The prince was touch’d, his tears began to flow,
  And, as his tender heart would break in two,
  He sigh’d, and could not but their fate deplore,
  So wretched now, so fortunate before. 
  Then lightly from his lofty steed he flew,
  And, raising one by one the suppliant crew,
  To comfort each full solemnly he swore,
  That by the faith which knights to knighthood bore, 100
  And whate’er else to chivalry belongs,
  He would not cease, till he revenged their wrongs: 
  That Greece should see perform’d what he declared;
  And cruel Creon find his just reward. 
  He said no more, but, shunning all delay,
  Rode on; nor enter’d Athens on his way: 
  But left his sister and his queen behind,
  And waved his royal banner in the wind: 
  Where in an argent field the god of war
  Was drawn triumphant on his iron car; 110
  Red was his sword, and shield, and whole attire,
  And all the godhead seem’d to glow with fire;
  Even the ground glitter’d where the standard flew,
  And the green grass was dyed to sanguine hue. 
  High on his pointed lance his pennon bore
  His Cretan fight, the conquer’d Minotaur: 
  The soldiers shout around with generous rage,
  And in that victory their own presage. 
  He praised their ardour:  inly pleased to see
  His host the flower of Grecian chivalry, 120
  All day he march’d, and all the ensuing night,
  And saw the city with returning light. 
  The process of the war I need not tell,
  How Theseus conquer’d, and how Creon fell: 
  Or after, how by storm the walls were won,
  Or how the victor sack’d and burn’d the town: 
  How to the ladies he restored again
  The bodies of their lords in battle slain: 
  And with what ancient rites they were interr’d;
  All these to fitter times shall be deferr’d. 130
  I spare the widows’ tears, their woeful cries,
  And howling at their husbands’ obsequies;
  How Theseus at these funerals did assist,
  And with what gifts the mourning dames dismiss’d.

    Thus when the victor chief had Creon slain,
  And conquer’d Thebes, he pitch’d upon the plain
  His mighty camp, and, when the day return’d,
  The country wasted, and the hamlets burn’d,
  And left the pillagers, to rapine bred,
  Without control to strip and spoil the dead. 140

    There, in a heap of slain, among the rest
  Two youthful knights they found beneath a load oppress’d
  Of slaughter’d foes, whom first to death they sent—­
  The trophies of their strength, a bloody monument. 
  Both fair, and both of royal blood they seem’d,
  Whom kinsmen to the crown the heralds deem’d;
  That day in equal arms they fought for fame;
  Their swords, their shields, their surcoats were the same.