It is the quiet hour, when weary DayWhispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear,And my lone soul is wandering awayTo blissful scenes that are no longer near;And well-known faces seem to smile again,And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay,As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train,We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way.Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay!Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last!Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the layThat rose spontaneous in the joyous past!Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain,Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”
It is the quiet hour, when weary DayWhispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear,And my lone soul is wandering awayTo blissful scenes that are no longer near;And well-known faces seem to smile again,And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay,As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train,We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way.Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay!Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last!Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the layThat rose spontaneous in the joyous past!Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain,Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”
It is the quiet hour, when weary DayWhispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear,And my lone soul is wandering awayTo blissful scenes that are no longer near;And well-known faces seem to smile again,And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay,As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train,We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way.Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay!Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last!Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the layThat rose spontaneous in the joyous past!Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain,Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”
Thus, having done his duty to his godsAnd to his country, Hector sought his home,Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.But her whom his soul loved he found not there,Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,Unto a tower that faced the Grecian campHad gone to watch and weep. So Hector pausedUpon the threshold, as he left the house,And made enquiry of the household maids:“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”A trusty servant quickly made response:“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lipsShall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears,Has gone Andromache; but she has goneUnto a lofty tower of IlionTo watch the contest, for bad tidings cameOf Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;And at this moment, like a frenzied one,She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushedForth from the house, along the very wayThat he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).But here Andromache of queenly dower,His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,Came running till she met him in the way.With her, the nurse, who to her bosom heldAn innocent-hearted babe, their only son,His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,Scamandrius named by Hector, but the hostCalled him Astyanax, the City’s King,Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.And now he looked on him, and smiled a smileThat spake his heart more than a thousand words,And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,And, seeking glory, thou forgettesthimAnd me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.And, when I miss thee, it were better farThat I were laid beneath the ground: for IShall then have none to comfort me, not one,But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,And razed his fair-built city to the ground.High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,Although he slew him, but, with reverence,Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,And raised a mound in honour of his name,Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,As, in their native fields, they watched the herdsOf kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.Nor did my queenly mother long survive,For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,With other spoils, the victor sent her home,For goodly ransom, only to be slainBy the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to makeThy child an orphan and a widow me!But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,And where the wall is weakest. At that pointAlready have the bravest of our foes—Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,Whether incited thither by some voiceProphetic, or high hope of victory.So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefsAnd stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,I skulked from battle in my country’s need?Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,To struggle for the honour of my sireAnd for my own. Although too well I knowThe day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,And Priam and his war-like hosts, who wellCan wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!But not the woes of my brave countrymen,Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall endThy days of freedom, leading thee awayIn tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thouMay’st tend another’s loom or water drawFrom Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:‘Shewas the wife of Hector, who excelledIn fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’And thy poor heart will ache with vain regretFor him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyesFrom looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”So spake the noble Hector, and his armsExtended to receive his son; butheShrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,His brazen armour and the horse-hair crestAbove his helmet nodding fearfully.And Hector took the helmet off his headAnd laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayedTo Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grantThat this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,And may he truly be the City’s King!And may men say of him, as he returnsFrom war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’May he from war-like men take gory spoils,And may his mother glory in his might!”Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the armsOf his dear wife he placed the little child.She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soulWas touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,And called her by her name: “Andromache,My love, fret not thyself too much for me!No man descends to Hades ere his time,And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.But, love, returning home, apply thyselfTo household duties, and thy handmaidensDespatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.For war must be the business of men,And of all men that have been born in Troy,This war has need of none so much as me.”Thus having spoken, noble Hector placedThe waving helmet on his head again.And, silently, Andromache returned(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they saidThey knew that he would never more return,Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
Thus, having done his duty to his godsAnd to his country, Hector sought his home,Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.But her whom his soul loved he found not there,Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,Unto a tower that faced the Grecian campHad gone to watch and weep. So Hector pausedUpon the threshold, as he left the house,And made enquiry of the household maids:“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”A trusty servant quickly made response:“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lipsShall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears,Has gone Andromache; but she has goneUnto a lofty tower of IlionTo watch the contest, for bad tidings cameOf Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;And at this moment, like a frenzied one,She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushedForth from the house, along the very wayThat he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).But here Andromache of queenly dower,His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,Came running till she met him in the way.With her, the nurse, who to her bosom heldAn innocent-hearted babe, their only son,His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,Scamandrius named by Hector, but the hostCalled him Astyanax, the City’s King,Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.And now he looked on him, and smiled a smileThat spake his heart more than a thousand words,And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,And, seeking glory, thou forgettesthimAnd me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.And, when I miss thee, it were better farThat I were laid beneath the ground: for IShall then have none to comfort me, not one,But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,And razed his fair-built city to the ground.High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,Although he slew him, but, with reverence,Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,And raised a mound in honour of his name,Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,As, in their native fields, they watched the herdsOf kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.Nor did my queenly mother long survive,For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,With other spoils, the victor sent her home,For goodly ransom, only to be slainBy the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to makeThy child an orphan and a widow me!But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,And where the wall is weakest. At that pointAlready have the bravest of our foes—Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,Whether incited thither by some voiceProphetic, or high hope of victory.So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefsAnd stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,I skulked from battle in my country’s need?Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,To struggle for the honour of my sireAnd for my own. Although too well I knowThe day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,And Priam and his war-like hosts, who wellCan wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!But not the woes of my brave countrymen,Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall endThy days of freedom, leading thee awayIn tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thouMay’st tend another’s loom or water drawFrom Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:‘Shewas the wife of Hector, who excelledIn fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’And thy poor heart will ache with vain regretFor him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyesFrom looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”So spake the noble Hector, and his armsExtended to receive his son; butheShrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,His brazen armour and the horse-hair crestAbove his helmet nodding fearfully.And Hector took the helmet off his headAnd laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayedTo Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grantThat this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,And may he truly be the City’s King!And may men say of him, as he returnsFrom war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’May he from war-like men take gory spoils,And may his mother glory in his might!”Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the armsOf his dear wife he placed the little child.She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soulWas touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,And called her by her name: “Andromache,My love, fret not thyself too much for me!No man descends to Hades ere his time,And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.But, love, returning home, apply thyselfTo household duties, and thy handmaidensDespatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.For war must be the business of men,And of all men that have been born in Troy,This war has need of none so much as me.”Thus having spoken, noble Hector placedThe waving helmet on his head again.And, silently, Andromache returned(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they saidThey knew that he would never more return,Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
Thus, having done his duty to his godsAnd to his country, Hector sought his home,Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.But her whom his soul loved he found not there,Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,Unto a tower that faced the Grecian campHad gone to watch and weep. So Hector pausedUpon the threshold, as he left the house,And made enquiry of the household maids:“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”A trusty servant quickly made response:“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lipsShall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowdOf matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrathTo turn to mercy by the strength of tears,Has gone Andromache; but she has goneUnto a lofty tower of IlionTo watch the contest, for bad tidings cameOf Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;And at this moment, like a frenzied one,She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”
She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushedForth from the house, along the very wayThat he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).But here Andromache of queenly dower,His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,Came running till she met him in the way.With her, the nurse, who to her bosom heldAn innocent-hearted babe, their only son,His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,Scamandrius named by Hector, but the hostCalled him Astyanax, the City’s King,Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.And now he looked on him, and smiled a smileThat spake his heart more than a thousand words,And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,And, seeking glory, thou forgettesthimAnd me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.And, when I miss thee, it were better farThat I were laid beneath the ground: for IShall then have none to comfort me, not one,But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,And razed his fair-built city to the ground.High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,Although he slew him, but, with reverence,Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,And raised a mound in honour of his name,Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,As, in their native fields, they watched the herdsOf kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.Nor did my queenly mother long survive,For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,With other spoils, the victor sent her home,For goodly ransom, only to be slainBy the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to makeThy child an orphan and a widow me!But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,And where the wall is weakest. At that pointAlready have the bravest of our foes—Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,Whether incited thither by some voiceProphetic, or high hope of victory.So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”
Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefsAnd stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,I skulked from battle in my country’s need?Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,To struggle for the honour of my sireAnd for my own. Although too well I knowThe day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,And Priam and his war-like hosts, who wellCan wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!But not the woes of my brave countrymen,Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall endThy days of freedom, leading thee awayIn tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thouMay’st tend another’s loom or water drawFrom Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:‘Shewas the wife of Hector, who excelledIn fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’And thy poor heart will ache with vain regretFor him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyesFrom looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”
So spake the noble Hector, and his armsExtended to receive his son; butheShrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,His brazen armour and the horse-hair crestAbove his helmet nodding fearfully.And Hector took the helmet off his headAnd laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayedTo Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grantThat this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,And may he truly be the City’s King!And may men say of him, as he returnsFrom war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’May he from war-like men take gory spoils,And may his mother glory in his might!”
Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the armsOf his dear wife he placed the little child.She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soulWas touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,And called her by her name: “Andromache,My love, fret not thyself too much for me!No man descends to Hades ere his time,And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.But, love, returning home, apply thyselfTo household duties, and thy handmaidensDespatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.For war must be the business of men,And of all men that have been born in Troy,This war has need of none so much as me.”Thus having spoken, noble Hector placedThe waving helmet on his head again.And, silently, Andromache returned(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.
And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they saidThey knew that he would never more return,Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
But she whom he had loved, Andromache,Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had comeTo tell her of his stay without the walls.She in the lofty palace sat retiredWithin her chamber, working at the loom,—Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowersEmbroidered.But, as she her fair-haired maidsEnjoined to place upon the blazing fireThe spacious caldron, that the soothing bathMight be for Hector ready when he cameHome from the battle, knowing not that he,Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding layBeneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the soundOf weeping and of wailing on the walls;And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fellUpon the ground.Then cried she to her maids:“Come, quickly, follow me, that we may seeWhat thing has happened, for I surely heardMy mother’s voice. My heart within my breastBounds to my lips,—my knees are stiff with fear,—And—oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house.Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ sonHas severed my brave Hector from the town,And drives him to the plain; and soon his lifeWill be the forfeit of his manly rage.Never would he abide amid the crowd,But must be ever foremost in the war,—In valour without peer.”She said, and flewForth from the palace, like a frenzied one,With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her.But when she reached the tower, amid the throng,She stood upon the wall, and gazed around,Until she saw her Hector dragged alongWith foul dishonour by the prancing steedsTowards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight,Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes.Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fallThe ornaments that bound her captive hair,Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil,And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift,What day brave Hector led AndromacheForth from her father’s house, Eëtion.Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle careReceived her sinking form, and by her sideWaited in fear lest she should wake no more.But when, at last, the parted life returnedAnd the full sense of misery, she weptAmong her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs,Called Hector’s name:“Ah, wretched me! my Hector,Surely a cruel fate has followed usSince we were born,—thou, in this city, Troy,In Priam’s palace,—I, in far-off Thebes,Where Placus rears on high his woody crest,The hapless daughter of a hapless king!Oh! would that I had never seen the sun!For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abodeThou hast descended, leaving me alone,A mournful widow in thy empty halls.And he who was his hapless parents’ pride,Our infant son, shall see thy face no more,Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes,Since thine are closed in death.Unhappy boy!If even he escape the Grecian sword,Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot,And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,—The woful day of orphanage has madeHis life all friendless and companionless,—The constant prey of grief, upon his cheekThe tears shall never dry,—and he must begWith suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests,Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed.His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry needBoth parents well supply, with cruel handsThrusting him from the feast, will rudely say:‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’Then to his widowed mother, all in tears,My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax,Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee,Shared in the choicest titbits of the board;And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased,Lulled by his tender nurse, his little headReposed on downy pillow, and his cheekGlowed with the silent pleasure of his heart.Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone,Whose valour won his name Astyanax,‘The City’s King,’—for Hector was of Troy,Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence.And thou, my Hector, liest all uncladFar from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,—Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,—While in thy desert halls neglected lieThe soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee,Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught.These now must only deck thy funeral pyre,In mournful honour to thy cherished name—The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around,The listening chorus of her maidens wept.
But she whom he had loved, Andromache,Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had comeTo tell her of his stay without the walls.She in the lofty palace sat retiredWithin her chamber, working at the loom,—Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowersEmbroidered.But, as she her fair-haired maidsEnjoined to place upon the blazing fireThe spacious caldron, that the soothing bathMight be for Hector ready when he cameHome from the battle, knowing not that he,Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding layBeneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the soundOf weeping and of wailing on the walls;And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fellUpon the ground.Then cried she to her maids:“Come, quickly, follow me, that we may seeWhat thing has happened, for I surely heardMy mother’s voice. My heart within my breastBounds to my lips,—my knees are stiff with fear,—And—oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house.Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ sonHas severed my brave Hector from the town,And drives him to the plain; and soon his lifeWill be the forfeit of his manly rage.Never would he abide amid the crowd,But must be ever foremost in the war,—In valour without peer.”She said, and flewForth from the palace, like a frenzied one,With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her.But when she reached the tower, amid the throng,She stood upon the wall, and gazed around,Until she saw her Hector dragged alongWith foul dishonour by the prancing steedsTowards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight,Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes.Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fallThe ornaments that bound her captive hair,Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil,And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift,What day brave Hector led AndromacheForth from her father’s house, Eëtion.Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle careReceived her sinking form, and by her sideWaited in fear lest she should wake no more.But when, at last, the parted life returnedAnd the full sense of misery, she weptAmong her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs,Called Hector’s name:“Ah, wretched me! my Hector,Surely a cruel fate has followed usSince we were born,—thou, in this city, Troy,In Priam’s palace,—I, in far-off Thebes,Where Placus rears on high his woody crest,The hapless daughter of a hapless king!Oh! would that I had never seen the sun!For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abodeThou hast descended, leaving me alone,A mournful widow in thy empty halls.And he who was his hapless parents’ pride,Our infant son, shall see thy face no more,Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes,Since thine are closed in death.Unhappy boy!If even he escape the Grecian sword,Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot,And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,—The woful day of orphanage has madeHis life all friendless and companionless,—The constant prey of grief, upon his cheekThe tears shall never dry,—and he must begWith suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests,Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed.His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry needBoth parents well supply, with cruel handsThrusting him from the feast, will rudely say:‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’Then to his widowed mother, all in tears,My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax,Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee,Shared in the choicest titbits of the board;And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased,Lulled by his tender nurse, his little headReposed on downy pillow, and his cheekGlowed with the silent pleasure of his heart.Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone,Whose valour won his name Astyanax,‘The City’s King,’—for Hector was of Troy,Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence.And thou, my Hector, liest all uncladFar from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,—Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,—While in thy desert halls neglected lieThe soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee,Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught.These now must only deck thy funeral pyre,In mournful honour to thy cherished name—The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around,The listening chorus of her maidens wept.
But she whom he had loved, Andromache,Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had comeTo tell her of his stay without the walls.She in the lofty palace sat retiredWithin her chamber, working at the loom,—Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowersEmbroidered.But, as she her fair-haired maidsEnjoined to place upon the blazing fireThe spacious caldron, that the soothing bathMight be for Hector ready when he cameHome from the battle, knowing not that he,Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding layBeneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the soundOf weeping and of wailing on the walls;And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fellUpon the ground.Then cried she to her maids:“Come, quickly, follow me, that we may seeWhat thing has happened, for I surely heardMy mother’s voice. My heart within my breastBounds to my lips,—my knees are stiff with fear,—And—oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house.Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ sonHas severed my brave Hector from the town,And drives him to the plain; and soon his lifeWill be the forfeit of his manly rage.Never would he abide amid the crowd,But must be ever foremost in the war,—In valour without peer.”She said, and flewForth from the palace, like a frenzied one,With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her.But when she reached the tower, amid the throng,She stood upon the wall, and gazed around,Until she saw her Hector dragged alongWith foul dishonour by the prancing steedsTowards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight,Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes.Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fallThe ornaments that bound her captive hair,Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil,And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift,What day brave Hector led AndromacheForth from her father’s house, Eëtion.Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle careReceived her sinking form, and by her sideWaited in fear lest she should wake no more.But when, at last, the parted life returnedAnd the full sense of misery, she weptAmong her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs,Called Hector’s name:“Ah, wretched me! my Hector,Surely a cruel fate has followed usSince we were born,—thou, in this city, Troy,In Priam’s palace,—I, in far-off Thebes,Where Placus rears on high his woody crest,The hapless daughter of a hapless king!Oh! would that I had never seen the sun!For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abodeThou hast descended, leaving me alone,A mournful widow in thy empty halls.And he who was his hapless parents’ pride,Our infant son, shall see thy face no more,Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes,Since thine are closed in death.Unhappy boy!If even he escape the Grecian sword,Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot,And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,—The woful day of orphanage has madeHis life all friendless and companionless,—The constant prey of grief, upon his cheekThe tears shall never dry,—and he must begWith suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests,Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed.His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry needBoth parents well supply, with cruel handsThrusting him from the feast, will rudely say:‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’Then to his widowed mother, all in tears,My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax,Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee,Shared in the choicest titbits of the board;And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased,Lulled by his tender nurse, his little headReposed on downy pillow, and his cheekGlowed with the silent pleasure of his heart.Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone,Whose valour won his name Astyanax,‘The City’s King,’—for Hector was of Troy,Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence.And thou, my Hector, liest all uncladFar from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,—Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,—While in thy desert halls neglected lieThe soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee,Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught.These now must only deck thy funeral pyre,In mournful honour to thy cherished name—The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”
Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around,The listening chorus of her maidens wept.
Chorus and Clytemnestra.
Cl.—Word of joy this morning bringsFrom the bosom of the night,Higher joy than Hope’s gay wingsCircled in her farthest flight!Troy is taken, Troy is fallenBy the victor Argive’s might!Ch.—Troy has fallen dost thou tell me?Have I heard thy words aright?Cl.—Hearken! I repeat the words,—Troy is held by Grecian lords.Ch.—Ah! what gladness fills my heart,And my tears with rapture start!Cl.—Yes, thine eyes thy feeling shew.Ch.—This by what proof dost thou know?Cl.—The gods, that never would deceive,Brought these tidings.Ch.—Dost believeIn the fickle shapes of dreams?Cl.—Nay; the dozings of the mindLeave in me no trace behind.Ch.—Some wild rumour, then, meseems?Cl.—Dost thou think me but a child,Thus and thus to be beguiled?Ch.—How long, then, is it since proud Ilion fell?Cl.—Since but the night that bore this morning’s light.Ch.—And who this message hither brought so well?Cl.—Hephæstus, sending forth his beacon brightFrom Ida’s summit; then, from height to heightWith blaze successive, beacon kindling beacon,Bore us the tidings. Ida glanced it forthTo Lemnos, even to th’ Hermæan rock;And next steep Athos, dear to Zeus, receivedFrom Lemnos the bright flame, which, in its strengthJoyous, pursued its onward course, and flewO’er the broad shoulders of Oceanus,Giving its gleams all-golden, like the sun,To those that on Makistos kept high watch.Nor dallying he, nor won by ill-timed sleep,Assumed his part of messenger; and farOver Euripus speeds the signal flame,Telling their tasks to the Messapian guards,Who answered with a blaze that straightway litThe heather on old Graia’s mountain-tops.Then in full-gleaming strength, like a fair moon,The beacon-light shot o’er Asopus plain,And lit with answering fire Cithæron’s cliff,Whose emulous watch made brighter still the blaze.Thence darted on the fiery messengerOver Gorgopis lake and up the sidesOf Ægiplanctus, whence (the waiting wardsHeaping no niggard pile), a beard-like flameStreamed onward till it touched the cliff that spiesThe billows of the blue Saronic sea;But paused not in its course, until it reachedThe heights of Arachnæum, over there.And thence it strikes upon these palace-roofs,—Far offspring of the light of fallen Troy.
Cl.—Word of joy this morning bringsFrom the bosom of the night,Higher joy than Hope’s gay wingsCircled in her farthest flight!Troy is taken, Troy is fallenBy the victor Argive’s might!Ch.—Troy has fallen dost thou tell me?Have I heard thy words aright?Cl.—Hearken! I repeat the words,—Troy is held by Grecian lords.Ch.—Ah! what gladness fills my heart,And my tears with rapture start!Cl.—Yes, thine eyes thy feeling shew.Ch.—This by what proof dost thou know?Cl.—The gods, that never would deceive,Brought these tidings.Ch.—Dost believeIn the fickle shapes of dreams?Cl.—Nay; the dozings of the mindLeave in me no trace behind.Ch.—Some wild rumour, then, meseems?Cl.—Dost thou think me but a child,Thus and thus to be beguiled?Ch.—How long, then, is it since proud Ilion fell?Cl.—Since but the night that bore this morning’s light.Ch.—And who this message hither brought so well?Cl.—Hephæstus, sending forth his beacon brightFrom Ida’s summit; then, from height to heightWith blaze successive, beacon kindling beacon,Bore us the tidings. Ida glanced it forthTo Lemnos, even to th’ Hermæan rock;And next steep Athos, dear to Zeus, receivedFrom Lemnos the bright flame, which, in its strengthJoyous, pursued its onward course, and flewO’er the broad shoulders of Oceanus,Giving its gleams all-golden, like the sun,To those that on Makistos kept high watch.Nor dallying he, nor won by ill-timed sleep,Assumed his part of messenger; and farOver Euripus speeds the signal flame,Telling their tasks to the Messapian guards,Who answered with a blaze that straightway litThe heather on old Graia’s mountain-tops.Then in full-gleaming strength, like a fair moon,The beacon-light shot o’er Asopus plain,And lit with answering fire Cithæron’s cliff,Whose emulous watch made brighter still the blaze.Thence darted on the fiery messengerOver Gorgopis lake and up the sidesOf Ægiplanctus, whence (the waiting wardsHeaping no niggard pile), a beard-like flameStreamed onward till it touched the cliff that spiesThe billows of the blue Saronic sea;But paused not in its course, until it reachedThe heights of Arachnæum, over there.And thence it strikes upon these palace-roofs,—Far offspring of the light of fallen Troy.
Cl.—Word of joy this morning bringsFrom the bosom of the night,Higher joy than Hope’s gay wingsCircled in her farthest flight!Troy is taken, Troy is fallenBy the victor Argive’s might!
Ch.—Troy has fallen dost thou tell me?Have I heard thy words aright?
Cl.—Hearken! I repeat the words,—Troy is held by Grecian lords.
Ch.—Ah! what gladness fills my heart,And my tears with rapture start!
Cl.—Yes, thine eyes thy feeling shew.
Ch.—This by what proof dost thou know?
Cl.—The gods, that never would deceive,Brought these tidings.
Ch.—Dost believeIn the fickle shapes of dreams?
Cl.—Nay; the dozings of the mindLeave in me no trace behind.
Ch.—Some wild rumour, then, meseems?
Cl.—Dost thou think me but a child,Thus and thus to be beguiled?
Ch.—How long, then, is it since proud Ilion fell?
Cl.—Since but the night that bore this morning’s light.
Ch.—And who this message hither brought so well?
Cl.—Hephæstus, sending forth his beacon brightFrom Ida’s summit; then, from height to heightWith blaze successive, beacon kindling beacon,Bore us the tidings. Ida glanced it forthTo Lemnos, even to th’ Hermæan rock;And next steep Athos, dear to Zeus, receivedFrom Lemnos the bright flame, which, in its strengthJoyous, pursued its onward course, and flewO’er the broad shoulders of Oceanus,Giving its gleams all-golden, like the sun,To those that on Makistos kept high watch.Nor dallying he, nor won by ill-timed sleep,Assumed his part of messenger; and farOver Euripus speeds the signal flame,Telling their tasks to the Messapian guards,Who answered with a blaze that straightway litThe heather on old Graia’s mountain-tops.Then in full-gleaming strength, like a fair moon,The beacon-light shot o’er Asopus plain,And lit with answering fire Cithæron’s cliff,Whose emulous watch made brighter still the blaze.Thence darted on the fiery messengerOver Gorgopis lake and up the sidesOf Ægiplanctus, whence (the waiting wardsHeaping no niggard pile), a beard-like flameStreamed onward till it touched the cliff that spiesThe billows of the blue Saronic sea;But paused not in its course, until it reachedThe heights of Arachnæum, over there.And thence it strikes upon these palace-roofs,—Far offspring of the light of fallen Troy.
Priam, the King, to the tower where he sat called the beautiful Helen:“Hither, my daughter, approach and sit by me here on this tower,Whence thou mayest see the spouse of thy youth, thy friends and thy kindred.Thou knowest I never blamed thee; I blame the gods of Olympus,Who excited this war of sorrows and tears without number.Come, Helen, sit by my side, and tell me the name of yon hero,Mighty and stately in mien. Though others around him are taller,One of such beauty as his and of so majestic a bearingI have never beheld. If he is not a king he is kingly.”Then Helen, fairest of women, answered the King: “O my father,Father of Paris, by me thou art loved and revered and respected!Would that an evil death had been my lot when I followedHither thy son, Alexander, leaving my husband behind me,Kinsmen, too, and sweet daughter, and friends that I knew since my childhood!’Twas not allowed me to die—so I pine away slowly with weeping.But thou awaitest reply: thou seest the great Agamemnon,Wide-ruling king, as thou saidst, and a warrior valiant and skilful;Once he was a brother to me—oh, shame!—in the days that have vanished!”Then, as a hero a hero, the old man admired Agamemnon:“Happy art thou, Atrides, in birth, and in name, and in fortune;Many are under thy sway—the flower of the sons of Achæa.Once into vine-bearing Phrygia I entered, and saw many PhrygiansRiding swift steeds, the forces of Otreus and Mygdon, the godlike,Who, with me for an ally, encamped by the banks of the Sangar,Waiting the march of their foes, the Amazons, warrior-women:But few in number were they to those quick-eyed sons of Achæa.”Next, perceiving Ulysses, the old man said, “My dear Helen,Tell me who this is also—in stature less than Atrides,Less by a head, it may be, but broader in chest and in shoulders.Rest on the ground his arms; but he through the ranks of the armyRanges about like a ram; to a thick-fleeced ram I compare him,Wandering hither and thither through snow-white sheep in the pasture?”Him then answered Helen—Helen of Jove descended:“That is Ulysses, my father, the wily son of Laertes,Nourished in Ithaca’s isle—Ithaca rocky and barren;Skilled to contrive and complete wise plans and politic counsels.”Her then the sage Antenor addressed, when she spake of Ulysses:“Lady, in truth thou hast uttered these words; for once, I remember,Hither the noble Ulysses came with the brave Menelaus,(Thou wast the cause of his coming) and I was their host in my palace,And of both the heroes I learned the genius and wisdom.When they met in the Council, with Trojan heroes assembled,Standing, Ulysses was less by a head than the brave Menelaus—Sitting, more honour was due to the thoughtful brow of Ulysses.And when they wove, for the general ear, their thoughts into language,Menelaus harangued very freely and briefly, and clearly,Never missing his words, nor misapplying their meaning,Though, as to years, not yet was he reckoned among the elders.But when Ulysses arose, with his head full of wariest measures,Standing, he fixed his eyes on the ground, and kept looking downwards,Moving his sceptre nor backwards nor forwards, but holding it firmly,Looking like one not wise; and those who beheld him might fancyThat he was deeply enraged, and thus bereft of his reason.But when, as I have seen, he sent his great voice from his bosom,Words that came thick and fast, like the flakes of the snow in the winter,Then he that listened would say, no man might compete with Ulysse;Then we forgot how he looked as the words of Ulysses enchained us.”Thirdly, on seeing Ajax, the old King of Helen demanded:“Who, so stately and tall, is this other chief of the Grecians,Rising as high o’er the rest as the height of his head and broad shoulders?”And thus the comely-robed Helen, the fairest of women, responded:“He thou beholdest is Ajax, gigantic—to Grecians a bulwark!And over there, like a god, Idomeneus stands ’mong the Cretans,While around him the chiefs of the Cretan army are gathered.Many a time has the brave Menelaus bidden him welcome,When to our Spartan home he came from the land of the Cretans.But while I see all around, the rest of the dark-eyed Achæeans,Whom I well know, and whose names I could tell, two captains I see not—Castor, tamer of steeds, and Pollux, skilful in boxing—Both own brothers of mine: we three were nursed by one mother.Either they have not come with the forces from far Lacedæmon,Or having come, it may be, to this place, in sea-traversing vessels,Do not desire, after all to enter the battle of heroes,Fearing the shame and reproach the crime of their sister would cause them.”So she spake; but them the life-giving earth was embracingIn the dear land of their fathers over the sea, Lacedæmon!
Priam, the King, to the tower where he sat called the beautiful Helen:“Hither, my daughter, approach and sit by me here on this tower,Whence thou mayest see the spouse of thy youth, thy friends and thy kindred.Thou knowest I never blamed thee; I blame the gods of Olympus,Who excited this war of sorrows and tears without number.Come, Helen, sit by my side, and tell me the name of yon hero,Mighty and stately in mien. Though others around him are taller,One of such beauty as his and of so majestic a bearingI have never beheld. If he is not a king he is kingly.”Then Helen, fairest of women, answered the King: “O my father,Father of Paris, by me thou art loved and revered and respected!Would that an evil death had been my lot when I followedHither thy son, Alexander, leaving my husband behind me,Kinsmen, too, and sweet daughter, and friends that I knew since my childhood!’Twas not allowed me to die—so I pine away slowly with weeping.But thou awaitest reply: thou seest the great Agamemnon,Wide-ruling king, as thou saidst, and a warrior valiant and skilful;Once he was a brother to me—oh, shame!—in the days that have vanished!”Then, as a hero a hero, the old man admired Agamemnon:“Happy art thou, Atrides, in birth, and in name, and in fortune;Many are under thy sway—the flower of the sons of Achæa.Once into vine-bearing Phrygia I entered, and saw many PhrygiansRiding swift steeds, the forces of Otreus and Mygdon, the godlike,Who, with me for an ally, encamped by the banks of the Sangar,Waiting the march of their foes, the Amazons, warrior-women:But few in number were they to those quick-eyed sons of Achæa.”Next, perceiving Ulysses, the old man said, “My dear Helen,Tell me who this is also—in stature less than Atrides,Less by a head, it may be, but broader in chest and in shoulders.Rest on the ground his arms; but he through the ranks of the armyRanges about like a ram; to a thick-fleeced ram I compare him,Wandering hither and thither through snow-white sheep in the pasture?”Him then answered Helen—Helen of Jove descended:“That is Ulysses, my father, the wily son of Laertes,Nourished in Ithaca’s isle—Ithaca rocky and barren;Skilled to contrive and complete wise plans and politic counsels.”Her then the sage Antenor addressed, when she spake of Ulysses:“Lady, in truth thou hast uttered these words; for once, I remember,Hither the noble Ulysses came with the brave Menelaus,(Thou wast the cause of his coming) and I was their host in my palace,And of both the heroes I learned the genius and wisdom.When they met in the Council, with Trojan heroes assembled,Standing, Ulysses was less by a head than the brave Menelaus—Sitting, more honour was due to the thoughtful brow of Ulysses.And when they wove, for the general ear, their thoughts into language,Menelaus harangued very freely and briefly, and clearly,Never missing his words, nor misapplying their meaning,Though, as to years, not yet was he reckoned among the elders.But when Ulysses arose, with his head full of wariest measures,Standing, he fixed his eyes on the ground, and kept looking downwards,Moving his sceptre nor backwards nor forwards, but holding it firmly,Looking like one not wise; and those who beheld him might fancyThat he was deeply enraged, and thus bereft of his reason.But when, as I have seen, he sent his great voice from his bosom,Words that came thick and fast, like the flakes of the snow in the winter,Then he that listened would say, no man might compete with Ulysse;Then we forgot how he looked as the words of Ulysses enchained us.”Thirdly, on seeing Ajax, the old King of Helen demanded:“Who, so stately and tall, is this other chief of the Grecians,Rising as high o’er the rest as the height of his head and broad shoulders?”And thus the comely-robed Helen, the fairest of women, responded:“He thou beholdest is Ajax, gigantic—to Grecians a bulwark!And over there, like a god, Idomeneus stands ’mong the Cretans,While around him the chiefs of the Cretan army are gathered.Many a time has the brave Menelaus bidden him welcome,When to our Spartan home he came from the land of the Cretans.But while I see all around, the rest of the dark-eyed Achæeans,Whom I well know, and whose names I could tell, two captains I see not—Castor, tamer of steeds, and Pollux, skilful in boxing—Both own brothers of mine: we three were nursed by one mother.Either they have not come with the forces from far Lacedæmon,Or having come, it may be, to this place, in sea-traversing vessels,Do not desire, after all to enter the battle of heroes,Fearing the shame and reproach the crime of their sister would cause them.”So she spake; but them the life-giving earth was embracingIn the dear land of their fathers over the sea, Lacedæmon!
Priam, the King, to the tower where he sat called the beautiful Helen:“Hither, my daughter, approach and sit by me here on this tower,Whence thou mayest see the spouse of thy youth, thy friends and thy kindred.Thou knowest I never blamed thee; I blame the gods of Olympus,Who excited this war of sorrows and tears without number.Come, Helen, sit by my side, and tell me the name of yon hero,Mighty and stately in mien. Though others around him are taller,One of such beauty as his and of so majestic a bearingI have never beheld. If he is not a king he is kingly.”Then Helen, fairest of women, answered the King: “O my father,Father of Paris, by me thou art loved and revered and respected!Would that an evil death had been my lot when I followedHither thy son, Alexander, leaving my husband behind me,Kinsmen, too, and sweet daughter, and friends that I knew since my childhood!’Twas not allowed me to die—so I pine away slowly with weeping.But thou awaitest reply: thou seest the great Agamemnon,Wide-ruling king, as thou saidst, and a warrior valiant and skilful;Once he was a brother to me—oh, shame!—in the days that have vanished!”
Then, as a hero a hero, the old man admired Agamemnon:“Happy art thou, Atrides, in birth, and in name, and in fortune;Many are under thy sway—the flower of the sons of Achæa.Once into vine-bearing Phrygia I entered, and saw many PhrygiansRiding swift steeds, the forces of Otreus and Mygdon, the godlike,Who, with me for an ally, encamped by the banks of the Sangar,Waiting the march of their foes, the Amazons, warrior-women:But few in number were they to those quick-eyed sons of Achæa.”
Next, perceiving Ulysses, the old man said, “My dear Helen,Tell me who this is also—in stature less than Atrides,Less by a head, it may be, but broader in chest and in shoulders.Rest on the ground his arms; but he through the ranks of the armyRanges about like a ram; to a thick-fleeced ram I compare him,Wandering hither and thither through snow-white sheep in the pasture?”
Him then answered Helen—Helen of Jove descended:“That is Ulysses, my father, the wily son of Laertes,Nourished in Ithaca’s isle—Ithaca rocky and barren;Skilled to contrive and complete wise plans and politic counsels.”
Her then the sage Antenor addressed, when she spake of Ulysses:“Lady, in truth thou hast uttered these words; for once, I remember,Hither the noble Ulysses came with the brave Menelaus,(Thou wast the cause of his coming) and I was their host in my palace,And of both the heroes I learned the genius and wisdom.When they met in the Council, with Trojan heroes assembled,Standing, Ulysses was less by a head than the brave Menelaus—Sitting, more honour was due to the thoughtful brow of Ulysses.And when they wove, for the general ear, their thoughts into language,Menelaus harangued very freely and briefly, and clearly,Never missing his words, nor misapplying their meaning,Though, as to years, not yet was he reckoned among the elders.But when Ulysses arose, with his head full of wariest measures,Standing, he fixed his eyes on the ground, and kept looking downwards,Moving his sceptre nor backwards nor forwards, but holding it firmly,Looking like one not wise; and those who beheld him might fancyThat he was deeply enraged, and thus bereft of his reason.But when, as I have seen, he sent his great voice from his bosom,Words that came thick and fast, like the flakes of the snow in the winter,Then he that listened would say, no man might compete with Ulysse;Then we forgot how he looked as the words of Ulysses enchained us.”
Thirdly, on seeing Ajax, the old King of Helen demanded:“Who, so stately and tall, is this other chief of the Grecians,Rising as high o’er the rest as the height of his head and broad shoulders?”
And thus the comely-robed Helen, the fairest of women, responded:“He thou beholdest is Ajax, gigantic—to Grecians a bulwark!And over there, like a god, Idomeneus stands ’mong the Cretans,While around him the chiefs of the Cretan army are gathered.Many a time has the brave Menelaus bidden him welcome,When to our Spartan home he came from the land of the Cretans.
But while I see all around, the rest of the dark-eyed Achæeans,Whom I well know, and whose names I could tell, two captains I see not—Castor, tamer of steeds, and Pollux, skilful in boxing—Both own brothers of mine: we three were nursed by one mother.Either they have not come with the forces from far Lacedæmon,Or having come, it may be, to this place, in sea-traversing vessels,Do not desire, after all to enter the battle of heroes,Fearing the shame and reproach the crime of their sister would cause them.”
So she spake; but them the life-giving earth was embracingIn the dear land of their fathers over the sea, Lacedæmon!
O my Ilion, once we named theeCity of unconquered men;But the Grecian spear has tamed thee,Thou canst never rise again.Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;—Ah! they cannot hide thy glory!Ages hence shall heroes hearkenTo the wonders of thy story.
O my Ilion, once we named theeCity of unconquered men;But the Grecian spear has tamed thee,Thou canst never rise again.Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;—Ah! they cannot hide thy glory!Ages hence shall heroes hearkenTo the wonders of thy story.
O my Ilion, once we named theeCity of unconquered men;But the Grecian spear has tamed thee,Thou canst never rise again.Grecian clouds thy causeways darken;—Ah! they cannot hide thy glory!Ages hence shall heroes hearkenTo the wonders of thy story.
O my Ilion, they have shorn theeOf thy lofty crown of towers!Thy poor daughter can but mourn theeIn her lonely, captive hours.They have robbed thee of thy beauty,Made thee foul with smoke and gore;Tears are now my only duty,I shall tread thy streets no more.
O my Ilion, they have shorn theeOf thy lofty crown of towers!Thy poor daughter can but mourn theeIn her lonely, captive hours.They have robbed thee of thy beauty,Made thee foul with smoke and gore;Tears are now my only duty,I shall tread thy streets no more.
O my Ilion, they have shorn theeOf thy lofty crown of towers!Thy poor daughter can but mourn theeIn her lonely, captive hours.They have robbed thee of thy beauty,Made thee foul with smoke and gore;Tears are now my only duty,I shall tread thy streets no more.
O my Ilion, I remember—’Twas the hour of sweet repose,And my husband in our chamberSlept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes.For the song and feast were over,And the spear was hung to rest—Never more, my hero-lover,Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast.
O my Ilion, I remember—’Twas the hour of sweet repose,And my husband in our chamberSlept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes.For the song and feast were over,And the spear was hung to rest—Never more, my hero-lover,Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast.
O my Ilion, I remember—’Twas the hour of sweet repose,And my husband in our chamberSlept, nor dreamt of Grecian foes.For the song and feast were over,And the spear was hung to rest—Never more, my hero-lover,Aimed by thee at foeman’s breast.
O my Ilion, at the mirrorI was binding up my hair,When my face grew pale with terrorAt the cry that rent the air.Hark! amid the din, the GrecianShout of triumph “Troy is taken;Ten years’ work have now completion—Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!”
O my Ilion, at the mirrorI was binding up my hair,When my face grew pale with terrorAt the cry that rent the air.Hark! amid the din, the GrecianShout of triumph “Troy is taken;Ten years’ work have now completion—Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!”
O my Ilion, at the mirrorI was binding up my hair,When my face grew pale with terrorAt the cry that rent the air.Hark! amid the din, the GrecianShout of triumph “Troy is taken;Ten years’ work have now completion—Ilion’s haughty towers are shaken!”
O my Ilion, forth I hied meFrom his happy home and mine;Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me,As I knelt at Phœbe’s shrine.Then, my husband slain before me,To the shore they hurried me,And from all I loved they tore meFainting o’er the cruel sea.
O my Ilion, forth I hied meFrom his happy home and mine;Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me,As I knelt at Phœbe’s shrine.Then, my husband slain before me,To the shore they hurried me,And from all I loved they tore meFainting o’er the cruel sea.
O my Ilion, forth I hied meFrom his happy home and mine;Hapless, soon the Greeks descried me,As I knelt at Phœbe’s shrine.Then, my husband slain before me,To the shore they hurried me,And from all I loved they tore meFainting o’er the cruel sea.
In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, standThe city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus,The wily son of Æolus, was king.His son was Glaucus, and to him was bornBellerophon of honour without stain,Gifted with every grace the gods bestow,And manly spirit that won all men’s love.Him Prœtus, who by Jove’s supreme consentHeld a harsh sceptre over Argolis,Hated and doomed to exile or to death.For fair Antea loved BellerophonWith a mad passion, and, her royal spouseDeceiving, told her longing to his guest.But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave,Set a pure heart against her evil words.Then with false tongue she stood before the king:“O Prœtus, die or slay Bellerophon,Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.”And anger seized the king at what he heard,Yet was he loath to kill him, for the lawsThat make the stranger sacred he revered.But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs,And folded in a tablet, words of death,He sent him, and enjoined him these to giveUnto Antea’s sire—his step-father,Thinking that he would perish.So he went,Blameless, beneath the guidance of the gods,And reached the eddying Xanthus. There the kingOf wide-extending Lycia honoured himNine days with feasting and with sacrifice.But when the tenth rose-fingered morn had come,He asked him for his message and the signWhate’er he bore from Prœtus,—which he gave.And when he broke the evil-boding seal,He first enjoined him the Chimæra direTo slay,—of race divine and not of men,In front a lion, dragon in the rear,And goat between, whose breath was as the strengthOf fiercely blazing fire. And this he slew,Trusting the portents of the gods. And nextHe conquered the wild, far-famed Solymi,—The hardest battle fought with mortal men.The man-like Amazons he next subdued;And as he journed homeward, fearing nought,An ambuscade of Lycia’s bravest men,Attacked him, but he slew them one by one,And they returned no more.And so the kingSeeing his race divine by noble deedsWell proven, made the Lycian realm his home,His beauteous daughter gave him for his wife,And made him partner in his royal power.And of the choicest land for corn and wine,The Lycians gave him to possess and till.
In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, standThe city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus,The wily son of Æolus, was king.His son was Glaucus, and to him was bornBellerophon of honour without stain,Gifted with every grace the gods bestow,And manly spirit that won all men’s love.Him Prœtus, who by Jove’s supreme consentHeld a harsh sceptre over Argolis,Hated and doomed to exile or to death.For fair Antea loved BellerophonWith a mad passion, and, her royal spouseDeceiving, told her longing to his guest.But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave,Set a pure heart against her evil words.Then with false tongue she stood before the king:“O Prœtus, die or slay Bellerophon,Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.”And anger seized the king at what he heard,Yet was he loath to kill him, for the lawsThat make the stranger sacred he revered.But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs,And folded in a tablet, words of death,He sent him, and enjoined him these to giveUnto Antea’s sire—his step-father,Thinking that he would perish.So he went,Blameless, beneath the guidance of the gods,And reached the eddying Xanthus. There the kingOf wide-extending Lycia honoured himNine days with feasting and with sacrifice.But when the tenth rose-fingered morn had come,He asked him for his message and the signWhate’er he bore from Prœtus,—which he gave.And when he broke the evil-boding seal,He first enjoined him the Chimæra direTo slay,—of race divine and not of men,In front a lion, dragon in the rear,And goat between, whose breath was as the strengthOf fiercely blazing fire. And this he slew,Trusting the portents of the gods. And nextHe conquered the wild, far-famed Solymi,—The hardest battle fought with mortal men.The man-like Amazons he next subdued;And as he journed homeward, fearing nought,An ambuscade of Lycia’s bravest men,Attacked him, but he slew them one by one,And they returned no more.And so the kingSeeing his race divine by noble deedsWell proven, made the Lycian realm his home,His beauteous daughter gave him for his wife,And made him partner in his royal power.And of the choicest land for corn and wine,The Lycians gave him to possess and till.
In a far nook of steed-famed Argos, standThe city Ephyra. Here Sisyphus,The wily son of Æolus, was king.
His son was Glaucus, and to him was bornBellerophon of honour without stain,Gifted with every grace the gods bestow,And manly spirit that won all men’s love.
Him Prœtus, who by Jove’s supreme consentHeld a harsh sceptre over Argolis,Hated and doomed to exile or to death.For fair Antea loved BellerophonWith a mad passion, and, her royal spouseDeceiving, told her longing to his guest.But brave Bellerophon, as good as brave,Set a pure heart against her evil words.Then with false tongue she stood before the king:“O Prœtus, die or slay Bellerophon,Who sought her love, who only loveth thee.”And anger seized the king at what he heard,Yet was he loath to kill him, for the lawsThat make the stranger sacred he revered.But unto Lycia, bearing fatal signs,And folded in a tablet, words of death,He sent him, and enjoined him these to giveUnto Antea’s sire—his step-father,Thinking that he would perish.
So he went,Blameless, beneath the guidance of the gods,And reached the eddying Xanthus. There the kingOf wide-extending Lycia honoured himNine days with feasting and with sacrifice.But when the tenth rose-fingered morn had come,He asked him for his message and the signWhate’er he bore from Prœtus,—which he gave.
And when he broke the evil-boding seal,He first enjoined him the Chimæra direTo slay,—of race divine and not of men,In front a lion, dragon in the rear,And goat between, whose breath was as the strengthOf fiercely blazing fire. And this he slew,Trusting the portents of the gods. And nextHe conquered the wild, far-famed Solymi,—The hardest battle fought with mortal men.The man-like Amazons he next subdued;And as he journed homeward, fearing nought,An ambuscade of Lycia’s bravest men,Attacked him, but he slew them one by one,And they returned no more.
And so the kingSeeing his race divine by noble deedsWell proven, made the Lycian realm his home,His beauteous daughter gave him for his wife,And made him partner in his royal power.And of the choicest land for corn and wine,The Lycians gave him to possess and till.
Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain)What term of life to thee or meThe god may grant, Leuconoe,Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain.But calmly take what comes of joy or pain,Whether Jove grant us many winters more,Or this complete our destinyWhich makes the stormy Tuscan seaWeary its strength with angry shocksAgainst the hollow-echoing rocks.Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pourThe ruddy wine, live long by living well.While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell!Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrowVague grief by thinking of to-morrow.
Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain)What term of life to thee or meThe god may grant, Leuconoe,Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain.But calmly take what comes of joy or pain,Whether Jove grant us many winters more,Or this complete our destinyWhich makes the stormy Tuscan seaWeary its strength with angry shocksAgainst the hollow-echoing rocks.Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pourThe ruddy wine, live long by living well.While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell!Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrowVague grief by thinking of to-morrow.
Seek not to know (for ’tis as wrong as vain)What term of life to thee or meThe god may grant, Leuconoe,Nor with Chaldean numbers vex thy brain.But calmly take what comes of joy or pain,Whether Jove grant us many winters more,Or this complete our destinyWhich makes the stormy Tuscan seaWeary its strength with angry shocksAgainst the hollow-echoing rocks.Be gently wise, my friend, and while you pourThe ruddy wine, live long by living well.While we are speaking, hark! time’s envious knell!Let us enjoy to-day, nor borrowVague grief by thinking of to-morrow.
The fair, young bride of Orpheus, as she fledFrom Aristæus who designed her ill,With hasty feet, along the river bankOf Hebrus, found her death. For in her wayThere lurked a baleful serpent ’mid the grass.Full long the choir of Dryads mourned her fate,And set the mountains wailing with their woe.Pangæus answered back to Rhodope, and griefHeld all the land of Rhesus, dear to Mars;And Hebrus, weeping, rolled to distant shoresThe story of the dead Eurydice.But Orpheus in his sorrow touched his harp,And, sitting by the wild beach all alone,Sang from the rising till the setting sunOf his own sweet, lost wife Eurydice.Till, drawing solace to his wounded love,Through the fierce jaws of Tænarus he passed,The gates of Hades, and the gloomy grove,All thick with darkest horror, and, at last,Entered the drear abodes where Pluto reignsAmong the dead—inexorable king.And then he put his fingers to the stringsAnd sang of her he loved, Eurydice;And made such sweet, enchanting melodyThat all the ghosts of Erebus were charmed,And hied from all recesses at the sound;Gathering around him, many as the birdsThat hide themselves by thousands ’mid the leavesOf some sweet-smelling grove, when eventideOr wintry shower calls them from the hills.The shades of mothers, sires and mighty men,Of maids for whom the torch was never lit,And boys whose pyres their parents’ eyes had seen,Listened, enchained, and for a while forgotThe slimy weeds that grew upon the banks,Of black Cocytus, and the hateful Styx,Whose nine slow streams shut out the happy world.And even Tartarus, Death’s deepest home,Was stricken with amazement; and the rageOf snake-tressed Furies ceased; and CerberusRestrained his triple roar, and hellish blastsForbore a while to turn Ixion’s wheel.And now, all danger past, to upper airHe turned his eager feet, EurydiceRestored, near-following (for ProserpineHad so enjoined), when Orpheus, mad with joyAnd longing to behold her face once more,Paused and looked back, unmindful. Fatal look,That robbed him of his treasure on the vergeOf full fruition in the world’s broad light!No hope of mercy; Hell no mercy knowsFor broken law. This Orpheus learned too late,When triple thunder bellowed through the deepsOf dark Avernus.Then Eurydice:“What frenzy, Orpheus, has possessed thy soulTo ruin thee and me, ah! wretched me,Whom now the Fates call back to Hades’ gloom!Alas! the sleep of death is on my eyes.Farewell, my Orpheus! darkness hems me round—Farewell! in vain I stretch weak hands to thee—Thine, thine no more! Farewell! Farewell!”She said,And vanished from his sight away, as smokeFades into viewless air, nor saw she moreHer Orpheus.He in vain the fleeting shadeSought to restrain with outspread hands; in vainEssayed to speak, dumb-stricken with surprise;In vain, to cross the gloomy Stygian wave.Alas! what could he do, or whither go,Since she was gone, the sum of all his joy?Or, with what tears, what plaintive, moving words,Seek respite from the gods that rule belowFor her who, shivering, crossed the darksome stream?So passed she from him; and, for seven long monthsBeneath a rock by Strymon’s lonely floodHe wailed her fate and his, till all the cavesRe-echoed mournfully, and savage beasts,Assuaged, knew milder breasts, and strength of oaksWas captive led by magic of his song.Even as, in woods, beneath a poplar’s shadeLone Philomel laments her callow brood,Robbed from the nest by cruel, churlish hands;And she, poor childless mother, all night long,Perched on a branch, renews the doleful strain,And with her plaints makes all the grove resound;So Orpheus mourned Eurydice, nor dreamedOf other love, nor other nuptial tie.Alone, ’mid Boreal ice, and by the banksOf snow-girt Tanais, and through the plainsThat feel the chill breath of Niphæan hills,He sang the loss of sweet EurydiceAnd Pluto’s bootless gift. And even whenThe Thracian maidens maddened at the slightOf their own beauty in such lasting griefAnd wild from Bacchic orgies, slew the bard,Strewing the broad fields with his severed limbs;Then, even then, when Hebrus bore awayThe tuneful head torn from the marble neck,The cold lips, faithful still to their lost love,Murmured, “Eurydice! Eurydice!”And the sad banks replied “Eurydice!”
The fair, young bride of Orpheus, as she fledFrom Aristæus who designed her ill,With hasty feet, along the river bankOf Hebrus, found her death. For in her wayThere lurked a baleful serpent ’mid the grass.Full long the choir of Dryads mourned her fate,And set the mountains wailing with their woe.Pangæus answered back to Rhodope, and griefHeld all the land of Rhesus, dear to Mars;And Hebrus, weeping, rolled to distant shoresThe story of the dead Eurydice.But Orpheus in his sorrow touched his harp,And, sitting by the wild beach all alone,Sang from the rising till the setting sunOf his own sweet, lost wife Eurydice.Till, drawing solace to his wounded love,Through the fierce jaws of Tænarus he passed,The gates of Hades, and the gloomy grove,All thick with darkest horror, and, at last,Entered the drear abodes where Pluto reignsAmong the dead—inexorable king.And then he put his fingers to the stringsAnd sang of her he loved, Eurydice;And made such sweet, enchanting melodyThat all the ghosts of Erebus were charmed,And hied from all recesses at the sound;Gathering around him, many as the birdsThat hide themselves by thousands ’mid the leavesOf some sweet-smelling grove, when eventideOr wintry shower calls them from the hills.The shades of mothers, sires and mighty men,Of maids for whom the torch was never lit,And boys whose pyres their parents’ eyes had seen,Listened, enchained, and for a while forgotThe slimy weeds that grew upon the banks,Of black Cocytus, and the hateful Styx,Whose nine slow streams shut out the happy world.And even Tartarus, Death’s deepest home,Was stricken with amazement; and the rageOf snake-tressed Furies ceased; and CerberusRestrained his triple roar, and hellish blastsForbore a while to turn Ixion’s wheel.And now, all danger past, to upper airHe turned his eager feet, EurydiceRestored, near-following (for ProserpineHad so enjoined), when Orpheus, mad with joyAnd longing to behold her face once more,Paused and looked back, unmindful. Fatal look,That robbed him of his treasure on the vergeOf full fruition in the world’s broad light!No hope of mercy; Hell no mercy knowsFor broken law. This Orpheus learned too late,When triple thunder bellowed through the deepsOf dark Avernus.Then Eurydice:“What frenzy, Orpheus, has possessed thy soulTo ruin thee and me, ah! wretched me,Whom now the Fates call back to Hades’ gloom!Alas! the sleep of death is on my eyes.Farewell, my Orpheus! darkness hems me round—Farewell! in vain I stretch weak hands to thee—Thine, thine no more! Farewell! Farewell!”She said,And vanished from his sight away, as smokeFades into viewless air, nor saw she moreHer Orpheus.He in vain the fleeting shadeSought to restrain with outspread hands; in vainEssayed to speak, dumb-stricken with surprise;In vain, to cross the gloomy Stygian wave.Alas! what could he do, or whither go,Since she was gone, the sum of all his joy?Or, with what tears, what plaintive, moving words,Seek respite from the gods that rule belowFor her who, shivering, crossed the darksome stream?So passed she from him; and, for seven long monthsBeneath a rock by Strymon’s lonely floodHe wailed her fate and his, till all the cavesRe-echoed mournfully, and savage beasts,Assuaged, knew milder breasts, and strength of oaksWas captive led by magic of his song.Even as, in woods, beneath a poplar’s shadeLone Philomel laments her callow brood,Robbed from the nest by cruel, churlish hands;And she, poor childless mother, all night long,Perched on a branch, renews the doleful strain,And with her plaints makes all the grove resound;So Orpheus mourned Eurydice, nor dreamedOf other love, nor other nuptial tie.Alone, ’mid Boreal ice, and by the banksOf snow-girt Tanais, and through the plainsThat feel the chill breath of Niphæan hills,He sang the loss of sweet EurydiceAnd Pluto’s bootless gift. And even whenThe Thracian maidens maddened at the slightOf their own beauty in such lasting griefAnd wild from Bacchic orgies, slew the bard,Strewing the broad fields with his severed limbs;Then, even then, when Hebrus bore awayThe tuneful head torn from the marble neck,The cold lips, faithful still to their lost love,Murmured, “Eurydice! Eurydice!”And the sad banks replied “Eurydice!”
The fair, young bride of Orpheus, as she fledFrom Aristæus who designed her ill,With hasty feet, along the river bankOf Hebrus, found her death. For in her wayThere lurked a baleful serpent ’mid the grass.
Full long the choir of Dryads mourned her fate,And set the mountains wailing with their woe.Pangæus answered back to Rhodope, and griefHeld all the land of Rhesus, dear to Mars;And Hebrus, weeping, rolled to distant shoresThe story of the dead Eurydice.
But Orpheus in his sorrow touched his harp,And, sitting by the wild beach all alone,Sang from the rising till the setting sunOf his own sweet, lost wife Eurydice.Till, drawing solace to his wounded love,Through the fierce jaws of Tænarus he passed,The gates of Hades, and the gloomy grove,All thick with darkest horror, and, at last,Entered the drear abodes where Pluto reignsAmong the dead—inexorable king.
And then he put his fingers to the stringsAnd sang of her he loved, Eurydice;And made such sweet, enchanting melodyThat all the ghosts of Erebus were charmed,And hied from all recesses at the sound;Gathering around him, many as the birdsThat hide themselves by thousands ’mid the leavesOf some sweet-smelling grove, when eventideOr wintry shower calls them from the hills.
The shades of mothers, sires and mighty men,Of maids for whom the torch was never lit,And boys whose pyres their parents’ eyes had seen,Listened, enchained, and for a while forgotThe slimy weeds that grew upon the banks,Of black Cocytus, and the hateful Styx,Whose nine slow streams shut out the happy world.And even Tartarus, Death’s deepest home,Was stricken with amazement; and the rageOf snake-tressed Furies ceased; and CerberusRestrained his triple roar, and hellish blastsForbore a while to turn Ixion’s wheel.
And now, all danger past, to upper airHe turned his eager feet, EurydiceRestored, near-following (for ProserpineHad so enjoined), when Orpheus, mad with joyAnd longing to behold her face once more,Paused and looked back, unmindful. Fatal look,That robbed him of his treasure on the vergeOf full fruition in the world’s broad light!No hope of mercy; Hell no mercy knowsFor broken law. This Orpheus learned too late,When triple thunder bellowed through the deepsOf dark Avernus.
Then Eurydice:“What frenzy, Orpheus, has possessed thy soulTo ruin thee and me, ah! wretched me,Whom now the Fates call back to Hades’ gloom!Alas! the sleep of death is on my eyes.Farewell, my Orpheus! darkness hems me round—Farewell! in vain I stretch weak hands to thee—Thine, thine no more! Farewell! Farewell!”She said,And vanished from his sight away, as smokeFades into viewless air, nor saw she moreHer Orpheus.
He in vain the fleeting shadeSought to restrain with outspread hands; in vainEssayed to speak, dumb-stricken with surprise;In vain, to cross the gloomy Stygian wave.Alas! what could he do, or whither go,Since she was gone, the sum of all his joy?Or, with what tears, what plaintive, moving words,Seek respite from the gods that rule belowFor her who, shivering, crossed the darksome stream?
So passed she from him; and, for seven long monthsBeneath a rock by Strymon’s lonely floodHe wailed her fate and his, till all the cavesRe-echoed mournfully, and savage beasts,Assuaged, knew milder breasts, and strength of oaksWas captive led by magic of his song.Even as, in woods, beneath a poplar’s shadeLone Philomel laments her callow brood,Robbed from the nest by cruel, churlish hands;And she, poor childless mother, all night long,Perched on a branch, renews the doleful strain,And with her plaints makes all the grove resound;So Orpheus mourned Eurydice, nor dreamedOf other love, nor other nuptial tie.Alone, ’mid Boreal ice, and by the banksOf snow-girt Tanais, and through the plainsThat feel the chill breath of Niphæan hills,He sang the loss of sweet EurydiceAnd Pluto’s bootless gift. And even whenThe Thracian maidens maddened at the slightOf their own beauty in such lasting griefAnd wild from Bacchic orgies, slew the bard,Strewing the broad fields with his severed limbs;Then, even then, when Hebrus bore awayThe tuneful head torn from the marble neck,The cold lips, faithful still to their lost love,Murmured, “Eurydice! Eurydice!”And the sad banks replied “Eurydice!”