We cheer the youth to make his own defence,

And freely tell us what he was, and whence:

What news he could impart we long to know,

And what to credit from a captive foe.

His fear at length dismiss’d, he said, ‘Whate’er

My fate ordains, my words shall be sincere:

I neither can nor dare my birth disclaim:

Greece is my country, Sinon is my name.

Though plung’d by Fortune’s power in misery,

’Tis not in Fortune’s power to make me lie.

If any chance has hither brought the name.

Of Palamedes, not unknown to fame,

Who suffer’d from the malice of the times,

Accus’d and sentenc’d for pretended crimes,

Because the fatal wars lie would prevent;

Whose death the wretched Greeks too late lament—

Me, then a boy, my father, poor and bare

Of other means, committed to his care,

His kinsman and companion in the war.

While Fortune favour’d, while his arms support

The cause, and rul’d the counsels of the court,

I made some figure there; nor was my name

Obscure, nor I without my share of fame.

But when Ulysses, with fallacious arts,

Had made impression in the people’s hearts,

And forg’d a treason in my patron’s name

(I speak of things too far divulg’d by fame),

My kinsman fell. Then I, without support,

In private mourn’d his loss, and left the court.

Mad as I was, I could not bear his fate

With silent grief, but loudly blam’d the state,

And curs’d the direful author of my woes.—

’Twas told again; and hence my ruin rose.

I threaten’d, if indulgent heaven once more

Would land me safely on my native shore,

His death with double vengeance to restore.

This mov’d the murderer’s hate; and soon ensued

The’ effects of malice from a man so proud.

Ambiguous rumours through the camp he spread,

And sought, by treason, my devoted head;

New crimes invented; left unturn’d no stone,

To make my guilt appear, and hide his own;

Till Calchas was by force and threatening wrought—

But why—why dwell I on that anxious thought?

If on my nation just revenge you seek,

And ’tis to’ appear a foe, to’ appear a Greek;

Already you my name and country know:

Assuage your thirst of blood, and strike the blow:

My death will both the kingly brothers please,

And set insatiate Ithacus at ease.’

This fair unfinish’d tale, these broken starts,

Rais’d expectations in our longing hearts;

Unknowing as we were in Grecian arts.

His former trembling once again renew’d.

With acted fear, the villain thus pursued:

‘Long had the Grecians (tir’d with fruitless care,

And wearied with an unsuccessful war)

Resolv’d to raise the siege, and leave the town:

And, had the gods permitted, they had gone.

But oft the wintry seas, and southern winds,