The Trojan Captives.

Neptune. From the Ægean deep, in mazy dance Where Nereus’ daughters glide with agile feet, I Neptune hither come. For round the fields Of Ilion, since Apollo and myself With symmetry exact reared many a tower Hewn from the solid rock; the love I bore The city where my Phrygian votaries dwelt, Laid waste by Greece, where smoke e’en now ascends The heavens, hath ne’er been rooted from this breast, For on Parnassus bred, the Phocian chief Epeus, by Minerva’s arts inspired, Framed with a skilful hand, and through the gates Sent that accursed machine, the horse which teemed With ambushed javelins. Through forsaken groves, Through the polluted temples of the gods, Flow tides of crimson slaughter; at the base Of altars sacred to Hercæan Jove, Fell hoary Priam. But huge heaps of gold And Phrygian plunder, to the fleet of Greece Are sent: the leaders of the host that sacked This city, wait but for a prosperous breeze, That after ten years absence they their wives And children may with joy behold. Subdued By Juno, Argive goddess, and Minerva, Who leagued in Phrygia’s overthrow, I leave Troy the renowned, and my demolished shrines. For when pernicious solitude extends O’er cities her inexorable sway, Abandoned are the temples of the gods, None comes to worship there. Scamander’s banks Re-echo many a shriek of captive dames Distributed by lot; th’ Arcadians, some, Some the Thessalians gain, and some the sons Of Theseus leaders of th’ Athenian troops: But they whom chance distributes not, remain Beneath yon roof selected by the chiefs Of the confederate army. Justly deemed A captive, among them is Spartan Helen: And if the stranger wishes to behold That wretched woman, Hecuba lies stretched Before the gate, full many are her tears, And her afflictions many: at the tomb Of stern Achilles her unhappy daughter Polyxena died wretchedly, her lord The royal Priam, and her sons are slain, That spotless virgin too whom from his shrine Apollo with prophetic gifts inspired, Cassandra, spurning every sacred rite, Did Agamemnon violently drag To his adulterous bed. But, O farewell, Thou city prosperous once; ye splendid towers, Had not Minerva’s self ordained your fall, Ye still on your firm basis might remain. Minerva, Neptune. Min. May I accost the god who to my sire In blood is nearest, mighty, through high Heaven Revered, and lay aside our ancient hate? Nep. ’Tis well, thou royal maid: an interview ’Twixt those of the same house, is to the soul An efficacious philtre. Min. I applaud Those who are temperate in their wrath, and bring Such arguments, O monarch, as affect Both you and me. Nep. From all th’ assembled gods Some new commission bear’st thou, or from Jove, Or what celestial power? Min. From none of these. But in the cause of Troy, whose fields we tread, I to your aid betake me, and would join Our common strength. Nep. Hast thou then laid aside Thy former hate, to pity Troy, consumed By the relentless flames? Min. First, thither turn Your views: to me will you unfold your counsels, And aid the schemes I would effect? Nep. With joy: But I meanwhile would thy designs explore, Whether thou com’st on the behalf of Greece, Or Troy. Min. The Trojans, erst my foes, I wish To cheer, and to embitter the return Of the victorious Grecian host. Nep. What means This change of temper? to excess thou hat’st And lov’st at random. Min. Know you not the insult Which hath been shown to me, and to my temple? Nep. I know that Ajax violently tore Cassandra thence. Min. Yet by the Greeks unpunished He ’scaped, and e’en uncensured. Nep. Though the Greeks O’erthrew Troy’s walls through thy auxiliar might—— Min. And for this very cause will I conspire With you to punish them. Nep. I am prepared For any enterprise thou wilt. What mean’st thou? Min. Their journey home I am resolved to make Most inauspicious. Nep. While they yet remain Upon the shore, or ’midst the briny waves? Min. As to their homes from Ilion’s coast they sail. For Jove will send down rain, immoderate hail, And pitchy blasts of air: he promises To give me too his thunderbolts to smite The Greeks and fire their ships; but join your aid, Cause the Ægean deep with threefold waves, And ocean’s whirlpools horribly to rage, Fill with their courses the unfathomed caves Beneath Eubœa’s rocks, that Greece may learn My shrines to reverence, nor provoke the gods. Nep. It shall be done: there need not many words To recommend thy suit. My storms shall rouse Th’ Ægean deep; the shores of Myconè, Scyros with Lemnos, all the Delian rocks, And steep Caphareus with full many a corse Will I o’erspread. But mount Olympus’ height, And from the Thunderer’s hand his flaming shafts Receiving, mark when the devoted host Of Greece weigh anchor. Frantic is the man Who dares to lay the peopled city waste, Temples with tombs profaning, and bereaves Of their inhabitants those sacred vaults Where sleep the dead; at length shall vengeance smite That hardened miscreant in his bold career. [Exeunt. The Scene opens, and discovers Hecuba on a couch. Hec. Arise, thou wretch, and from the dust uplift Thy drooping head; though Ilion be no more, And thou a queen no longer, yet endure With patience Fortune’s change, and as the tide Or as capricious Fortune wills, direct Thy sails, nor turn against the dashing wave Life’s stubborn prow, for chance must guide thy voyage. Alas! for what but groans belongs to me Whose country, children, husband, are no more? Oh, mighty splendour of my sires, now pent In a small tomb, how art thou found a thing Of no account! What portion of my woes Shall I suppress, or what describe, how frame A plaintive strain? Now fixed on this hard couch, Wretch that I am, are my unwieldy limbs. Ah me! my head, my temples, ah, my side! Oh, how I wish to turn, and to stretch forth These joints! My tears shall never cease to flow, For like the Muse’s lyre, th’ affecting tale Of their calamities consoles the wretched. Ye prows of those swift barks which to the coast Of fated Ilion, from the Grecian ports Adventurous launched amid the purple wave, Accompanied by inauspicious pæans From pipes, and the shrill flute’s enlivening voice, While from the mast devolved the twisted cordage By Egypt first devised, ye to the bay Of Troy did follow Menelaus’ wife, Helen, abhorred adult’ress, who disgraced Castor her brother, and Eurotas’ stream: She murdered Priam, sire of fifty sons, And me the wretched Hecuba hath plunged Into this misery. Here, alas! I sit In my loathed prison, Agamemnon’s tent; From princely mansions dragged, an aged slave, My hoary tresses shorn, this head deformed With baldness. But, alas! ye hapless wives Of Ilion’s dauntless warriors, blooming maids, And brides affianced in an evil hour, Together let us weep, for Ilion’s smoke Ascends the skies. Like the maternal bird, Who wails her callow brood, I now commence A strain far different from what erst was heard When I on mighty Priam’s sceptred state Proudly relying, led the Phrygian dance Before the hallowed temples of the gods. [She rises, and comes forth from the tent. Semichorus, Hecuba. Semichor. O Hecuba, what mean these clamorous notes, These shrieks of woe? for from the vaulted roof Thy plaints re-echoing smite my distant ear, And fresh alarms seize every Phrygian dame Who in these tents enslaved deplores her fate. Hec. E’en now, my daughter, at the Grecian fleet Th’ exulting sailors ply their oars. Semichor. Ah me! What mean they? will they instantly convey me Far from my ruined country? Hec. By conjecture Alone am I acquainted with our doom. Semichor. Soon shall we hear this sentence: “From these doors Come forth ye Trojan captives, for the Greeks Are now preparing to return.” Hec. O cease, My friends, nor from her chambers hither bring Cassandra, frantic prophetess, defiled By Argive ruffians, for the sight of her Would but increase my griefs. Semichor. Troy, wretched Troy, Thou art no more, they to whom fate ordains No longer on thy fostering soil to dwell Are wretched, both the living and the slain. Chorus, Hecuba. Chor. Trembling I come from Agamemnon’s tent, Of thee my royal mistress to inquire Whether the Greeks have doomed me to be slain, And whether yet along the poop arranged The mariners prepare to ply their oars. Hec. Deprived of sleep through horror, O my daughter, I hither came: but on the road I see A Grecian herald. Chor. Tell me to what lord Am wretched I consigned. Hec. E’en now the lot Is casting to decide your fate. Chor. What chief To Argos, or to Phthia, me shall bear, Or to some island, sorrowing, far from Troy? Hec. To whom shall wretched I, and in what land Become a slave, decrepit like the drone Through age, mere semblance of a pallid corse, Or flitting spectre from the realms beneath? Shall I be stationed or to watch the door, Or tend the children of a haughty lord, Erst placed at Troy in rank supreme? Chor. Alas! Hec. With what loud plaints dost thou revive thy woes! Chor. I never more through Ida’s loom shall dart The shuttle, nor behold a blooming race Of children, in those lighter tasks employed Which suit the young and beauteous, to the couch Of some illustrious Greek conveyed, the joys Which night and fortune yields are lost to me; Or filled with water, from Pirene’s spring Shall I be doomed to bear the ponderous urn. Hec. O could we reach the famed and happy realm Of Theseus, distant from Eurotas’ tide, And curst Therapne’s gates, where I should meet Perfidious Helen, and remain a slave To Menelaus, who demolished Troy. Chor. By fame’s loud voice I am informed, the vale Of Peneus, at Olympus base, abounds With wealth and plenteous fruitage. Hec. This I make My second option, next the blest domain Of Theseus. Chor. I am told that Vulcan’s realm Of Ætna, opposite Phœnicia’s coast The mother of Sicilian hills, is famed For palms obtained by valour. Through the realm Adjacent, bordering on th’ Ionian deep, Crathis the bright, for auburn hair renowned, The tribute of its holy current pours, And scatters blessings o’er a martial land. But lo, with hasty step a herald comes Bearing some message from the Grecian host! What is his errand? for we now are slaves To yon proud rulers of the Doric realm. Talthybius, Hecuba, Chorus. Tal. O Hecuba, full oft, you know, to Troy I, as their herald, by the Grecian host Have been despatched; you cannot be a stranger To me, Talthybius, who to you, and all, One message bring. Hec. This, this, my dearest friends, Is what I long have feared. Tal. The lots are cast Already, if your terrors thence arose. Hec. Alas, to what Thessalian city saidst thou, Or to the Phthian, or the Theban realm Shall we be carried? Tal. To a separate lord Hath each of you distinctly been assigned. Hec. To whom, alas, to whom am I allotted? What Phrygian dames do happier fortunes wait? Tal. I know; but be distinct in your inquiries, Nor ask at once a multitude of questions. Hec. Say who by lot hath gained my wretched daughter Cassandra? Tal. Her the royal Agamemnon His chosen prize hath taken. Hec. As a slave To tend his Spartan wife? ah, me! Tal. No slave, But concubine. Hec. What, Phœbus’ votive maid, To whom the god with golden tresses gave This privilege, that she should pass her life In celibacy? Tal. With the shafts of love Hath the prophetic nymph transpierced his breast. Hec. My daughter, cast the sacred keys away, And rend the garlands thou with pride didst wear. Tal. Is it not great for captives to ascend The regal couch? Hec. But where is she whom late Ye took away, and whither have ye borne That daughter? Tal. Speak you of Polyxena, Or for whom else would you inquire? Hec. On whom Hath chance bestowed her? Tal. At Achilles’ tomb It is decreed that she shall minister. Hec. Wretch that I am! for his sepulchral rites Have I then borne a priestess? but what law Is this, what Grecian usage, O my friend? Tal. Esteem your daughter happy; for with her All now is well. Hec. What saidst thou? doth she live? Tal. ’Tis her peculiar fate to be released From all affliction. Hec. But, alas! what fortune Attends the warlike Hector’s captive wife, How fares it with the lost Andromache? Tal. Her to Achilles’ son hath from the band Of captives chosen. Hec. As to me who need For a third foot, the staff which in these hands I hold, whose head is whitened o’er with age, To whom am I a slave? Tal. By lot the king Of Ithaca Ulysses hath obtained you. Hec. Alas! alas! let your shorn temples feel The frequent blow; rend your discoloured cheeks. Ah me! I am allotted for a slave To a detestable and treacherous man, Sworn foe of justice, to that lawless viper, With double tongue confounding all, ’twixt friends Exciting bitter hate. Ye Trojan dames, O shed the sympathizing tear: I sink Beneath the pressure of relentless fate. Chor. Thy doom, O queen, thou know’st: but to what chief, Hellenian or Achaian, I belong Inform me. Tal. Peace! Conduct Cassandra hither With speed, ye guards, into our general’s hands When I his captive have delivered up, That we the rest may portion out. Why gleams That blazing torch within? would Ilion’s dames Their chambers fire? what mean they? doomed to leave This land, and to be borne to Argive shores, Are they resolved to perish in the flames? The soul, inspired with an unbounded love Of freedom, ill sustains such woes. Burst open The doors, lest, to their honour and the shame Of Greece, on me the censure fall. Hec. They kindle No conflagration, but, with frantic step, My daughter, lo! Cassandra rushes hither. Cassandra, Talthybius, Hecuba, Chorus. Cas. Avaunt! the sacred flame I bring With reverential awe profound, And wave the kindled torch around, O Hymen, thou benignant king. The bridegroom comes with jocund pride, I too am styled a happy bride, My name through Argos’ streets shall ring, O Hymen, thou benignant king! While thou attend’st my father’s bier, O Hecuba, with many a tear, While Ilion’s ramparts overthrown From thee demand th’ incessant groan, Ere the bright sun withhold his ray, E’en in the glaring front of day, I bid the nuptial incense blaze To thee, O Hymen, thee whose power Invoking at her bridal hour The bashful virgin comes. Yon maze Encircling, ’mid the choral dance, As ancient usage bids, advance, And in thy hand a flaming pine, O mother, brandish. God of wine, Thy shouting votaries hither bring, As if in Ilion thou hadst found Old Priam still a happy king. Range that holy group around, O Phœbus, in thy laureate mead, Thy temple, shall the victim bleed. Let Hymen, Hymen, Hymen, sound. My mother, for the dance prepare, Vault nimbly, and our revels share. At Hymen’s shrine, my friends, prolong Your vows, awake th’ ecstatic song; In honour of my bridal day, Chant, Phrygian nymphs, the choral lay, And celebrate the chief whom fate Ordains to be Cassandra’s mate. Chor. Wilt thou not stop the princess, lest she rush With frantic step amid the Grecian host? Hec. O Vulcan, wont to light the bridal torch, Now dost thou brandish an accursed flame; My soul foresaw not this. Alas! my daughter, I little thought, that ’midst the din of arms, Or while we crouch beneath the Argive spear, Thou couldst have celebrated such espousals. Give me the torch, for while with frantic speed Thou rushest on, it trembles in thy hand. Nor yet have thy afflictions, O my daughter, Brought back thy wandering reason, thou remain’st Disordered as before. Ye Trojan dames, Remove yon blazing pines, and in the stead Of these her bridal songs let tears express The anguish of your souls. Cas. O mother, place A laureate wreath on my victorious brow, Exulting lead me to the monarch’s bed. And if for thee too slowly I advance, Drag me along by force; for I am now No more the spouse of Phœbus; but that king Of Greece, famed Agamemnon, shall in me Take to his arms a bride more inauspicious Than even Helen’s self: him will I smite, And lay his palace waste, in great revenge For my slain sire and brothers. But I cease These menaces, and speak not of the axe Which shall smite me and others, or the conflict My wedlock shall produce, whence by the hands Of her own son a mother shall be slain, And th’ overthrow of Atreus’ guilty house. This city will I prove to have been happier Than the victorious Greeks (for though the gods Inspire, I curb the transports of my soul), Who for one single woman, to regain The beauteous Helen only, wasted lives Unnumbered. Their wise leader, in the cause Of those he hated, slew whom most he loved; He to his brother yielded up his daughter, Joy of his house, for that vile woman’s sake, Who with her own consent, and not by force, Was borne away. But at Scamander’s banks When they arrived, they died, though not by exile Torn from their country, or their native towers: But them who in embattled fields were slain Their children saw not, nor in decent shroud Were they enwrapped by their loved consorts’ hands, But lie deserted on a foreign coast: Their sorrows also who remained at home Are similar; in widowhood forlorn Some die; and others, of their own brave sons Deprived, breed up the children of a stranger; Nor at their slighted tombs is blood poured forth To drench the thirsty ground. Their host deserves Praises like these. ’Tis better not to speak Of what is infamous, nor shall my Muse Record the shameful tale. But, first and greatest Of glories, in their country’s cause expired The Trojans; the remains of those who fell In battle, by their friends borne home, obtained Sepulchral honours in their native soil, That duteous office kindred hands performed: While every Phrygian who escaped the sword Still with his wife and children did reside, Joy to the Greeks unknown. Now hear the fate Of Hector, him whom thou bewail’st, esteemed The bravest of our heroes, by the Greeks Landing on Ilion’s coast the warrior fell; In their own country had the foe remained, His valour ne’er had been displayed: but Paris Wedded the daughter of imperial Jove, In her possessing an illustrious bride. It is the wise man’s duty to avoid Perilous war. After the die is cast, He who undaunted meets the fatal stroke, Adds to his native city fair renown; But the last moments of a coward shame The land which gave him birth. Forbear to weep, My mother, for thy ruined country’s fate; Weep not because thou seest thy daughter borne To Agamemnon’s bed, for by these spousals Our most inveterate foes shall I destroy. Chor. How sweetly ’midst the sorrows of thy house Thou smil’st! ere long perchance wilt thou afford A melancholy instance that thy strains Are void of truth. Tal. Had not Apollo fired E’en to distraction thy perverted soul, Thou on my honoured leader, ere he quit The shores of Ilion, shouldst not unavenged Pour forth these omens. But, alas! the great, And they who in th’ opinion of mankind Are wise, in no respect excel the vulgar. For the dread chieftain of the Grecian host, The son of Atreus, loves with boundless passion This damsel frantic as the Mænades. Myself am poor, yet would not I accept A wife like her. Since thou hast lost thy reason, I to the winds consign thy bitter taunts ’Gainst Argos, with the praises thou bestow’st On Troy. Thou bride of Agamemnon, come, Follow me to the fleet. But when Ulysses Would bear you hence, O Hecuba, obey The summons, you are destined to attend A queen called virtuous by all those who come To Ilion. Cas. Arrogant, detested slave! All heralds are like thee, the public scorn, Crouching with abject deference to some king Or city. Say’st thou, “To Ulysses’ house My mother shall be borne?” Of what account Were then the oracles Apollo gave Uttered by me his priestess, which declare, “She here shall die?” I spare the shameful tale. He knows not, the unhappy Ithacus, What evils yet await him, in the tears Of me and every captive Phrygian maid, While he exults, and deems our misery gain. Ten more long years elapsed beyond the term Spent in besieging Ilion, he alone Shall reach his country; witness thou who dwell’st ’Midst ocean’s straits tempestuous, dire Charybdis, Ye mountains where on human victims feast The Cyclops, with Ligurian Circe’s isle, Whose wand transforms to swine, the billowy deep, Covered with shipwrecks, the bewitching Lotus, The sacred Oxen of the Sun, whose flesh Destined to utter a tremendous voice The banquet shall embitter: he at length, In a few words his history to comprise, Alive must travel to the shades beneath, And hardly ’scaping from a watery grave In his own house find evils numberless. But why do I recount Ulysses’ toils? Lead on, that I the sooner in the realms Of Pluto, with that bridegroom may consummate My nuptials. Ruthless miscreant as thou art, Thou in the tomb ignobly shalt be plunged At midnight; nor shall the auspicious beams Of day illumine thy funereal rites, O leader of the Grecian host, who deem’st That thou a mighty conquest hast achieved. Near to my lord’s remains, and in that vale, Where down a precipice the torrent foams, My corse shall to the hungry wolves be thrown, The corse of Phœbus’ priestess. O ye wreaths Of him whom best of all the gods I loved, Adieu, ye symbols of my holy office, I leave those feasts the scenes of past delight, Torn from my brows avaunt, for I retain My chastity unsullied still; the winds To thee shall waft them, O prophetic king. Where is your general’s bark, which I am doomed T’ ascend? the rising breezes shall unfurl Your sails this instant; for in me ye bear One of the three Eumenides from Troy. Farewell, my mother, weep not for my fate, O my dear country, my heroic brothers, And aged father, in the realms beneath, Ere long shall ye receive me: but victorious Will I descend among the mighty dead, When I have laid th’ accursed mansions waste Of our destroyers, Atreus’ impious sons. [Exeunt Cassandra and Talthybius. Chor. Attendants of the aged Hecuba, Behold ye not your mistress, how she falls Upon the pavement speechless? Why neglect To prop her sinking frame! Ye slothful nymphs, Raise up this woman, whom a weight of years Bows to the dust. Hec. Away, and on this spot Allow me, courteous damsels, to remain: No longer welcome as in happier days Are your kind offices; this humble posture, This fall best suits my present lowly state, Best suits what I already have endured And still am doomed to suffer. O ye gods, In you I call upon no firm allies, Yet sure ’tis decent to invoke the gods When we by adverse fortune are opprest. First, therefore, all the blessings I enjoyed Would I recount, hence shall my woes demand The greater pity. Born to regal state, And with a mighty king in wedlock joined, A race of valiant sons did I produce; I speak not of their numbers, but the noblest Among the Phrygian youths, such as no Trojan, Nor Grecian, nor barbarian dame could boast: Them saw I fall beneath the hostile spear, And at their tomb these tresses cut: their sire, The venerable Priam, I bewailed not, From being told of his calamitous fate By others, but these eyes beheld him slain, E’en at the altar of Hercæan Jove, And Ilion taken. I those blooming maids Have also lost, whom with maternal love I nurtured for some noble husband’s bed; They from these arms are torn: nor can I hope Or to be seen by them, or e’er to see My children more. But last of all, to crown My woes, an aged slave, shall I be borne To Greece; and in such tasks will they employ me As are most grievous in the wane of life; Me, who am Hector’s mother, at the door Stationed to keep the keys, or knead the bread, And on the pavement stretch my withered limbs, Which erst reposed upon a regal couch, And in such tattered vestments, as belie My former rank, enwrap my wasted frame. Wretch that I am, who, through one woman’s nuptials, Have borne, and am hereafter doomed to bear, Such dreadful ills. O my unhappy daughter, Cassandra, whom the gods have rendered frantic, With what sad omens hath thy virgin zone Been loosed! and where, Polyxena, art thou, O virgin most unfortunate? but none Of all my numerous progeny, or male Or female, comes to aid their wretched mother. Why, therefore, would ye lift me up? what room Is there for hope? me who with tender foot Paced through the streets of Troy, but now a slave, Drag from the palace to the rushy mat And stony pillow, that where’er I fall There may I die, through many, many tears Exhausted. Of the prosperous and the great Pronounce none happy till the hour of death. Chorus. ODE. I. Prepare, O Muse, prepare a song Expressive of the fall of Troy; The sympathetic dirge prolong And banish every note of joy. I with loud voice of Ilion’s fate will speak, Sing how the foe our ramparts stormed Through the machine their treachery formed, The vehicle of many a daring Greek, Who burst like thunder from that wooden steed, With gorgeous trappings graced, in mimic state, Concealing armed bands, which passed the Scæan gate, They whom such semblance could mislead, The unsuspecting crowd, As on Troy’s citadel they stood, Exclaimed; “Henceforth our toils shall cease, Come on, and to Minerva’s fane convey This holy image, pledge of peace.” What veteran paused? what youth but led the way? Enlivening songs breathed round in notes so sweet, That gladly they received the pestilential cheat. II. Then did all Phrygia’s race combine Through their devoted gates to bear, Enclosed in the stupendous pine The fraud of Greece, that latent snare, To glut Minerva with Dardanian blood, To pacify th’ immortal maid, They the huge mass with ropes conveyed: Thus the tall bark, into the briny flood Too ponderous to be borne, is rolled along: Till they had lodged it in th’ ill-omened fane Of her to whom we owe our ruined country’s bane. After their toil and festive song, The cloud-wrapped evening spread Her veil o’er each devoted head, Shrill Phrygian voices did resound, And Libya’s flutes accompanied the choir, While nymphs high vaulting from the ground, Mixed their applauses with the chorded lyre, And from each hearth the flames with radiance bright, While heedless warriors slept, dispelled the shades of night. III. Then o’er the genial board, to her who reigns In woodland heights, Diana, child of Jove, I waked the choral strains. But soon there flew a dismal sound Pergamus’ wide streets around: The shrieking infant fondly strove To grasp the border of a mother’s vest, And with uplifted hands its little fears expressed: Mars from his ambush by Minerva’s aid Conspicuous issued and the fray began, Thick gore adown our altars ran, And many a slaughtered youth was laid A headless trunk on the disfigured bed, That Greece might shine with laureate wreaths arrayed, By Troy while fruitless tears are shed. Andromache, Hecuba, Chorus. Chor. Seest thou, Andromache, O queen, this way Advancing, wafted in a foreign car? Eager to cling to the maternal breast Close follows her beloved Astyanax, The son of Hector. Hec. Whither art thou borne, O wretched woman, on a chariot placed ’Midst Hector’s brazen armour, and those spoils From captive Phrygian chiefs in combat torn, With which Achilles’ son from Ilion’s siege Triumphant, will the Phthian temples grace? And. Our Grecian masters drag me hence. Hec. Alas! And. Why with your groans my anguish strive t’ assuage? Hec. Oh! And. I by griefs am compassed—— Hec. Mighty Jove! And. And dread vicissitudes of fate. Hec. My children. And. We once were blest. Hec. Now are those prosperous days No more; and Ilion is no more. And. Most wretched! Hec. My noble sons. And. Alas! Hec. Alas my—— And. Woes. Hec. O piteous fortune—— And. Of the city—— Hec. Wrapt In smoke. And. Return, my husband, O return. Hec. In clamorous accents thou invok’st my son, Whom Pluto’s realms detain, unhappy woman. And. Thy consort’s tutelary power. Hec. And thou, Whose courage long withstood the Grecian host, Thou aged father of our numerous race, Lead me, O Priam, to the shades beneath. And. Presumptuous are such wishes. Hec. We endure These grievous woes. Chor. While ruin overwhelms Our city, for on sorrows have been heaped Fresh sorrows, through the will of angry Heaven, Since in an evil hour thy son was snatched From Pluto, who, determined to avenge Those execrable nuptials, with the ground Hath levelled Pergamus’ beleaguered towers. Near Pallas’ shrine the corses of the slain Weltering in gore to vultures lie exposed, And Ilion droops beneath the servile yoke. Thee, O my wretched country, I with tears Forsake: e’en now thou view’st the piteous end Of all thy woes, and my loved native house. Hec. My children! O my desolated city! Your mother is bereft of every joy. Chor. What shrieks, what plaints resound! what floods of tears Stream in our houses! but the dead forget Their sorrows, and for ever cease to weep. Hec. To those who suffer, what a sweet relief Do tears afford! the sympathetic Muse Inspires their plaints. And. O mother of that chief, Whose forceful javelin thinned the ranks of Greece, Illustrious Hector, seest thou this? Hec. I see The gods delight in raising up the low, And ruining the great. And. Hence with my son, A captive am I hurried; noble birth Subject to these vicissitudes now sinks Into degrading slavery. Hec. Uncontrolled The power of fate: Cassandra from these arms But now with brutal violence was torn! And. A second Ajax to thy daughter seems To have appeared. Yet hast thou other griefs. Hec. All bounds, all numbers they exceed; with ills Fresh ills as for pre-eminence contend. And. Polyxena, thy daughter, at the tomb Of Peleus’ son hath breathed her last, a gift To the deceased. Hec. Wretch that I am, alas! Too clearly now I understand the riddle Which in obscurer terms Talthybius uttered. And. I saw her bleed, and lighting from this car Covered her with the decent shroud and wailed O’er her remains. Hec. Alas! alas! my child To bloody altars dragged by impious hands, Alas! alas! how basely wert thou slain! And. Most dreadfully she perished; yet her lot Who perished is more enviable than mine. Hec. Far different, O my daughter, is the state Of them who live, from them who breathe no more: For the deceased are nothing: but fair hope, While life remains, can never be extinct. And. Thou whom, although I sprung not from thy womb, I deem a mother, to my cheering words With patience listen, they will yield delight To thy afflicted soul. ’Tis the same thing Ne’er to be born, or die; but better far To die, than to live wretched: for no sorrow Affects th’ unconscious tenant of the grave. But he who once was happy, he who falls From fortune’s summit down the vale of woe, With an afflicted spirit wanders o’er The scenes of past delight. In the cold grave, Like one who never saw the blessed sun, Polyxena remembers not her woes. But I who aimed the dextrous shaft, and gained An ample portion of renown, have missed The mark of happiness. In Hector’s house I acted as behoves each virtuous dame. First, whether sland’rous tongues assail or spare The matron’s chastity, an evil name, Her who remains not at her home, pursues: Such vain desires I therefore quelled, I stayed In my own chamber, a domestic life Preferring, and forbore to introduce Vain sentimental language, such as gains Too oft the ear of woman: ’twas enough For me to yield obedience to the voice Of virtue, that best monitor. My lord With placid aspect and a silent tongue I still received, for I that province knew In which I ought to rule, and when to yield Submission to a husband’s will. The fame This conduct gained me, reached the Grecian camp, And proved my ruin: for when I became A captive, Neoptolemus resolved To take me to his bed, and in the house Of murderers I to slavery am consigned. If shaking off my Hector’s loved remembrance To this new husband I my soul incline, I shall appear perfidious to the dead; Or, if I hate Achilles’ son, become Obnoxious to my lords; though some assert That one short night can reconcile th’ aversion Of any woman to the nuptial couch; I scorn that widow, reft of her first lord, Who listens to the voice of love, and weds Another. From her comrade torn, the mare Sustains the yoke reluctant, though a brute Dumb and irrational, by nature formed Subordinate to man: but I in thee Possessed a husband, O my dearest Hector, In wisdom, fortune, and illustrious birth, For me sufficient, great in martial deeds: A spotless virgin-bride, me from the house Of my great father, didst thou first receive; But thou art slain, and I to Greece must sail A captive, and endure the servile yoke! Is not the death of that Polyxena, Whom thou, O Hecuba, bewail’st, an ill More tolerable than those which I endure? For hope, who visits every wretch beside, To me ne’er comes; to me no promised joys Afford a flattering prospect to deceive This anxious bosom; for ’tis sweet to think E’en of ideal bliss. Chor. Thou art involved In the same sufferings, and in plaintive notes Bewailing thy calamity, inform’st me What treatment to expect. Hec. I ne’er did mount A ship, yet I from pictures and report These matters know: amidst a moderate storm, Such as they hope to weather out, the sailors To save themselves, exert a cheerful toil: This to the rudder, to the shattered sails That goes, a third laborious at the pump Draws off the rising waters; but if vanquished By the tempestuous ocean’s rage, they yield To fortune, and consigning to the waves Their vessel, are at random driven along. Thus I am mute beneath unnumbered woes, Nor can this tongue expatiate, for the gods Such torrents pour as drown my feeble voice! But, O my daughter, cease to name the fate Of slaughtered Hector, whom no tears can save. Pay due attention to thy present lord, With amorous glances and a fond compliance Receiving him; act thus, and thou wilt cheer Our friends, and this my grandson educate A bulwark to fallen Ilion, that his race The city may rebuild, and dwell in Troy. But a fresh topic of discourse ensues. What servant of the Greeks do I behold Again draw near, t’ announce some new design? Talthybius, Andromache, Hecuba, Chorus. Tal. O thou who erst wert Hector’s wife, that bravest Of Phrygians, hate me not; for with reluctance Will I the general sentence of the Greeks And Pelops’ progeny, announce. And. What means This evil prelude. Tal. ’Tis decreed thy son— How shall I speak it? And. To a separate lord Shall be consigned? Tal. None of the Grecian chiefs Shall ever o’er Astyanax bear rule. And. Must I leave here, him who alone remains Of all that erst was dear to me in Troy? Tal. Alas! I know not in what terms t’ express The miseries that await thee? And. I commend Such modesty, provided thou canst speak Aught to afford me comfort. Tal. They resolve To slay thy son; thou hear’st my dismal errand. And. Ah me! thou hast unfolded to these ears An evil, greater than my menaced spousals. Tal. By his harangues to the assembled Greeks, Ulysses hath prevailed. And. Alas! alas! Immoderate are the sorrows I endure. Tal. Saying they ought not to train up the son Of that heroic sire. And. May he obtain O’er his own children triumphs great as these! Tal. He from the towers of Ilion must be thrown: But I entreat thee, and thou hence shall seem More prudent, strive not to withhold thy son, But bear thy woes with firmness; nor, though weak, Deem thyself strong; for thou hast no support, And therefore must consider that thy city Is overthrown, thy husband is no more, Thou art reduced to servitude; and we Are strong enough to combat with one woman: O therefore brave not this unequal strife, Stoop not to aught that’s base, nor yet revile, Nor idly scatter curses on thy foes; For if thou utter aught that may provoke The anger of the host, thy son will bleed Unburied and unwept: but if thou bear With silence and composure thy misfortunes, Funereal honours shall adorn his grave, And Greece to thee her lenity extend. And. Thee, O my dearest son, thy foes will slay; Soon art thou doomed to leave thy wretched mother. What saves the lives of others, the renown Of an illustrious sire, to thee will prove The cause of death: by this paternal fame Art thou attended in an evil hour. To me how luckless proved the genial bed, And those espousals, that to Hector’s house First brought me, when I trusted I should bear A son, no victim to the ruthless Greeks, But an illustrious Asiatic king. Weep’st thou, my son? dost thou perceive thy woes? Why cling to me with timid hands? Why seize My garment? thus beneath its mother’s wings The callow bird is sheltered. From the tomb, No Hector brandishing his massive spear Rushes to saves thee; no intrepid kinsman Of thy departed father, nor the might Of Phrygian hosts is here: but from aloof Borne headlong by a miserable leap, Shalt thou pour forth thy latest gasp of life Unpitied. Tender burden in the arms Of thy fond mother! what ambrosial odours Breathed from thy lips? I swathed thee to my breast In vain, I toiled in vain, and wore away My strength with fruitless labours. Yet embrace Thy mother once again; around my neck Entwine thine arms, and give one parting kiss. Ye Greeks, who studiously invent new modes Of unexampled cruelty, why slay This guiltless infant? Helen, O thou daughter Of Tyndarus, never didst thou spring from Jove, But I pronounce thee born of many sires, An evil Genius, Envy, Slaughter, Death, And every evil that from Earth receives Its nourishment; nor dare I to assert That Jove himself begot a pest like thee, Fatal to Greece and each barbarian chief. Perdition overtake thee! for those eyes By their seducing glances have o’erthrown The Phrygian empire. Bear this child away, And cast him from the turrets if ye list, Then banquet on his quivering flesh: the gods Ordain that I shall perish: nor from him Can I repel the stroke of death. Conceal This wretched form from public view, and plunge me In the ship’s hold; for I have lost my son, Such the blest prelude to my nuptial rite. Chor. Thy myriads, hapless Ilion, did expire In combat for one woman, to maintain Paris’ accursed espousals. And. Cease, my child, Fondly to lisp thy wretched mother’s name, Ascend the height of thy paternal towers, Whence ’tis by Greece decreed thy parting breath Shall issue. Take him hence. Aloud proclaim This deed ye merciless: that wretch alone Who never knew the blush of virtuous shame, Your sentence can applaud. [Exeunt Andromache and Talthybius. Hec. O child, thou son Of my unhappy Hector, from thy mother And me thou unexpectedly art torn. What can I do, what help afford? for thee I smite this head, this miserable breast; Thus far my power extends. Alas! thou city, And, O my grandson! is there yet a curse Beyond what we have felt? remains there aught To save us from the yawning gulf of ruin? Chorus. ODE. I. 1. In Salamis’ profound retreat Famed for the luscious treasures of the bee, High raised above th’ encircling sea Thou, Telamon, didst fix thy regal seat; Near to those sacred hills, where spread The olive first its fragrant sprays, To form a garland for Minerva’s head, And the Athenian splendor raise: With the famed archer, with Alcmena’s son Thou cam’st exulting with vindictive joy; By your confederate arms was Ilion won, When from thy Greece thou cam’st our city to destroy. I. 2. Repining for the promised steeds, From Greece Alcides led a chosen band, With hostile prows th’ indented strand He reached, and anchored near fair Simois’ meads; Selected from each ship, he led Those who with dextrous hand could wing Th’ unerring shaft, till slaughter reached thy head, Laomedon, thou perjured king: Those battlements which Phœbus’ self did rear The victor wasted with devouring flame; Twice o’er Troy’s walls hath waved the hostile spear, Twice have insulting shouts announced Dardania’s shame. II. 1. Thou bear’st the sparkling wine in vain With step effeminate, O Phrygian boy, Erewhile didst thou approach with joy To fill the goblet of imperial Jove; For now thy Troy lies levelled with the plain, And its thick smoke ascends the realms above. On th’ echoing coast our plaints we vent, As feathered songsters o’er their young bewail, A child or husband these lament, And those behold their captive mothers sail: The founts where thou didst bathe, th’ athletic sports, Are now no more. Each blooming grace Sheds charms unheeded o’er thy placid face, And thou frequent’st Heaven’s splendid courts. Triumphant Greece hath levelled in the dust The throne where Priam ruled the virtuous and the just. II. 2. With happier auspices, O love. Erst didst thou hover o’er this fruitful plain, Hence caught the gods thy thrilling pain; By thee embellished, Troy’s resplendent towers Reared their proud summits blest by thundering Jove, For our allies were the celestial powers. But I no longer will betray Heaven’s ruler to reproach and biting shame. The white-winged morn, blest source of day, Who cheers the nations with her kindling flame, Beheld these walls demolished, and th’ abode Of that dear prince who shared her bed In fragments o’er the wasted champaign spread: While swift along the starry road, Her golden car his country’s guardian bore: False was each amorous god, and Ilion is no more. Menelaus, Hecuba, Chorus. Men. Hail, O ye solar beams, who on this day, When I my consort Helen shall regain Your radiance shed. For I am he who long Endured the toils of battle, Menelaus, Attended by the Grecian host. To Troy, Not in a woman’s cause, as many deem, I came, but came to punish him who broke The laws of hospitality, and ravished My consort from my palace. He hath suffered As he deserved, such was the will of Heaven, He and his country by the spear of Greece Have been destroyed. But I am come to bear That Spartan dame away, whom with regret I term my consort, though she once was mine. But she beneath these tents is with the rest Of Phrygia’s captives numbered: for the troops Whose arms redeemed her, have to me consigned That I might either take away, or spare Her life, and waft her to the Argive coast. I am resolved that Helen shall not bleed In Troy, but o’er the foaming waves to Greece Will I convey her, and to them whose friends Before yon walls were slain, surrender up To perish by their vengeance. But with speed Enter the tent, thence by that hair defiled With murder, O my followers, drag her forth, And hither bring: for when a prosperous breeze Arises, her will I to Greece convey. Hec. O thou who mov’st the world, and in this earth Hast fixed thy station, whosoe’er thou art, Impervious to our reason, whether thou, O Jove, art dread necessity which rules All nature, or that soul which animates The breasts of mortals, thee do I adore, For in a silent path thou tread’st and guid’st With justice the affairs of man. Men. What means This innovation in the solemn prayer You to the gods address? Hec. I shall applaud The stroke, O Menelaus, if thou slay Thy wife; but soon as thou behold’st her, fly, Lest she with love ensnare thee. For the eyes Of men she captivates, o’erturns whole cities, And fires the roofs of lofty palaces, She is possessed of such resistless charms; Both I and thou and thousands to their cost, Alas! are sensible how great her power. Helen, Menelaus, Hecuba, Chorus. Hel. O Menelaus, this is sure a prelude To greater horrors. For with brutal hands I by your servants from these tents am dragged? Too well I know you hate me, yet would learn, How you and Greece have of my life disposed. Men. Thou by the utmost rigour of the laws Hast not been sentenced; but the host, to me Whom thou hast wronged, consign thee to be slain. Hel. May not I answer to these harsh resolves, That if I bleed, unjustly shall I bleed? Men. I came not hither to debate, but slay thee? Hec. Hear her, nor let her die, O Menelaus, Without this privilege. Me too allow To make reply to her defence; for nought Of the foul deeds, which she in Troy committed Yet know’st thou: if united, the whole tale Must force thee to destroy her, and preclude All means of her escaping. Men. An indulgence Like this supposes leisure to attend; However, if she have a wish to speak, She may: but be assured, that my compliance To your request is owing, for such favour To her I would not grant. Hel. Perhaps with me Whom you account a foe, you will not deign, Whether I seem to utter truth or falsehood, To parley. But to each malignant charge With which, O Hecuba, I know thou com’st Prepared against me, will I make reply, And to o’erbalance all that thou canst urge Produce recriminations. First, she bore Paris, the author of these mischiefs, next Did aged Priam ruin Troy and me, When erst that infant he forbore to slay, That baleful semblance of a flaming torch! Hear what ensued; by Paris were the claims Of the three rival goddesses decided. The gift Minerva proffered; that commanding The Phrygians, he should conquer Greece; while Juno Promised, that he his empire should extend From Asia to remotest Europe’s bounds, If he to her adjudged the golden prize; But Venus, who in rapturous terms extolled My charms, engaged that as the great reward She would on him bestow me; to her beauty If o’er each goddess he the preference gave. Observe the sequel: Venus, o’er Minerva And Juno, gained the triumph; and my nuptials Thus far have been a benefit to Greece; Ye are not subject to barbarian lords, Crushed by invasion, or tyrannic power. But I my ruin owe to what my country Hath found thus advantageous, for my charms To Paris sold, and branded with disgrace, E’en for such deeds as merited a wreath To crown these brows. But you may urge, that all I have alleged is of no real weight, Because by stealth I from your palace fled. Accompanied by no mean goddess, came That evil genius, sprung from Hecuba, Distinguish him by either name you list, Paris or Alexander, in your house, Whom, O delirious, you behind you left, And sailed from Sparta to the Cretan isle. Well, be it so. Of my own heart, not you I in regard to all that hence ensued Will ask the question. What could have induced me, Following that stranger, to forsake my home, False to my native land? impute the guilt To Venus, and assume a power, beyond E’en that of Jove, who rules th’ inferior gods But yields to her behests. My crime was venial; Yet hence you may allege a specious charge Against me; since to earth’s dark vaults the corse Of Paris was consigned, no longer bound Through Heaven’s supreme decree in nuptial chains, I to the Grecian fleet should have escaped From Ilion’s palace; such was my design: This can the guards of Troy’s beleaguered towers, And sentinels who on the walls were stationed, Attest, that oft they caught me, as with ropes By stealth I strove to light upon the ground; But a new husband, fierce Deiphobus, Obtained me for a wife by brutal force, Though every Phrygian disapproved. What law Can sentence me, whom ’gainst my will he wedded, By you, my lord, with justice to be slain? But for the benefits through me derived To Greece, I in the stead of laureate wreaths With slavery am requited. If you wish To overcome the gods’ supreme behests, That very wish were folly. Chor. O my Queen, Assert thy children’s and thy country’s cause, ’Gainst her persuasive language, for she speaks With eloquence, though guilty: curst imposture! Hec. I those three goddesses will first defend, And prove that she has uttered vile untruths: For of such madness ne’er can I suspect Juno and Pallas that immortal maid, As that the first should to barbarian tribes Propose to sell her Argos, or Minerva To make her Athens subject to the Phrygians: Seeking in sportive strife the palm of beauty They came to Ida’s mount. For through what motive Could Juno with such eagerness have wished Her charms might triumph? to obtain a husband Greater than Jove? could Pallas, who besought Her sire she ever might remain a virgin, Propose to wed some deity? Forbear To represent these goddesses as foolish, That thy transgressions may by their example Be justified: thou never canst persuade The wise. Thou hast presumed t’ assert (but this Was a ridiculous pretence) that Venus Came with my son to Menelaus’ house. Could she not calmly have abode in Heaven, Yet wafted thee and all Amycla’s city To Ilion? but the beauty of my son Was great, and thy own heart, when thou beheld’st him Became thy Venus: for whatever folly Prevails, is th’ Aphrodite of mankind: That of Love’s goddess, justly doth commence With the same letters as an idiot’s name. Him didst thou see in a barbaric vest With gold refulgent, and thy wanton heart Was thence inflamed with love, for thou wert poor While yet thou didst reside in Greece; but leaving The Spartan regions, thou didst hope, the city Of Troy, with gold o’erflowing, could support Thy prodigality; for the revenues Of Menelaus far too scanty proved For thy luxuriant appetites: but sayst thou That Paris bore thee thence by force? what Spartan Saw this? or, with what cries didst thou invoke Castor or Pollux, thy immortal brothers, Who yet on earth remained, nor had ascended The starry height? But since thou cam’st to Troy, And hither the confederate troops of Greece Tracing thy steps, began the bloody strife, Whene’er thou heard’st that Menelaus prospered Him didst thou praise, and make my son to grieve That such a mighty rival shared thy love: But if the Trojan army proved victorious, He shrunk into a thing of nought. On Fortune Still didst thou look, still deaf to Virtue’s call Follow her banners: yet dost thou assert That thou by cords hast from the lofty towers In secrecy attempted to descend, As if thou here hadst been constrained to stay? Where then wert thou surprised, or sharpened sword, Or ropes preparing, as each generous dame Who sought her former husband would have done? Oft have I counselled thee in many words: “Depart, O daughter, that my sons may take Brides less obnoxious: thee aboard the ships Of Greece, assisting in thy secret flight, Will I convey. O end the war ’twixt Greece And Ilion.” But to thee was such advice Unwelcome; for with pride thou in the house Of Paris didst behave thyself, and claim The adoration of barbaric tribes, For this was thy great object. But e’en now Thy charms displaying, clad in gorgeous vest Dost thou go forth, still daring to behold That canopy of Heaven which o’erhangs Thy injured husband; thou detested woman! Whom it had suited, if in tattered vest Shivering, with tresses shorn, in Scythian guise Thou hadst appeared, and for transgressions past Deep smitten with remorse, assumed the blush Of virtuous matrons, not that frontless air. O Menelaus! I will now conclude; By slaying her, prepare for Greece the wreaths It merits, and extend to the whole sex This law, that every woman who betrays Her lord shall die. Chor. As that illustrious stem Whence thou deriv’st thy birth, and as thy rank Demand, on thy adulterous wife inflict Just punishment, and purge this foul reproach, This instance of a woman’s lust, from Greece: So shall thy very enemies perceive Thou art magnanimous. Men. Your thoughts concur With mine, that she a willing fugitive My palace left and sought a foreign bed; But speaks of Venus merely to disguise Her infamy!—Away! thou shalt be stoned, And in one instant for the tedious woes Of Greece make full atonement; I will teach thee That thou didst shame me in an evil hour. Hel. I by those knees entreat you, O forbear To slay me, that distraction sent by Heaven To me imputing: but forgive me. Hec. Wrong not Thy partners in the war, whom she hath slain; In theirs, and in my children’s cause, I sue. Men. Desist, thou hoary matron: her entreaties Move not this steadfast bosom. O my followers Attend her, I command you, to the ships Which shall convey her hence. Hec. Let her not enter Thy ship. Men. Is she grown heavier than before? Hec. He never loved who doth not always love, Howe’er the inclinations of the dame He loves may fluctuate. Men. All shall be performed According to thy wish; she shall not enter My bark: for thou hast uttered wholesome counsels: But soon as she in Argos’ lands, with shame, As she deserves, shall she be slain, and warn All women to be chaste. No easy task: Yet shall her ruin startle every child Of folly, though more vicious still than Helen. Chorus. ODE. I. 1. E’en thus by too severe a doom, To Greece, O Jove, hast thou betrayed Our shrines, our altars, dropping rich perfume, The lambent flame that round the victims played, Myrrh’s odorous smoke that mounts the skies, Yon holy citadel, with Ida’s grove Around whose oaks the clasping ivy plies, Where rivulets meandering rove Cold and translucent from the drifted snows; On that high ridge with orient blaze The sun first scatters his enlivening rays, And with celestial flame th’ ecstatic priestess glows. I. 2. Each sacrifice, each pious rite, Hence vanished, with th’ harmonious choirs Whose accents soothed the languid ear of night, While to the gods we waked our sounding lyres; Their golden images no more Twelve times each year, on that revolving eve When shines the full-orbed moon, do we adore. Harassed by anxious fears, I grieve, Oft thinking whether thou, O Jove, wilt deign To listen to our piteous moan, High as thou sitt’st on thy celestial throne; For Troy, by fire consumed, lies level with the plain. II. 1. Thou, O my husband, roam’st a flitting shade, To thee are all funereal rites denied, To thee no lustral drops supplied: But I by the swift bark shall be conveyed Where Argos’ cloud-capped fortress stands, Erected by the Cyclops’ skilful hands. Before our doors assembling children groan, And oft repeat with clamorous moan A mother’s name. Alone shall I be borne Far from thy sight, by the victorious host Of Greece, and leaving Ilion’s coast, O’er ocean’s azure billows sail forlorn, Either to Salamis, that sacred land, Or where the Isthmian summit o’er two seas A wide extended prospect doth command, Seated in Pelops’ straits where Greece the prize decrees. II. 2. Its arduous voyage more than half complete, In the Ægean deep, and near the land, May the red lightning by Jove’s hand Winged from the skies with tenfold ruin, meet The bark that wafts me o’er the wave From Troy to Greece a miserable slave. Before the golden mirror wont to braid Her tresses, like a sportive maid, May Helen never reach the Spartan shore, Those household gods to whom she proved untrue, Nor her paternal mansions view, Enter the streets of Pitane no more, Nor Pallas’ temple with its brazen gate; Because her nuptials teemed with foul disgrace To mighty Greece through each confederate state; And hence on Simois’ banks were slain Troy’s guiltless race. But ha! on this devoted realm are hurled Successive woes. Ye hapless Phrygian dames, Behold the slain Astyanax, whom Greece With rage inhuman from yon towers hath thrown. Talthybius, Hecuba, Chorus. The Body of Astyanax borne in upon a Shield. Tal. O Hecuba, one ship is left behind To carry the remainder of the spoils Which to Achilles’ son have been adjudged, To Phthia’s coast. For Neoptolemus, Hearing that recent evils hath befall’n His grandsire Peleus, and that Pelias’ son Acastus hath expelled him from his realm, Already hath departed with such speed As would admit of no delay: with him Andromache is gone, for whom I shed A stream of tears, when from the land she went Wailing her country, and to Hector’s tomb Her plaints addressing: the victorious chief Hath she entreated, to allow the corse Of your unhappy Hector’s son, who perished From Ilion’s ramparts thrown, to be interred, Nor bear this shield, the terror of the Greeks, With brass refulgent, which his father placed Before his flank in battle, to the house Of Peleus; nor to that ill-omened chamber Where spousals dire on her arrival wait The mother of the slain; for such an object Must grieve her to behold: but in the stead Of cedar and the monumental stone, Bury the child in this: for she the corse Hath to your arms consigned, that you may grace it With many a fragrant garland, and with vests Such as your present fortunes will afford. For she has sailed, and through his haste her lord Prevented her from lodging in the grave Her son. While thus you his remains adorn We will mark out the spot, and with our spears Dig up the ground. Without delay perform These duties: I one task to you most irksome Have rendered needless: for I laved the body, And cleansed the wounds as o’er Scamander’s stream I passed. But to prepare for the deceased A tomb, I go, that with united toil When this we have accomplished, they may steer Our vessel homeward. [Exit Talthybius. Hec. Place that orbed shield Of Hector on the ground, a spectacle Most piteous, and unwelcome to these eyes. How, O ye Greeks, whose abject souls belie Your brave achievements, trembling at a child, Could ye commit this unexampled murder, Lest at some future time he should rebuild The walls of Ilion? Ye inhuman cowards! Our ruin from that fatal hour we date When Hector with unnumbered heroes fell. But having sacked our city, and destroyed Each Phrygian warrior, feared ye such an infant The dastard I abhor who meanly shrinks Through groundless panic. O for ever loved, By what a piteous fate didst thou expire! Hadst thou, the champion of thy country, died, In riper years, when married, and endued With power scarce second to th’ immortal gods, Thou hadst been blest, if aught on earth deserves The name of bliss. But thou, my son, beheld’st And hadst a distant knowledge of these joys, Which thou didst ne’er experience: for to thee The treasures which the palaces of Troy Contained, proved useless. O unhappy youth, How wert thou hurled from thy paternal walls Reared by Apollo’s hand; and through those ringlets, Which oft thy mother smoothed and kissed, the gore Bursts from thy fractured skull: but let me waive So horrid a description. O ye hands, How in your fingers do ye still retain A pleasing sad remembrance of your sire, Or why do ye lie motionless before me? Dear mouth, full many a babbling accent wont To utter, art thou closed by death? Thy voice Deceived me erst, when clinging to these garments, “O mother,” oft didst thou exclaim, “the hair Shorn from my brows to thee I will devote, Lead round thy tomb my comrades, and address Thy hovering ghost in many a plaintive strain.” Now not to me, alas! dost thou perform These duteous offices, but I, bowed down With age, an exile, of my children reft, Must bury the disfigured corse of thee A tender infant. These unnumbered kisses, My cares in nurturing thee, and broken sleep, Proved fruitless. What inscription can the bard Place o’er thy sepulchre? “The Greeks who feared This infant, slew him!” Such an epitaph Would shame them. As for thee who hast obtained Nought of thy wealth paternal, yet this shield In which thou shalt be buried will be thine. O brazen orb, which erst wert wont to guard The nervous arm of Hector, thou hast lost Thy best possessor: in thy concave circle How is that hero’s shape impressed; it bears Marks of that sweat which dropped from Hector’s brow, Wearied with toil, when ’gainst thy edge he leaned His cheek. Hence carry, to adorn the corse, Whate’er our present station will afford, For such the fortunes which Jove grants us now As splendour suits not: yet accept these gifts Out of the little I possess. An idiot Is he, who thinking himself blest, exults As if his joys were stable: like a man Smitten with frenzy, changeful fortune bounds Inconstant in her course, now here, now there, Nor is there any one who leads a life Of bliss uninterrupted. Chor. All is ready: For from the spoils yon Phrygian matrons bear Trappings to grace the dead. Hec. On thee, my son, Not as a victor who with rapid steeds Didst ever reach the goal, or wing the shaft With surer aim, an exercise revered By each unwearied Phrygian youth, thy grandame Places these ornaments which erst were thine: But now hath Helen, by the gods abhorred, Stripped thee of all thou didst possess, and caused Thy murder, and the ruin of our house. Chor. Alas! thou hast transpierced my inmost soul, O thou, whom I expected to have seen Troy’s mighty ruler. Hec. But I now enwrap Thy body with the vest thou shouldst have worn At Hymen’s festive rites, in wedlock joined With Asia’s noblest princess. But, O source Of triumphs numberless, dear shield of Hector, Accept these laureate wreaths: for though by death Thou canst not be affected, thou shalt lie Joined with this corse in death; since thou deserv’st More honourable treatment, than the arms Of crafty and malignant Ithacus. Chor. Thee, much lamented youth, shall earth receive. Now groan, thou wretched mother. Hec. Oh! Chor. Commence Those wailings which are uttered o’er the dead. Hec. Ah me! Chor. Alas! too grievous are thy woes To be endured. Hec. These fillets o’er thy wounds I bind, and exercise the healing art In name and semblance only, but, alas! Not in reality. Whate’er remains Unfinished, ’mid the shades beneath, to thee With tender care thy father will supply. Chor. Smite with thy hand thy miserable head Till it resound. Alas! Hec. My dearest comrades. Chor. Speak to thy friends; O Hecuba, what plaints Hast thou to utter? Hec. Nought but woe for me Was by the gods reserved; beyond all cities To them hath Troy been odious. We in vain Have offered sacrifice. But had not Jove O’erthrown and plunged us in the shades beneath, We had remained obscure, we by the Muse Had ne’er been sung, nor ever furnished themes To future bards. But for this hapless youth Go and prepare a grave; for the deceased Is with funereal wreaths already crowned: Although these pomps, I deem, are to the dead Of little consequence; an empty pride They in the living serve but to display. Chor. Thy wretched mother on thy vital thread Had stretched forth mighty hopes: though styled most happy From thy illustrious birth, thou by a death Most horrid didst expire. Hec. Ha! who are these Whom I behold, in their victorious hands Waving those torches o’er the roofs of Troy? E’en now o’er Ilion some fresh woes impend. Talthybius, Hecuba, Chorus. Tal. To you I speak, O leaders of the troops Who are ordained to burn this town of Priam. No longer in your hands without effect Reserve those blazing torches: but hurl flames On this devoted city, for when Troy Is utterly demolished, we shall leave Its hated shores, exulting. But to you, O Phrygians, I the same behests address; When the shrill trumpet of our chief resounds, Ye to the Grecian navy must repair And from these regions sail. But as for thee, Thou aged and most miserable dame, Follow their steps who from Ulysses come. To whom thy fate consigns thee for a slave Far from thy country in a foreign land. Hec. Ah, wretched me! this surely is the last, The dire completion this, of all my woes. I leave my country: Ilion’s bulwarks flame. Yet, O decrepit feet, with painful haste Bear me along, that I may bid adieu To my unhappy city. Thou, O Troy, Distinguished erst among barbarian tribes By thy superior prowess, soon shalt lose The most illustrious name thou didst acquire: Thee will the flames consume, and us our foes Drag from our home to slavery. O ye gods! Upon the gods yet wherefore should I call? For when we erst invoked them oft, they heard not. Come on, and let us rush amid the flames: For in the ruins of my blazing country ’Twill be to me most glorious to expire. Tal. Thy griefs, O wretched woman, make thee frantic. But lead her hence, neglect not. For Ulysses Obtained this prize, and she to him must go. Hec. O dread Saturnian king, from whom the Phrygians Derive their origin, dost thou behold Our sufferings, most unworthy of the race Of Dardanus? Chor. He surely doth behold: But this great city, city now no more, Is ruined: nought remains of Troy. Hec. The blaze Of Ilion glares, the fire hath caught the roofs, The streets of Pergamus, and crashing towers. Chor. As the light smoke on rapid wing ascends To heaven, how swiftly vanishes fallen Troy! Torrents of flame have laid the palace waste, And o’er its summit waves the hostile spear. Hec. O fostering soil, that gave my children birth. Chor. Alas! alas! Hec. Yet hear me, O my sons, Your mother’s voice distinguish. Chor. With loud plaints Thou call’st upon the dead, those aged limbs Stretched on the ground, and scraping up the dust With either hand. I follow thy example Kneeling on earth’s cold bosom, and invoke My wretched husband in the shades beneath. Hec. We forcibly are borne—— Chor. Most doleful sound! Hec. To servile roofs. Chor. From my dear native land. Hec. Slain, uninterred, abandoned by thy friends, Thou sure, O Priam, know’st not what I suffer. For sable death hath closed thine eyes for ever; Though pious, thou by impious hands wert murdered. O ye polluted temples of the gods, And thou my dearest city. Chor. Ye, alas! Are by the deadly flame and pointed spear Now occupied, on this beloved soil Soon shall you lie a heap of nameless ruins: For dust, which mixed with smoke, to Heaven ascends, No longer will permit me to discern Where erst my habitation stood: the land Loses its very name, and each memorial Of pristine grandeur; wretched Troy’s no more. Hec. Ye know the fatal truth, ye heard the crash Of falling towers. Our city to its basis Is shaken. O ye trembling, trembling limbs, Support my steps! Tal. Depart to end thy days In servitude. Alas! thou wretched city! Yet to the navy of the Greeks proceed.