summoned her ambushed Argives.—
I meanwhile,
Worn with the day’s cares, unsuspecting guile—
Least of all in my new-made Wife—in sleep,
Unbroken as quiet death’s self, sweet, deep,
Lay in my baleful chamber, whence my Bride