Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DAUGHTERS OF TROY, by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DAUGHTERS OF TROY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Let him who puts his trust in kingly crown
Last Line: The sea; the sails are set, the vessels move.
Alternate Author Name(s): Seneca
Subject(s): Helen Of Troy; Mythology - Classical; Mythology - Greek; Tragedy; Trojan War


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

AGAMEMNON.
ULYSSES.
PYRRHUS.
CALCHAS.
TALTHYBIUS.
ASTYANAX.
HECUBA.
ANDROMACHE.
HELEN.
POLYXENA.
AN OLD MAN.
MESSENGER.
CHORUS OF TROJAN WOMEN.

SCENE: Troy.

ACT I

SCENE I

Hecuba. Let him who puts his trust in kingly crown,
Who rules in prince's court with power supreme
Who, credulous of heart, dreads not the gods,
But in his happy lot confides, behold
My fate and Troy's. Never by clearer proof
Was shown how frail a thing is human pride.
Strong Asia's capital, the work of gods,
Is fallen; and she beneath whose banners fought
The men who drink the Tanais' cold stream
That flows by sevenfold outlet to the sea,
And those who see the new-born day where blends
Tigris' warm waters with the blushing strait,
Is fallen; her walls and towers, to ashes burned,
Lie low amid her ruined palaces.
The royal courts take fire; far and near
Smolders the home of King Assaracus.
But flames stay not the eager conqueror's hand
From plundering Troy. The sky is hid with smoke;
And day, as though enveloped in black cloud,
Is dark with ashes. Eager for revenge,
The victor stands and measures her slow fall;
Forgets the long ten years; deplores her fate;
Nor yet believes that he has vanquished her,
Although he sees her conquered in the dust.
The pillagers are busy with the spoil;
A thousand ships will hardly bear it hence.
Witness, ye adverse deities; and ye,
My country's ashes, and thou, Phrygia's king,
Buried beneath the ruins of thy realm;
Thou, too, great shade, whose life was all in all
To Troy; my numerous offspring, lesser shades;—
Whatever ills have happened; whatsoe'er
Apollo's raving priestess, to whose word
The god denied belief, has prophesied,
I first foresaw, ere yet my fated child
Was born, nor hid my fear, but prophesied
Vainly, before Cassandra spoke in vain.
Alas, 'twas not the crafty Ithacan,
Nor the companions of his night attack,
Nor Sinon false, who flung into your midst
Devouring flame; the glowing torch was mine!
Aged, and sick of life, why weep for Troy?
Unhappy one, recall more recent woes;
The fall of Troy is now an ancient grief!
I've seen the murder of a king—base crime!
And, at the altar's foot incurred, I've seen
A baser crime, when Æacus' fierce son,
His left hand in the twisted locks, bent back
That royal head, and drove the iron home
In the deep wound; freely it was received,
And buried deep, and yet drawn forth unstained,
So sluggish is the blood of frozen age.
This old man's cruel death at the last mete
Of human life, and the immortal gods
Witnesses of the deed, and fallen Troy's
Fair altars, cannot stay the savage hand.
Priam, the father of so many kings,
Has found no grave, and in the flames of Troy
No funeral pyre, and yet the wrathful gods
Are not appeased; behold, the lot is cast
That gives to Priam's daughters and his sons
A master; and I go to servitude.
One would have Hector's wife, one Helenus',
And one Antenor's; nor are wanting those
Who long for thee, Cassandra; me alone
They shun, and I alone affright the Greeks.
Why rest from lamentations, captive ones?
Make moan, and smite your breasts, pay funeral rites;
Let fatal Ida, home of doom-fraught judge,
Reëcho now your sorrowful lament.

SCENE II

Hecuba, Chorus of Trojan Women.

Chorus. You bid those weep who are not new to grief;
Our lamentations have not ceased to rise
From that day when the Phrygian stranger sought
Grecian Amyclæ, and the sacred pine
Of Mother Cybele, through Grecian seas
A pathway cut. Ten times the winter snows
Have whitened Ida—Ida stripped of trees
To furnish Trojan dead with funeral pyres—
Ten times the trembling reaper has gone forth
To cut the bearded grain from Ilium's fields,
Since any day has seen us free from tears.
New sorrows ask new mourning. Hasten now
Your lamentations, beat upon your breasts;
We, the ignoble crowd, will follow still
Our mistress, we are not untaught in tears.
Hecuba. O faithful ones,
Companions of my grief, unbind your hair;
About your shoulders let it flow defiled
With Troy's hot ashes; fill your hands with these,
This much of Troy you are allowed to take.
Come with bare breasts, loose robes, and naked limbs;
Why veil your modest bosoms, captive ones?
Gird up your flowing tunics, free your hands
For fierce and frequent beating of your breasts.
So I am satisfied, I recognize
My Trojan followers; again I hear
Their wonted lamentations. Weep indeed;
We weep for Hector.
Chorus We unbind our hair,
So often torn in wild laments, and strew
Troy's glowing ashes on our heads; permit
Our loosened robe to drop from shoulders bare;
Our naked bosoms now invite our blows.
O sorrow, show thy power; let Ilium's shores
Give back the blows, nor from her hollow hills
Faint Echo sound the closing words alone,
But let her voice repeat each bitter groan,
And air and ocean hear. With cruel blows
Smite, smite, nor be content with faint laments:
We weep for Hector.
Hecuba. For thee our hands have torn our naked arms
And bleeding shoulders; Hector, 'tis for thee
We beat our brows and lacerate our breasts;
The wounds inflicted in thy funeral rites
Shall gape and flow with blood once more. Thou wast
The pillar of thy land, her fates' delay,
The prop of wearied Phrygians, and the wall
Of Troy; by thee supported, firm she stood,
Ten years upheld. With thee thy country fell,
Her day of doom and Hector's were the same.
Weep now for Priam, smite for him your breasts;
Hector has tears enough.
Chorus. Ruler of Phrygia, twice a captive made,
Receive our tears, receive our wild laments.
Whilst thou wast king, Troy suffered many woes;
Twice by Greek weapons were her walls assailed;
Twice were they made a target for the darts
Of Hercules; and when that kingly band,
Hecuba's offspring, had been offered up,
With thee, their sire, the funeral rites were stayed;
An offering to great Jove, thy headless trunk
Lies on Sigeum's plain.
Hecuba. Women of Troy,
For others shed your tears; not Priam's death
I weep; say rather all, thrice happy he!
Free he descended to the land of shades,
Nor will he ever bear on conquered neck
The Grecian yoke; nor the Atridæ see;
Nor look on shrewd Ulysses; nor, a slave,
Carry the trophies on his neck to grace
A Grecian triumph; feel his sceptered hands
Bound at his back; nor add a further pomp
To proud Mycenæ, forced in golden chains
To follow Agamemnon's royal car.
Chorus. Thrice happy Priam! as a king he went
Into the land of spirits; wanders now
Through the safe shadows of Elysian Fields,
In happiness among the peaceful shades,
And seeks for Hector. Happy Priam say!
Thrice happy he, who, dying in the fight,
Bears with him to destruction all his land.

ACT II

SCENE I

Talthybius, Chorus of Trojan Women.

Talthybius. O long delay, that holds the Greeks in port
Whether they seek for war or for their homes.
Chorus. Say what the reason of the long delay,
What god forbids the Greeks the homeward road?
Talthybius. I tremble, and my spirit shrinks with fear;
Such prodigies will hardly find belief.
I saw them, I myself; Titan had touched
The mountain summits, dayspring conquered night,
When, on a sudden, with a muttered groan,
Earth trembled, and laid bare her lowest depths;
The forests, the high wood and sacred grove
Thundered with mighty ruin; Ida's cliffs
Fell from her summit; nor did earth alone
Tremble, the ocean also recognized
Her own Achilles, and laid bare her depths;
In the torn earth a gloomy cavern yawned;
A way was opened up from Erebus
To upper day; the tomb gave up its dead;
The towering shade of the Thessalian chief
Leaped forth as when, preparing for thy fate,
O Troy, he put to flight the Thracian host,
And struck down Neptune's shining, fair-haired son;
Or as when, breathing battle 'mid the host,
He choked the rivers with the fallen dead,
And Xanthus wandered over bloody shoals
Seeking slow channels; or as when he stood
In his proud car, a victor, while he dragged
Hector and Troy behind him in the dust.
His wrathful voice rang out along the shore:
Ye cravens, go, refuse the honors due
My manes. Let the thankless ships set sail
Upon my seas. Not lightly Greece has felt
Achilles' wrath; that wrath shall heavier fall.
Polyxena, betrothed to me in death,
Must die a sacrifice at Pyrrhus' hand,
And moisten with her blood my tomb. He spake,
Exchanged the day for night, and sought again
The realm of Dis. He took the riven path;
Earth closed above him, and the tranquil sea
Lay undisturbed, the raging wind was still,
Softly the ocean murmured, Tritons sang
From the blue deep their hymeneal chant.

SCENE II

Agamemnon, Pyrrhus.

Pyrrhus. When, homeward turning, you would fain have spread
Your happy sails, Achilles was forgot.
By him alone struck down, Troy fell; her fall,
Ev'n at his death, was but so long delayed
As she stood doubtful whither she should fall;
Haste as you will to give him what he asks,
You give too late. Already all the chiefs
Have carried off their prizes; what reward
Of lesser price have you to offer him
For so great valor? Does he merit less?
He, bidden shun the battle and enjoy
A long and peaceful age, outnumbering
The many years of Pylos' aged king,
Put off the false disguise of woman's dress
His mother gave, and stood confessed a man
Electing war. When haughty Telephus
Refused him entrance to the rugged coast
Of rocky Mysia, with his royal blood
He stained Achilles' hand, but found that hand
Gentle as strong. When Thebes was overcome
Eëtion, its conquered ruler, saw
His realm made captive. With like slaughter fell
Little Lyrnessus, built at Ida's foot;
Brisëis' land was captured; Chryse, too,
The cause of royal strife, was overthrown;
And well-known Tenedos, and Sciro's isle
That, rich with fertile pastures, nourishes
The Thracian herd, and Lesbos that divides
The Ægean straits, Cilla to Phœbus dear,
Yes, and whatever land Caïcus laves
Swollen by rains of spring. Such overthrow
Of nations, such distress, so many towns
O'erwhelmed in such a whirlpool would have been
To any other, glory, honor, fame,—
Achilles is but on the march; so sped
My father, and so great the war he waged
While he made ready for his great campaign.
Though I were silent of his other deeds,
Would it not be enough that Hector died?
My father conquered Ilium; as for you,
You have but torn it down. I joy to speak
The noble deeds of my illustrious sire:
How Hector's father saw him prostrate fall;
How Memnon in his uncle's sight was slain,
Whose mother shuns the light, with pallid check
Mourning his fate; and at his own great deeds
Achilles trembles, and, a victor, learns
That death may touch the children of a god.
The Amazons' harsh queen, thy final fear,
Last yielded. Wouldst thou honor worthily
His mighty arms, then yield him what he will,
Though he should ask a virgin from the land
Of Argos or Mycenæ. Dost thou doubt;
Changing so soon, art loth to offer up
A maiden, Priam's child, to Peleus' son?
Thy child to Helen was a sacrifice,
'Tis not an unaccustomed gift I ask.
Agamemnon. To have no power to check the passions' glow
Is ever found a fault of youthful blood;
That which in others is the zeal of youth,
In Pyrrhus is his father's fiery heart.
Thus mildly once I stood the savage threats
Of Æacus' fierce son; most patiently
He bears, who is most strong. With slaughter harsh
Why sprinkle our illustrious leader's shade?
Learn first how much the conqueror may do,
The conquered suffer. 'Tis the mild endure,
But he who harshly rules, rules not for long.
The higher Fortune doth exalt a man,
Increasing human power, so much the more—
Fearing the gods who too much favor him,
And not unmindful of uncertain fate—
He should be meek. In conquering, I have learned
How in a moment greatness is o'erthrown.
Has triumph over Troy too soon made proud?
We stand, we Greeks, in that place whence Troy fell.
Imperious I have been, and borne myself
At times too proudly; Fortune's gifts correct
In me the pride they oft in others rouse.
Priam, thou mak'st me proud, but mak'st me fear.
What can I deem my scepter, but a name
Made bright with idle glitter; or my crown,
But empty ornament? A sudden chance
May rob me of them, needing not, perhaps,
A thousand ships nor ten years' war. I own
(May I do this, O Argive land, nor wound
Thy honor?) I have troubled Phrygia
And wished her conquered; but I would have stayed
The hand that crushed and laid her in the dust.
A foe enraged and victory gained by night
Will never check their raging, at command;
Whatever cruel or unworthy deed
Appeared in any, anger was the cause—
Anger and darkness and the savage sword
Made glad with blood and seeking still for more.
All that yet stands of ruined Troy shall stand,
Enough of punishment—more than enough—
Has been exacted, that a royal maid
Should fall, and, offered as a sacrifice
Upon a tomb, should crimson with her blood
The ashes, and this hateful crime be called
A marriage—I will never suffer it.
Upon my head would rest the guilt of all;
He who forbids not crime when he has power,
Commands it.
Pyrrhus. Shall Achilles' shade receive
No prize?
Agamemnon. Ah yes, for all shall tell his praise,
And unknown lands shall sing his glorious name;
And if his shade would take delight in blood
Poured forth upon his ashes, let us slay
Rich sacrifice of Phrygian sheep. No blood
Shall flow to cause a sorrowing mother's tears.
What fashion this, by which a living soul
Is sacrificed to one gone down to hell?
Think not to soil thy father's memory
With such revenge, commanding us to pay
Him reverence with blood.
Pyrrhus. Harsh king of kings!
So arrogant while favoring fortune smiles,
So timid when aught threatens! Is thy heart
So soon inflamed with love and new desire;
And wilt thou always bear from us the spoil?
I'll give Achilles back, with this right hand,
His victim, and, if thou withholdest her,
I'll give a greater, one more meet to be
The gift of Pyrrhus. All too long our hand
Has ceased from slaughter, Priam seeks his peer.
Agamemnon. That was, indeed, the worthiest war like act
Of Pyrrhus: with relentless hand he slew
Priam, whose suppliant prayer Achilles heard.
Pyrrhus. We know our father's foes were suppliants,
But Priam made his prayer himself, whilst thou,
Not brave to ask, and overcome with fear,
Lurked trembling in thy tent, and sought as aid
The intercessions of the Ithacan
And Ajax.
Agamemnon. That thy father did not fear,
I own; amid the slaughter of the Greeks
And burning of the fleet, forgetting war,
He idly lay, and with his plectrum touched
Lightly his lyre.
Pyrrhus. Mighty Hector then
Laughed at thy arms but feared Achilles' song;
Amid the universal fear, deep peace
Reigned through Thessalia's fleet.
Agamemnon. There was in truth
Deep peace for Hector's father in that fleet.
Pyrrhus. To grant kings life is kingly.
Agamemnon. Why didst thou
With thy right hand cut short a royal life?
Pyrrhus. Mercy gives often death instead of life.
Agamemnon. Mercy seeks now a virgin for the tomb?
Pyrrhus. Thou deemst it crime to sacrifice a maid?
Agamemnon. More than their children, kings should love their land.
Pyrrhus. No law spares captives or denies revenge.
Agamemnon. What law forbids not, honor's self forbids.
Pyrrhus. To victors is permitted what they will.
Agamemnon. He least should wish to whom is granted most.
Pyrrhus. And this thou say'st to us, who ten long years
Have borne thy heavy yoke, whom Pyrrhus freed?
Agamemnon. Does Scyros breed such pride?
Pyrrhus. No guilty stain
Of brother's blood is there.
Agamemnon. Shut in by waves—
Pyrrhus. Nay, but the seas are kin. I know thy house—
Yea, Atreus' and Thyestes' noble line!
Agamemnon. Son of Achilles ere he was a man,
And of the maid he ravished secretly—
Pyrrhus. Of that Achilles, who, by right of race,
Through all the world holds sway, possesses still
The ocean through his mother, and the shades
Through Æacus, through Jupiter the sky.
Agamemnon. Achilles, who by Paris' hand was slain.
Pyrrhus. One whom not even the gods fought openly.
Agamemnon. To curb thy insolence and daring words
I well were able, but my sword can spare
The conquered.
[To some of the soldiers, who surround him.]
Call the gods' interpreter,
We'll rule us by his council.
[A few of the soldiers go out, Calchas comes in.

SCENE III

Agamemnon, Pyrrhus, Calchas.

Agamemnon. [To Calchas.] Thou, who hast freed the anchors of the
fleet,
Ended the war's delay, and by thy arts
Canst open heaven, to whom the secret things
Revealed in sacrifice, in shaken earth,
And star that draws through heaven its flaming length.
Are messengers of fate, whose words have been
To me the words of doom, speak, Calchas, tell
What thing the god commands, and govern us
By thy wise counsels.
Calchas. Fate a pathway grants
To Grecians only at the wonted price.
A virgin must be slain upon the tomb
Of the Thessalian leader, and adorned
In robes like those Thessalian virgins wear
To grace their bridals, or Ionian maids,
Or daughters of Mycene; and the bride
Shall be by Pyrrhus to his father brought—
So is she rightly wed. Yet not alone
Is this the cause that holds our ships in port,
But blood must flow, and nobler blood than thine,
Polyxena. Whom cruel fate demands—
Grandchild of Priam, Hector's only son—
Hurled headlong from Troy's wall must meet his death;
Then shall our thousand sails make white the strait.

SCENE IV

Chorus of Trojan Women.

Is it true, or does an idle story
Make the timid dream that after death,
When the loved one shuts the wearied eyelids,
When the last day's sun has come and gone,
And the funeral urn has hid the ashes,
He shall still live on among the shades?
Does it not avail to bear the dear one
To the grave? Must misery still endure
Longer life beyond? Does not all perish
When the fleeting spirit fades in air
Cloudlike? When the funeral fire is lighted
'Neath the body, does no part remain?
Whatsoe'er the rising sun or setting
Sees; whatever ebbing tide or flood
Of the ocean with blue waters washes,
Time with Pegasean flight destroys.
As the sweep of whirling constellations,
As the circling of their king the sun
Speed the ages, as, obliquely turning,
Hecate hastes, so all must seek their fate;
He who touches once the gloomy water
Sacred to the gods, exists no more.
As the sordid smoke from smoldering embers
Swiftly dies, or as a heavy cloud,
That the north wind scatters, ends its being
So the soul that rules us slips away;
After death is nothing; death is nothing
But the last mete of a swift-run race,
Then let eager souls their hopes relinquish,
Fearful find the end of fear. Believe
Eager time and the abyss engulf us;
Death is fatal to the flesh, nor spares
Spirit even; Tænarus, the kingdom
Of the gloomy monarch, and the door
Where sits Cerberus and guards the portal,
Are but empty rumors, senseless names,
Fables vain, like dreams that trouble sleep.
Ask you whither go we after death?
Where they lie who never have been born.

ACT III

SCENE I

Andromache, An Old Man.

Andromache. Why tear your hair, my Phrygian followers,
Why beat your breasts and mar your cheeks with tears?
The grief is light that has the power to weep.
Troy fell for you but now, for me long since
When fierce Achilles urged at speed his car,
And dragged behind his wheel my very self;
The axle, made of wood from Pelion's groves,
Groaned heavily, and under Hector's weight
Trembled. O'erwhelmed and crushed, I bear unmoved
Whate'er befalls, for I am stunned with grief.
I would have followed Hector long ago,
And freed me from the Greeks, but this my son
Held me, subdued my heart, forbade my death,
Compelled me still to ask the gods a boon,
Added a longer life to misery.
He took away my sorrow's richest fruit—
To know no fear. All chance of better things
Is snatched away, and worse are yet to come;
'Tis wretchedness to fear where hope is lost.
Old Man. What sudden fear assails thee, troubled one?
Andromache. From great misfortunes, greater ever spring;
Troy needs must fill the measure of her woes.
Old Man. Though he should wish, what can the god do more?
Andromache. The entrance of the bottomless abyss
Of gloomy Styx lies open; lest defeat
Should lack enough of fear, the buried foe
Comes forth from Dis. Can Greeks alone return?
Death certainly is equal; Phrygians feel
This common fear; but me alone a dream
Of dreadful night has terrified.
Old Man. What dream
Andromache. The sweet night's second watch was hardly passed,
The Seven Stars were turning from the height;
At length there came an unaccustomed calm
To me afflicted; on my eyes there stole
Brief sleep, if that dull lethargy be sleep
That comes to grief-worn souls; when, suddenly,
Before my eyes stood Hector, not as when
He bore against the Greeks avenging fire,
Seeking the Argive fleet with Trojan torch;
Nor as he raged with slaughter gainst the Greeks,
And bore away Achilles' arms—true spoil,
From him who played Achilles' part, nor was
A true Achilles. Not with flame-bright face
He came, but marred with tears, dejected, sad,
Like me, and all unkempt his loosened hair;
Yet I rejoiced to see him. Then he said,
Shaking his head: 'O faithful wife, awake!
Bear hence thy son and hide him, this alone
Is safety. Weep not! Do you weep for Troy?
Would all were fallen! Hasten, seek some place
Of safety for the child.' Then I awoke,
Cold horror and a trembling broke my sleep.
Fearful, I turned my eyes now here, now there.
Me miserable, careless of my son,
I sought for Hector, but the fleeting shade
Slipped from my arms, eluded my embrace.
O child, true son of an illustrious sire;
Troy's only hope; last of a stricken race;
O offspring of an all too noble house,
Too like thy father! Such my Hector's face,
Such was his gait, his manner, so he held
His mighty hands, and so his shoulders broad,
So threatened with bold brow when shaking back
His heavy hair! Oh, born too late for Troy,
Too soon for me, will ever come that time,
That happy day, when thou shalt build again
Troy's walls, lead back again her scattered hosts,
Avenging and defending mightily,
And give again a name to Troy's fair land?
But, mindful of my fate, I dare not wish;
Let us but live, for life is all that slaves
Can hope. Alas, what safety can I find,
Where hide thee? That high citadel, god-built,
World-famous, to the envious exposed,
Is dust, her streets flame-swept, and naught remains
Of all the mighty city, not so much
As where to hide an infant. Oh, what place
Of safety can I find? The mighty tomb,
Reared to my husband—this the foe must fear.
His father, Priam, in his sorrow built,
With no ungenerous hand, great Hector's tomb;
I trust him to his father. Yet I fear
The baleful omen of the place of tombs,
And a cold sweat my trembling members bathes.
Old Man. The safe may choose, but we must seize defence.
Andromache. We may not hide him without heavy fear
Lest some betray him.
Old Man. Cover up the trace Of our device.
Andromache. And if the foe should ask?
Old Man. In the destruction of the land he died,—
It oft has saved a man that he was deemed
Already dead.
Andromache. No other hope is left.
He bears the heavy burden of his name;
If he must come once more into their power
What profits it to hide him?
Old Man. Victors oft
Are savage only in the first attack.
Andromache. [To Astyanax.] What distant, pathless land will keep
thee safe,
Or who protect thee, give thee aid in fear?
O Hector, now as ever guard thine own,
Preserve the secret of thy faithful wife,
And to thy trusted ashes take thy child!
My son, go thou into thy father's tomb.
What, do you turn and shun the safe retreat?
I recognize thy father's strength of soul,
Ashamed of fear. Put by thy inborn pride,
Thy courage; take what fortune has to give.
See what is left of all the Trojan host:
A tomb, a child, a captive! We must yield
To our misfortunes. Dare to enter now
Thy buried father's sacred resting-place;
If fate is kind thou hast a safe retreat,
If fate refuse thee aid, thou hast a grave.
Old Man. The sepulcher will safely hide thy son;
Go, lest thy fears betray thee and so him,
Andromache. One's fear is lightlier borne when near at hand,
But elsewhere will I go, since that seems best.
Old Man. Restrain thy words, speak not, but curb thy fear,
This way the Grecian leader bends his steps.

SCENE II

Andromache, Ulysses with a retinue of warriors. [The old man
withdraws.]

Ulysses. Coming a messenger of cruel fate,
I pray you deem not mine the bitter words
I speak, for this is but the general voice
Of all the Greeks, too long from home detained
By Hector's child: him do the fates demand.
The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace,
Fear will compel them still to look behind
Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child,
Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy.
So prophesies the god's interpreter;
And had the prophet Calchas held his peace,
Hector had spoken; Hector and his son
I greatly fear: those sprung of noble race
Must needs grow great. With proudly lifted head
And haughty neck, the young and hornless bull
Leads the paternal herd and rules the flock;
And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk
Soon rears itself above the parent trunk,
Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven;
The spark mischance has left from some great fire
Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son.
If well you weigh our act, you will forgive,
Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spent
Ten weary winters, ten long harvests spent
In war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear,
Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.
'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks,
But a young Hector; free them from this fear;
This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet,
This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not,
By lot commanded Hector's son to seek;
I would have sought Orestes, equally,
Suffer with patience what your conqueror bore.
Andromache. Alas, my son,
Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms!
Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee,
What region holds thee, torn from my embrace!
Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears,
My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my sides
By biting flame were girdled, not for this
Would I put off my mother-guardianship!
What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?
Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land,
Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?
Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?
Or, slain by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest
On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
Ulysses. No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive
Ulysses; I have ere this overcome
The wiles of mothers, though of blood divine.
Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?
Andromache. Where is my Hector? Where the
Trojan host?
Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all.
Ulysses. What thou refusest willingly to tell,
Thou shalt be forced to say.
Andromache. She rests secure
Who can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.
Ulysses. Near death may put an end to such proud boast.
Andromache. Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force
Andromache to speak, threat longer life;
Death is to me a wished-for messenger.
Ulysses. With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself,
I will drag forth thy heart's deep-hidden thought;
Necessity is stronger far than love.
Andromache. Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stings
Of cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deep
Within this bosom, or the dungeon's gloom—
Whatever angry, fearful victors may;
Learn that a mother's courage casts out fear.
Ulysses. And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenched
So stubbornly, admonishes the Greeks
To think of their own children. Even now,
After these long ten years, this weary war,
I should fear less the danger Calchas threats,
If for myself I feared—but thou prepar'st
War for Telemachus.
Andromache. Unwillingly
I give the Grecians joy, but I must give.
Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain;
Rejoice, O sons of Atreus; carry back
As thou art wont, Ulysses, to the host
The joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.
Ulysses. How prove it to the Greeks?
Andromache. Fall on me else
The greatest ill the victor can inflict:
Fate free me by an easy, timely death,
And hide me underneath my native soil,
Lightly on Hector lie his country's earth
As it is true that, hidden from the light,
Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.
Ulysses. Accomplished then the fate of Hector's race;
A joyous message of established peace
I take the Greeks. [He turns to go, then hesitates.]
Ulysses, wouldst thou so?
The Greeks will trust thee, for thou trustest—whom?
A mother. Would a mother tell this lie
Nor fear the augury of dreaded death?
They fear the auguries, who fear naught else.
She swears it with an oath—yet, falsely sworn,
What has she worse to fear? Now call to aid
All that thou hast of cunning, stratagem,
And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not.
Watch well the mother; see—she mourns, she weeps,
She groans, turns every way her anxious steps,
Listens with ear attentive; more she fears
Than sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care.
[To Andromache.] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve;
Thee, wretched one, we must congratulate
That thou hast lost a son whose fate had been
To die, hurled headlong from the one high tower
Remaining of the ruined walls of Troy.
Andromache. [Aside.] Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear
Freezes my blood.
Ulysses. [Aside.] She trembles; here the place
For my attack; she is betrayed by fear;
I'll add worse fear. [To his followers.]
Go quickly; somewhere lies,
By mother's guile concealed, the hidden foe—
The last remaining foe of our Greek race.
Go, seek him, drag him hither. [After a pause as though the child were
found.] It is well;
The child is taken; hasten, bring him me.
[To Andromache.] Why do you look around and seem to fear?
The boy is dead.
Andromache. Would fear were possible!
Long have I feared. The mind must oft unlearn
The lesson learned.
Ulysses. Since by a happier fate
Snatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice,
The lustral offering from the walls of Troy
And may not now obey the seer's command,
Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned,
And Grecian ships at last may find return,
If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground,
His ashes scattered on the sea; the tomb
Must feel my hand, since Hector's child escapes
His destined death.
Andromache. [Aside.] Alas, what shall I do?
A double fear distracts me; here my son,
And there my husband's sacred sepulcher,
Which conquers? O inexorable gods,
O manes of my husband—my true gods,
Bear witness; in my son 'tis thee I love,
My Hector, O that he may live to bear
His father's image!—Shall the sacred dust
Be cast upon the waves? Nay, better death.—
Canst thou, a mother, bear to see him die,—
To see him from Troy's tower downward hurled?
I can and will, that Hector, after death,
Be not the victor's sport. The boy can feel
The pain, where death has made the father safe.
Decide, which one to give to punishment.
Ungrateful, why in doubt? Thy Hector's here!
'Tis false, each one is Hector; this one lives,
Perchance th' avenger of his father's death.
I cannot save them both, what shall I do?
Oh, save the one whom most the Grecians fear!
Ulysses. I will fulfil the oracle, will raze
The tomb to its foundations.
Andromache. What you sold
To us?
Ulysses. I'll do it, level with the dust
The sepulcher.
Andromache. I call the faith of heaven,
Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, save
Thy father's gift.
Ulysses. The tomb shall instantly
Be leveled with the plain.
Andromache. This crime alone
The Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanes
Even of favoring gods, but spared the tomb.
I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll stand
Against your armored host; rage gives me strength,
And as the savage Amazon opposed
The Grecian army, or the Mænad wild,
Armed with the thyrsus, by the god possessed,
Wounds herself in her madness, feeling not
The pain, and scatters terror through the grove,
So will I rush into your midst and die
Defending the dear ashes of my dead. [She places herself before
the grave.]
Ulysses. [Angrily to the shrinking soldiers.]
Why pause? A woman's wrath and feeble noise
Alarms you so? Do quickly my command.
[The soldiers go toward the grave, Andromache throws herself upon
them.]
Andromache. The sword must first slay me.—Ah, woe is me,
They drive me back. Hector, come forth the tomb;
Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelm
The Grecian chief—thy shade would be enough!
He shakes the weapon, hurls the fire-brand;
Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alone
Perceive him?
Ulysses. I will lay it in the dust.
Andromache. [Aside.] What have I done? To ruin I have brought
Father and son together; yet, perchance,
With supplications I may move the Greeks.
The tomb's vast weight will presentrly destroy
Its hidden treasure; O my wretched child,
Die anywhere the Fates decree but here.
Oh, may the father not o'erwhelm the son,
The son fall not upon his father's dust!
[She casts herself at the feet of Ulysses.
Ulysses, at thy feet a suppliant
I fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees;
Never before a suppliant, here I ask
Thy pity on a mother; hear my prayer
With patience; on the fallen lightly press,
Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights!
The gifts thou grant'st the wretched are to fate
A hostage; so again thou mayst behold
Thy wife; and old Laertes' years endure
Until once more he see thee; so thy son
Receive thee home, outrun thy fairest hopes
In his good fortune, and his age exceed
Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine.
Have pity on a mother to whose grief
Naught else remains of comfort.
Ulysses. Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.
Andromache. Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son,
Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.

SCENE III

Ulysses, Andromache, Astyanax.

Andromache. Ulysses, this is he who terrifies
The thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son,
A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord,
And do him reverence; nor think it base,
Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.
Forget thy royal race, the power of one
Renowned through all the world; Hector forget;
Act the sad captive on thy bended knee,
And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet
Thou feelest not thy woes. [To Ulysses.] Troy saw long since
The weeping of a royal child: the tears
Of youthful Priam turned aside the threats
Of stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierce
Who tamed wild beasts, who broke the gates of Dis,
And opened up the dark way back to earth,
Was conquered by his youthful foeman's tears.
'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government,
Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintain
Thy scepter with a better faith than he;'
So fared the captives of this conqueror;
Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!
Or do the arms alone of Hercules
Seem pleasing to thee? Of as noble race
As Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies,
And asks of thee his life; let fortune give
To whom she will Troy's kingdom.
Ulysses. Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much!
Our Grecian mother's sorrow moves me more,
To cause whose bane this child would grow a man.
Andromache. These ruins of a land to ashes burned
Could he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy?
Troy has no hope, if such is all remains.
We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear.
Does recollection of his father rouse
Pride? In the dust that father's form was dragged.
With Troy in ruins, even his father's self
Had lost that courage which great ills o'ercome.
If vengeance is your wish, what worse revenge
Than to this noble neck to fit the yoke?
Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied
This bounty to a king?
Ulysses. The seer forbids,
'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.
Andromache. Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile,
Whose warlike valor never felled a foe;
By the deceit and guile of whose false heart
E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretence
Of blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the work
Of thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war,
Now dar'st at last one deed in open day—
A brave boy's death.
Ulysses. My valor to the Greeks
Is known, and to the Phrygians too well known.
We may not waste the day in idle talk—
Our ships weigh anchor.
Andromache. Grant a brief delay,
While I, a mother, for my son perform
The last sad office, satiate my grief,
My mother's sorrow, with a last embrace.
Ulysses. I would that I might pity! What I may,
Time and delay, I grant thee; let thy tears
Fall freely; weeping ever softens grief.
Andromache. O pledge of love, light of a fallen house,
Last of the Trojan dead, fear of the Greeks,
Thy mother's empty hope, for whom I prayed—
Fool that I was—that thou mightst have the years
Of Priam, and thy father's warlike soul,
The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield
A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy,
Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt send
Thy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flight
The Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels,
Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms;
Nor wilt thou hunt the dwellers in the wood,
Nor on high festival, in Trojan games,
Lead swiftly on a band of noble youth,
Nor round the altars with swift-moving steps,
That the reëchoing of the twisted horn
Makes swifter, honor with accustomed dance
The Phrygian temples. Oh, most bitter death!
Ulysses. Great sorrow knows no limit, cease thy moans!
Andromache. How narrow is the time we seek for tears!
Grant me a short delay: that with these hands
His living eyes be bound. My little one,
Thou diest, but feared already by thy foes;
Thy Troy awaits thee; go, in freedom go,
To meet free Trojans.
Astyanax. Mother, pity me!
Andromache. Why hold thy mother's hands and clasp her neck,
And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull,
Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hears
The roaring of the lion; from her side
By the fierce lion driv'n, the tender prey
Is seized, and crushed, and dragged away; so thee
Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast.
Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks;
Thus laden with remembrances of me
Go to thy father, bear him these few words
Of my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keeps
Its former cares, if died not on the flames
Thy former love, why leave Andromache
To serve the Grecians? Hector, cruel one,
Dost thou lie cold and vanquished in the grave?
Achilles came again.' Take then these tears,
These locks, for these are all that now remain
Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kiss
To give thy father; leave thy robe for me,
Since it has touched his tomb and his dear dust;
I'll search it well so any ashes lurk
Within its folds.
Ulysses. Weep no more; bear him hence;
Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet.

SCENE IV

Chorus of Trojan Women.

What country calls the captives? Tempe dark?
Or the Thessalian hills? or Phthia's land
Famous for warriors? Trachin's stony plains,
Breeders of cattle? or the great sea's queen,
Iolchos? or the spacious land of Crete
Boasting its hundred towns? Gortyna small?
Or sterile Tricca? or Mothone crossed
By swift and frequent rivers? She who lies
Beneath the shadow of the Œtean woods,
Who sent the hostile bow not once alone
Against the walls of Troy?
Or Olenos whose homes lie far apart?
Or Pleuron, hateful to the virgin god?
Or Trœzen on the ocean's curving shore?
Or Pelion, mounting heavenward, the realm
Of haughty Prothous? There in a vast cave
Great Chiron, teacher of the savage child,
Struck with his plectrum from the soundings strings
Wild music, stirred the boy with songs of war.
Perchance Carystus, for its marbles famed,
Calls us; or Chalcis, lying on the coast
Of the unquiet sea whose hastening tide
Beats up the strait; Calydna's wave-swept shore;
Or stormy Gonoëssa; or the isle
Of Peparethus, near the seaward line
Of Attica; Enispe, smitten oft
By Boreas; or Eleusis, reverenced
For Ceres' holy, secret mysteries?
Or shall we seek great Ajax' Salamis?
Or Calydon, the home of savage beasts?
Or countries that the Titaressus laves
With its slow waters? Scarphe, Pylos old,
Or Bessas, Pharis, Pisa, Elis famed
For the Olympian games?
It matters not what tempest drives us hence,
Or to what land it bears us, so we shun
Sparta, the curse alike of Greece and Troy;
Nor Argos seek, nor cruel Pelop's home,
Mycenæ, and Neritus hemmed within
Narrower limits than Zacynthus small,
Nor treacherous cliffs of rocky Ithaca.
O Hecuba, what fate, what land, what lord
Remains for thee? In whose realm meetst thou death?

ACT IV

SCENE I

Helen, Hecuba, Andromache, Polyxena.

Helen [soliloquizing]. Whatever sad and joyless marriage bond
Holds slaughter, lamentations, bloody war,
Is worthy Helen. Even to fallen Troy
I bring misfortune, bidden to declare
The bridal that Achilles' son prepares
For his dead father, and to lend my robe
And Grecian ornaments. By me betrayed,
And by my fraud, must Paris' sister die.
So be it, this were happier lot for her;
A fearless death must be a longed-for death.
Why shrink to do his bidding? On the head
Of him who plots the crime remains the guilt.
[Aloud to Polyxena.]
Thou noble daughter of Troy's kingly house,
A milder god on thy misfortune looks
Prepares for thee a happy marriage day.
Not Priam nor unfallen Troy could give
Such bridal, for the brightest ornament
Of the Pelasgian race, the man who holds
The kingdom of the wide Thessalian land,
Would make thee his by lawful marriage bonds.
Great Tethys, and the ocean goddesses,
And Thetis, gentle nymph of swelling seas,
Will call thee theirs; when thou art Pyrrhus' bride
Peleus will call thee kin, as Nereus will.
Put off thy robe of mourning, deck thyself
In gay attire; unlearn the captive's mien,
And suffer skilful hands to smooth thy hair
Now so unkempt. Perchance fate cast thee down
From thy high place to seat thee higher still;
To their great profit some have been enslaved.
Andromache. This one ill only lacked to fallen Troy:
Pleasure, while Pergamus still smoking lies!
Fit hour for marriage! Dare one then refuse?
When Helen would persuade, who doubtful weds?
Thou curse! Two nations owe to thee their fall!
Seest thou the royal tomb, these bones that lie
Unburied, scattered over all the field?
Thy bridal is the cause. All Asia's blood,
All Europe's flows for thee, whilst thou, unstirred,
Canst see two husbands fighting, nor decide
Which one to wish the victor! Go, prepare
The marriage bed; what need of wedding torch
Or nuptial lights, when burning Troy provides
The fires for these new bridals? Celebrate,
O Trojan women, honor worthily
The marriage feast of Pyrrhus. Smite your breasts,
And weep aloud.
Helen. Soft comfort is refused
By deep despair, which loses reason, hates
The very sharers of its grief. My cause
I yet may plead before this hostile judge,
Since I have suffered heavier ills than she.
Andromache mourns Hector openly,
Hecuba weeps for Priam, I, alone,
In secret, weep for Paris. Is it hard,
Grievous, and hateful to bear servitude?
For ten long years I bore the captive's yoke.
Is Ilium laid low, her household gods
Cast down? To lose one's land is hard indeed—
To fear it worse. Your sorrow friendship cheers,
Me conquerors and conquered hate alike.
For thee there long was doubt whom thou shouldst serve,
My master drags me hence without the chance
Of lot. Was I the bringer of the war?
Of so great Teucrian carnage? Think this true
If first a Spartan keel thy waters cut;
But if of Phrygian oars I was the prey,
By the victorious goddess as a prize
Given for Paris' judgment, pardon me!
An angry judge awaits me, and my cause
Is left to Menelaus. Weep no more,
Andromache, put by thy grief. Alas,
Hardly can I myself restrain my tears.
Andromache. How great the ill that even Helen weeps!
Why does she weep? What trickery or crime
Plots now the Ithacan? From Ida's top,
Or Troy's high tower, will he cast the maid
Upon the rocks? Or hurl her to the deep
From the great cliff which, from its riven side,
Out of the shallow bay, Sigeon lifts?
What wouldst thou cover with deceitful face?
No ill were heavier than this: to see
Pyrrhus the son-in-law of Hecuba
And Priam. Tell the penalty thou bringst.
Take from defeat at least this evil,—fraud.
Thou seest thou dost not find us loth to die.
Helen. Would that Apollo's prophet bade me take
The long delay of my so hated life;
Or that, upon Achilles' sepulcher,
I might be slain by Pyrrhus' cruel hand,
The sharer of thy fate, Polyxena,
Whom harsh Achilles bids them give to him—
To offer to his manes, as his bride
In the Elysian Fields.
[Polyxena shows great joy, Hecuba sinks fainting to the ground.
Andromache. See with what joy a noble woman meets
Death-sentence, bids them bring the royal robe,
And fitly deck her hair. She deemed it death
To be the bride of Pyrrhus, but this death
A bridal seems. The wretched mother faints,
Her sinking spirit fails; unhappy one,
Arise, lift up thy heart, be strong of soul!
Her life hangs by a thread—how slight a chance
Would make her happy!—But she breathes, she lives,
Death flies the wretched.
Hecuba. Lives Achilles still
To vex the Trojans? Still pursues his foes?
Light was the hand of Paris; but the tomb
And ashes of Achilles drink our blood.
Once I was circled by a happy throng
Of children, by their kisses weary made,
Parted my mother love amongst them all.
She, now, alone is left; for her I pray,
Companion, solace, healer of my grief,
The only child of Hecuba, her voice
Alone may call me mother! Bitter life,
Pass from me, slip away, spare this last blow!
Tears overflow my cheeks—a storm of tears
Falls from my eyes!
Andromache. We are the ones should weep,
We, Hecuba, whom, scattered here and there,
The Grecian ships shall carry far away.
The maid will find at least a sepulcher
In the dear soil of her loved native land.
Helen. Thy own lot known, yet more thou'lt envy hers.
Andromache. Is any portion of my lot unknown?
Helen. The fatal urn has given thee a lord.
Andromache. Whom call I master? Speak, who bears me hence
A slave?
Helen. Lot gave thee to the Scyrian king.
Andromache. Happy Cassandra, madness spared thee this,
Madness and great Apollo's aid.
Helen. The prince Of kings claims her.
Hecuba. Rejoice, rejoice, my child;
Cassandra envies thee thy bridals, thine
Andromache desires. Is there one
Seeks Hecuba for bride?
Helen. Thou fall'st a prey
To the unwilling Ithacan.
Hecuba. Alas,
What raging, cruel, unrelenting god
Gives kings by lot to be the prey of kings?
What god unfriendly thus divides the spoil?
What cruel arbiter forbids us choose
Our masters? With Achilles' arms unites
Great Hector's mother? To Ulysses' lot!
Conquered and captive am I now indeed,
Beset by all misfortunes! 'Tis my lord
Puts me to shame, and not my servitude!
Isle small and sterile, by rough seas enclosed,
Thou wilt not hold my grave! Lead on, lead on,
Ulysses, I delay not, I will go—
Will follow thee; my fate will follow me.
No tranquil calm will rest upon the sea;
Wind, war, and flame shall rage upon the deep,
My woes and Priam's! When these things shall come,
Respite from punishment shall come to Troy.
Mine is the lot, from thee I snatch the prize!
But see where Pyrrhus comes with hasty steps
And savage mien. Why pause? On, Pyrrhus, on!
Into this troubled bosom drive the sword,
And join to thy Achilles his new kin!
Slayer of aged men, come, here is blood,
Blood worthy of thy sword; drag off thy spoil,
And with thy hideous slaughter stain the gods—
The gods who rule in heaven and those in hell!
What can I pray for thee? I pray for seas
Worthy these rites; I pray the thousand ships,
The fleet of the Pelasgians, may meet
Such fate as that I fain would whelm the ship
That bears me hence a captive.

SCENE II

Chorus. Sweet is a nation's grief to one who grieves—
Sweet are the lamentations of a land!
The sting of tears and grief is less when shared
By many; sorrow, cruel in its pain,
Is glad to see its lot by others shared,
To know that not alone it suffers loss.
None shuns the hapless fate that many bear;
None deems himself forlorn, though truly so,
If none are happy near him. Take away
His riches from the wealthy, take away
The hundred cattle that enrich his soil,
The poor will lift again his lowered head;
'Tis only by comparison man's poor.
O'erwhelmed in hopeless ruin, it is sweet
To see none happy. He deplores his fate
Who, shipwrecked, naked, finds the longed-for port
Alone. He bears with calmer mien his fate
Who sees, with his, a thousand vessels wrecked
By the fierce tempest, and upon a plank
Escaping safe, returns to shore, the while
The northwest wind, collecting all the waves,
Drives them from shore: and when the radiant ram,
The gold-fleeced leader of the flock, bore forth
Phryxus and Helle, Phryxus mourned the fall
Of Helle dropped into the Grecian sea.
Pyrrha, Deucalion's wife, restrained her tears,
As he did, when they saw the sea, naught else,
And they alone of living men remained.
The fleet shall soon far scatter this sad band,
Soon shall the trumpet sound to spread the sail,
Soon dip the laboring oars, and Troy's shores flee,
When shall the land grow faint and far, the sea
Expand before, Mount Ida fade behind?
Then grows our sorrow; then what way Troy lies
Mother and son shall gaze. The son shall say,
Pointing the while, 'There where the curving line
Of smoke floats, there is Ilium.' By that sign
Shall Trojans know their country.

ACT V

SCENE I

Hecuba, Andromache, Messenger.

Messenger. O bitter, cruel, lamentable fate!
In these ten years of war what crime so hard,
So sad, has Mars encountered? What decree
Of fate shall I lament? Thy bitter lot,
Andromache? Or thine, thou aged one?
Hecuba. Whatever woe thou mournst is Hecuba's;
Their own griefs only others have to bear,
I bear the woes of all, all die for me,
And sorrow follows all who call me friend.
Andromache. Tell of the deaths—the tale of double crime;
Suffering ever loves to hear its woes;
Speak, tell us all.
Messenger. One mighty tower remains
Of Troy, no more is left; from this high seat
Priam, the arbiter of war, was wont
To view his troops; and in this tower he sat
And, in caressing arms, embraced the son
Of Hector, when that hero put to flight
With fire and sword the trembling, conquered Greeks.
From thence he showed the child its father's deeds.
This tower, the former glory of our walls,
Is now a lonely, ruined mass of rock
Thither the throng of chiefs and people flock;
From the deserted ships the Grecian host
Come pouring; on the hills some find a place,
Some on the rising cliffs, upon whose top
They stand tiptoe; some climb the pines, and beech,
And laurel, till beneath the gathered crowd
The whole wood trembles; some have found the peaks
Of broken crags; some climb a ruined roof,
Or toppling turret of the falling wall;
And some, rude lookers-on, mount Hector's tomb.
Through all the crowded space, with haughty mien,
Passes the Ithacan, and by the hand
Leads Priam's grandson; nor with tardy step
Does the young hero mount the lofty wall.
Standing upon the top, with fearless heart
He turns his eagle glance from side to side.
As the young, tender cub of some wild beast,
Not able yet to raven with its teeth,
Bites harmlessly, and proudly feels himself
A lion; so this brave and fearless child,
Holding the right hand of his enemy,
Moves host and leaders and Ulysses' self.
He only does not weep for whom all weep,
But while the Ithacan begins the words
Of the prophetic message and the prayers
To the stern gods, he leaps into the midst
Of Priam's kingdom, of his own accord.
Andromache. Was ever such a deed by Colchians done,
Or wandering Scythians, or the lawless race
That dwells beside the Caspian? Never yet
Has children's blood Busiris' altars stained,
Nor Diomedes feasted his fierce steeds
On children's limbs! Who'll take thy body up,
My son, and bear it to the sepulcher?
Messenger. What would that headlong leap have left? His bones
Lie dashed in pieces by the heavy fall,
His face and noble form, inheritance
From his illustrious father, are with earth
Commingled; on the cruel rocks his neck
Is broken, and his head is crushed, his brains
Dashed out; his body lies devoid of form.
Andromache. This, too, is like his father.
Messenger. When headlong from the wall the boy was cast,
And the Achaians wept the crime they did,
Then turned these same Achaians to new crimes,
And to Achilles' tomb. With quiet flow
The Rhœtean waters beat the further side,
And on the other side the level plain
Slopes gently upward, and surrounds the place
Like a wide amphitheater; here the strand
Is thronged with lookers-on, who think to end
With this last death their vessels' long delay,
And glad themselves to think the foeman's seed
At last cut off. The fickle, common crowd
Condemn the crime, but feast their eyes on it.
The Trojans haste with no less eagerness
To their own funeral rites, and, pale with fear,
Behold the final fall of ruined Troy.
As at a marriage, suddenly advance
The bridal torches, Helen goes before,
Attendant to the bride, with sad head bent.
'So may Hermione,' the Phrygians pray,
'Be wed, and so base Helen find again
Her husband.' Sudden terror seizes both
The awe-struck peoples. With her glance cast down,
Modestly comes the victim; but her cheeks
Glow, and her beauty shines unwontedly;
So shines the light of Phœbus gloriously
Before his setting, when the stars return
And day is darkened by approaching night.
The throng is silenced; all men praise the maid
Who now must die: some praise her lovely form,
Her tender age moves some, and some lament
The fickleness of fortune; every one
Is touched at heart by her courageous soul,
Her scorn of death. She comes, by Pyrrhus led;
All wonder, tremble, pity; when the hill
Is reached, and on his father's grave advanced,
The young king stands, the fearless maid shrinks not,
But waits unflinchingly the fatal blow.
Her unquelled spirit moves the hearts of all;
And—a new prodigy—Pyrrhus is slow
At slaughter; but at length, with steady hand,
He buries to the hilt the gleaming sword
Within her breast; the life-blood gushes forth
From the deep wound; in death as heretofore
Her soul is strong; with angry thud she falls
As she would make the earth a heavy load
Upon Achilles' breast. Both armies weep;
The Trojans venture only feeble moans;
The victors weep aloud: and thus was made
The sacrifice. Her blood, upon the ground
Once spilt, flowed not away, but eagerly
The tomb absorbed and greedily sucked in
Each crimson drop.
Hecuba. Go, conquering Greeks,
Securely seek your homes; with all sail set,
Your fleet may safely skim the longed-for sea.
The lad and maid are dead, the war is done!
Where can I hide my woe, where lay aside
The long delay of the slow-passing years?
Whom shall I weep? my husband, grandson, child,
Or country? Mourn the living or the dead?
O longed-for death, with violence dost thou come
To babes and maidens, but thou fleest from me!
Through long night sought, mid fire, and swords, and spears,
Why fly me? Not the foe, nor ruined home,
Nor flame could slay me, though so near I stood
To Priam!
Messenger. [Talthybius, coming from the Greek camp.]
Captive women, seek with speed
The sea; the sails are set, the vessels move.






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