Matrons

Moaning and tumult in the house we hear, / wailings of misery, and shouts that smite / the golden stars, and women's shrieks of fear, / and trembing matrons, hurrying left and right, / cling to and kiss the doors, made frantic by affright.

There, behold, / matrons and men, a miserable band, / gathered for exile.

So to his shade, with funeral rites, we rear / a mound, and altars to the dead prepare, / wreathed with dark cypress. Round them, as of yore, / pace Troy's sad matrons, with their streaming hair. / Warm milk from bowls, and holy blood we pour, / and thrice with loud farewell the peaceful shade deplore.