“Say whither, father! when each mortal sight Is seal’d in sleep, thou wanderest through the night? Why roam thy mules and steeds the plains along, Through Grecian foes, so numerous and so strong? What couldst thou hope, should these thy treasures view; These, who with endless hate thy race pursue? For what defence, alas! could’st thou provide; 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.”