Thyself not young, a weak old man thy guide? Yet suffer not thy soul to sink with dread; From me no harm shall touch thy reverend head; From Greece I'll guard thee too; for in those lines The living image of my father shines." "Thy words, that speak benevolence of mind, Are true, my son! (the godlike sire rejoin'd:) Great are my hazards; but the gods survey My steps, and send thee, guardian of my way. Hail, and be bless'd! For scarce of mortal kind Appear thy form, thy feature, and thy mind." "Nor true are all thy words, nor erring wide; (The sacred messenger of heaven replied;) But say, convey'st thou through the lonely plains What yet most precious of thy store remains, To lodge in safety with some friendly hand: Prepared, perchance, to leave thy native land? Or fliest thou now?--What hopes can Troy retain, Thy matchless son, her guard and glory, slain?" The king, alarm'd: "Say what, and whence thou art Who search the sorrows of a parent's