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275

POLYXENE.

Polyxene, when Pyrrhus took her hand
To lead her slowly to the slaughter-place,
Sprang up with a glad blush on her wan face,
And said, “Methinks you do not understand
How I am drawn with Venus' silken band
Unto your sire, or you would go apace;
For he is mine, and I desire his grace
More than I love the people of my land.
I want to rest upon the soft green grave
Of my dead lord, whose dear will sets me free,
Who knows I am a queen and not a slave.
Let girls and girlish men make moan for me,
Weeping and wringing by the sullen sea
Chained hands that were not clean or strong to save.”