Then down her bow the winged Iris drives, And swift at Priam’s mournful court arrives: Where the sad sons beside their father’s throne Sat bathed in tears, and answer’d groan with groan. And all amidst them lay the hoary sire, (Sad scene of woe!) his face his wrapp’d attire Conceal’d from sight; with frantic hands he spread A shower of ashes o’er his neck and head. From room to room his pensive daughters roam; Whose shrieks and clamours fill the vaulted dome; Mindful of those, who late their pride and joy, Lie pale and breathless round the fields of Troy! Before the king Jove’s messenger appears, And thus in whispers greets his trembling ears: