Chapter 19

Chorus:When in the tomb the dead is laid,When the last rites of love are paid;When eyes no more behold the light,Closed in the sleep of endless night;Survives there aught, can we believe?Or does an idle tale deceive?375What boots it, then, to yield the breathA willing sacrifice to death,If still we gain no dreamless peace,And find from living no release?Say, do we, dying, end all pain?Does no least part of us remain?When from this perishable clayThe flitting breath has sped away;Does then the soul that dissolution shareAnd vanish into elemental air?380Whate'er the morning sunbeam knows,Whate'er his setting rays disclose;Whate'er is bathed by Ocean wide,In ebbing or in flowing tide:Time all shall snatch with hungry greed,With mythic Pegasean speed.385Swift is the course of stars in flight,Swiftly the moon repairs her light;Swiftly the changing seasons go,While time speeds on with endless flow:But than all these, with speed more swift,Toward fated nothingness we drift.390For when within the tomb we're laid,No soul remains, no hov'ring shade.Like curling smoke, like clouds before the blast,This animating spirit soon has passed.395Since naught remains, and death is naughtBut life's last goal, so swiftly sought;Let those who cling to life abateTheir fond desires, and yield to fate;And those who fear death's fabled gloom,Bury their cares within the tomb.Soon shall grim time and yawning nightIn their vast depths engulf us quite;400Impartial death demands the whole—The body slays nor spares the soul.Dark Taenara and Pluto fell,And Cerberus, grim guard of hell—All these but empty rumors seem,405The pictures of a troubled dream.Where then will the departed spirit dwell?Let those who never came to being tell.ACT III[EnterAndromache,leading the littleAstyanax.]Andromache:What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames?Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts?410Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are lightIf we endure a grief that tears can soothe.You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n;Troy fell for me long since, when that dread carOf Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed,With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight,Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse.415Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone,With stony resignation do I bearWhatever ills may come. But for this child,Long since would I have saved me from the GreeksAnd followed my dear lord; but thought of himDoth check my purpose and forbid my death.For his dear sake there still remaineth cause420To supplicate the gods, an added care.Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost—The fear of naught; and now all hope of restFrom further ills is gone, for cruel fateHath still an entrance to my grieving heart.Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness.425An Old Man:What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so?Andromache:Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise.The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.Old Man:What new disasters can the fates invent?Andromache:The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms(Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow),430Are opened wide, and forth from lowest DisThe spirit of our buried foeman comes.(May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth?For death at least doth come to all alike.)That terror doth invade the hearts of all;But what I now relate is mine alone—435A terrifying vision of the night.Old Man:What was this vision? Speak and share thy fears.Andromache:Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome.Then came to my afflicted soul a calm440Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes,For one brief hour did drowsy slumber stealIf that be sleep—the stupor of a soulForespent with ills: when suddenly I sawBefore mine eyes the shade of Hector stand;Not in such guise as when, with blazing torchHe strove in war against the Grecian ships,445Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierceAgainst the Danai, he gained true spoilFrom that feigned Peleus' son; not such his faceAll flaming with the eager battle light;But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own,All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks.450Still did my joy leap up at sight of him;And then he sadly shook his head and said:"Awake from sleep and save our son from death,O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie;Thus only can he life and safety find.Away with tears—why dost thou mourning makeFor fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n.455Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son,The stripling hope of this our vanquished home,Wherever safety lies."So did he speak,And chilling terror roused me from my sleep.Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes.Forgetful of my son, I sought the armsOf Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain:For that elusive shade, though closely pressed,460Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace.O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire,Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house,Child of a stock of too illustrious blood,Too like thy father, thou: such countenanceMy Hector had, with such a tread he walked,With such a motion did he lift his hands,Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set,And thus he oft from that high, noble browWould backward toss his flowing locks.—But thou,O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help,Too soon for me, will that time ever come,That happy day, when thou, the sole defense,470And sole avenger of our conquered Troy,Shalt raise again her fallen citadel,Recall her scattered citizens from flight,And give to fatherland and PhrygiansTheir name and fame again?—Alas, my son,Such hopes consort not with our present state.Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine—475The prayer for life.Ah me, what spot remoteCan hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-placeCan I bestow thee and abate my fears?Our city, once in pride of wealth secure,And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built,Well known of all, the envy of the world,Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low;480And from her vast extent of temples, wallsAnd towers, no part, no lurking-place remains,Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I chooseA covert safe? Behold the mighty tombWherein his father's sacred ashes lie,Whose massive pile the enemy has spared.This did old Priam rear in days of power,485Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed.Then to his father let me trust the child.—But at the very thought a chilling sweatInvades my trembling limbs, for much I fearThe gruesome omen of the place of death.490Old Man:In danger, haste to shelter where ye may;In safety, choose.Andromache:What hiding-place is safeFrom traitor's eyes?Old Man:All witnesses remove.Andromache:What if the foe inquire?Old Man:Then answer thus:"He perished in the city's overthrow."This cause alone ere now hath safety foundFor many from the stroke of death—beliefThat they have died.Andromache:But scanty hope is left;Too huge a weight of race doth press him down.Besides, what can it profit him to hide495Who must his shelter leave and face the foe?Old Man:The victor's deadliest purposes are first.Andromache:What trackless region, what obscure retreatShall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aidIn our distress and doubt? Who will defend?O thou, who always didst protect thine own,500My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trustWhich I in pious confidence impose;And in the faithful keeping of thy dustMay he in safety dwell, to live again.Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.505But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.For see what feeble forces now are left:A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.Then come, make bold to enter the abode,The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.If fate assist us in our wretchedness,510'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if lifeThe fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.[The boy enters the tomb, and the gates are closed and barred behind him.]Old Man:Now do the bolted gates protect their charge.But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaimWhere thou hast hid the boy, come far away.Andromache:Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear;515But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.[Ulyssesis seen approaching.]Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;For hither bends the Ithacan his course.Andromache[with a final appealing look toward the tomb]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rendTo even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,520And hide the sacred trust I gave to theeWithin the very bosom of the pit.Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.[EnterUlysses.]Ulysses:As harsh fate's minister, I first imploreThat, though the words are uttered by my lips,525Thou count them not my own. They are the voiceOf all the Grecian chiefs, whom Hector's sonDoth still prohibit from that homeward voyageSo long delayed. And him the fates demand.A peace secure the Greeks can never feel,And ever will the backward-glancing fear530Compel them on defensive arms to lean,While on thy living son, Andromache,The conquered Phrygians shall rest their hopes.So doth the augur, Calchas, prophesy.Yet, even if our Calchas spake no word,Thy Hector once declared it, and I fearLest in his son a second Hector dwell;535For ever doth a noble scion growInto the stature of his noble sire.Behold the little comrade of the herd,His budding horns still hidden from the sight:Full soon with arching neck and lofty front,He doth command and lead his father's flock.540The slender twig, just lopped from parent bough,Its mother's height and girth surpasses soon,And casts its shade abroad to earth and sky.So doth a spark within the ashes left,Leap into flame again before the wind.Thy grief, I know, must partial judgment give;545Still, if thou weigh the matter, thou wilt grantThat after ten long years of grievous war.A veteran soldier doeth well to fearStill other years of slaughter, and thy TroyStill unsubdued. This fear one cause alone550Doth raise—another Hector. Free the GreeksFrom dread of war. For this and this aloneOur idle ships still wait along the shore.And let me not seem cruel in thy sight,For that, compelled of fate, I seek thy son:I should have sought our chieftain's son as well.Then gently suffer what the victor bids.555Andromache:Oh, that thou wert within my power to give,My son, and that I knew what cruel fateDoth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms—Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were piercedWith hostile spears, and though my hands with chainsWere bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides,560Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child.O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now?Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields?Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames?Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood?565Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain,And liest now a prey for savage birds?Ulysses:Away with feignéd speech; no easy taskFor thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boastThat mother's snares, and even goddesses'I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit.570Where is thy son?Andromache:And where is Hector too?Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians?Thouseekest one;myquest includes them all.Ulysses:By stern necessity thou soon shalt speakWhat thy free will withholds.Andromache:But safe is she,Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.Ulysses:But death brought near would still thy haughty words.Andromache:If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire575Andromache with fear, then threaten life;For death has long been object of my prayer.Ulysses:With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of deathShalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will,What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heartIts inmost secrets bring. Necessity580Doth often prove more strong than piety.Andromache:Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the artsDevised for cruel punishment: dire thirst,Starvation, every form of suffering;Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust;In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all585A victor, full of wrath and fear, can doOr dare; still will my mother heart, inspiredWith high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.Ulysses:This very love of thine, which makes thee bold,Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons.590This strife, from home remote, these ten long yearsOf war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads,Would slight appear to me, if for myselfI feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.Andromache:Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I giveTo thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy;Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe,The secret grief that doth oppress my soul.595Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,According to thy wont, glad tidings bearTo thy companions:Hector's son is dead.Ulysses:What proof have we that this thy word is true?Andromache:May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;600May I be buried in my native soil,May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:According as my son, deprived of light,Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tombConsigned, hath known the funeral honors dueTo those who live no more.605Ulysses[joyfully]:Then are the fatesIndeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead,And I with joy unto the Greeks will go,With grateful tale of peace at last secure.[Aside.]But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine!The Greeks will readily believethyword;But what dost thou believe?—his mother's oath.Would then a mother feign her offspring's death,And fear no baleful omens of that word?They omens fear who have no greater dread.610Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath.If that she perjured be, what greater fearDoth vex her soul? Now have I urgent needOf all my skill and cunning, all my arts,By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed;For truth, though long concealed, can never die.Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears,615Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,She wanders, and she strains her anxious earsTo catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,She more by present fear than grief is swayed.So must I ply her with the subtlest art.[ToAndromache.]When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathyTo speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,620Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willedThat from the lofty tower that doth remainAlone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed,And headlong fall to quick and certain death.Andromache[aside]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbsDo quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood.625Ulysses[aside]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fearWill I redouble.—[To attendants.]Go in haste, my men,And find this foe of Greece, the last defenseOf Troy, who by his mother's cunning handIs safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.[Pretending that the boy is discovered.]'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste.630[ToAndromache.]Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truthThy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.Andromache:Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now,My old habitual fear instinctive starts;The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.Ulysses:Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrificeThat to the walls was due, and hath escaped635By grace of better fate, our priest declaresThat only can our homeward way be wonIf Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves,Appease the sea, and this his sepulcherBe leveled with the ground. Since Hector's sonHas failed to pay the debt he owed to fate,640Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.Andromache[aside]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods,And ye, my husband's shades, true deities:645Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son,Save only thee; then may he still surviveTo bring thine image back to life and me.—Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?Shall I permit his bones to be the sportOf waves, and lie unburied in the sea?Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!—650And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless childTo awful death given up? Canst thou beholdHis body whirling from the battlements?I can, I shall endure and suffer this,Provided only, by his death appeased,The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.—But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate655Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decideWhom thou wilt designate for punishment.What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No moreIs Hector here.—Oh, say not so; I feelHe is both here and there. But sure am IThat this my child is still in life, perchanceTo be the avenger of his father's death.But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul,660Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.Ulysses[aside]: Now must I force her answer.[ToAndromache.]From its baseWill I this tomb destroy.Andromache:The tomb of himWhose body thou didst ransom for a price?Ulysses:I will destroy it, and the sepulcherFrom its high mound will utterly remove.665Andromache:The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke,And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou,O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.Ulysses:This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.Andromache:Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious,Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes,E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled;670But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.I will resist, and match your warriors' armsWith my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrathWill nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon,Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks;Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome,Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless gladesWith frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,675Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:So will I rush against ye in defenseOf Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,An ally of his shade.Ulysses[to attendants]:Do ye delay,And do a woman's tears and empty threatsAnd outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.680Andromache[struggling with attendants]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead![The attendants roughly thrust her away.]Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come,Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth,That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.Thy spirit will suffice.—Behold he comes!His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I,With solitary sight, alone behold?685Ulysses:This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.Andromache[aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sireTo be in common ruin overwhelmed?Perchance I may prevail upon the GreeksBy prayer.—But even now those massive stonesWill crush my hidden child.—Oh, let him die,In any other way, and anywhere,690If only father crush not son, and sonNo desecration bring to father's dust.[Casts herself at the feet ofUlysses.]A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall,Ulysses; I, who never yet to manHave bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.By all the gods, have pity on my woes,And with a calm and patient heart receiveMy pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers695Have high exalted thee in pride and might,The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.Whate'er is given to wretched suppliantIs loaned to fate. So mayst thou see againThy faithful wife; so may Laërtes liveTo greet thee yet again; so may thy sonBehold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray,700Excel his father's valor and the yearsOf old Laërtes. Pity my distress:The only comfort left me in my woe,Is this my son.Ulysses:Produce the boy—and pray.Andromache[goes to the tomb and calls toAstyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding705Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.[Astyanaxappears from the tomb. Andromachepresents him toUlysses.]Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him;The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet![ToAstyanax.]My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,And at the feet of this proud lord,Bend low in prayer, nor think it base710To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.Put out of mind thy regal birth,Thy agéd grandsire's glorious ruleOf wide domain; and think no moreOf Hector, thy illustrious sire.Be captive alone—bend the suppliant knee;715And if thine own fate move thee not,Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.[ToUlysses.]That older Troy beheld the tearsOf its youthful king, and those tears prevailedTo stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath,720The mighty Hercules. Yea he,To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded,Who burst the stubborn gates of hell,And o'er that murky way returned,Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy.725"Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said;"Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne,But reign with the scepter of power—and truth."Thus did that hero subdue his foes.And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance.730And let not the power of great Hercules, only,Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet,As noble a prince as Priam of oldPleads only for life! The kingdom of TroyLet fortune bestow where she will.735Ulysses[aside]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore;But still the Grecian dames must more prevail,Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.Andromache[hearing him]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town,To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again?740No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weakThat he need fear our power. Doth lofty thoughtOf mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?What valor can a fallen Hector stir?When this our Troy was lost, his father's selfWould then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;For woe can bend and break the proudest soul.745If punishment be sought, some heavier fateLet him endure; upon his royal neckLet him support the yoke of servitude.Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?Ulysses:Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.Andromache:O man of lies, artificer of crime,750By whom in open fight no foe is slain,But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mindThe very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intentBehind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:This deed within thy sinful heart was born.Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death755Of this poor boy, dost dare at length aloneTo do a deed, and that in open day?Ulysses:Ulysses' valor do the Grecians knowFull well, and all too well the Phrygians.But we are wasting time with empty words.The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.Andromache:But grant a brief delay, while to my son760I pay the rites of woe, and sate my griefWith tears and last embrace.Ulysses:I would 'twere mineTo spare thy tears; but what alone I may,I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe.765Andromache[toAstyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stayOf our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire,His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength:But God hath scorned my prayers.770Thou shalt not liveTo wield the scepter in the royal courtsOf ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws,And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes;Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks,Nor from thy car in retribution dragAchilles' son; the dart from thy small hand775Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chaseOf scattered beasts throughout the forest glades;And when the sacred lustral day is come,Troy's yearly ritual of festal games,The charging squadrons of the noble youthThou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born;Nor yet among the blazing altar fires,780With nimble feet the ancient sacred danceAt some barbaric temple celebrate,While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!More tearful sight than mighty Hector's endThe walls of Troy must see.785Ulysses:Now stay thy tears,For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.Andromache:Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,That I may close his eyes though living still,And do a mother's part.[ToAstyanax.]Lo, thou must die,For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,790And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.Astyanax:O mother, mother, pity me and save!Andromache:My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes,And seek the vain protection of my hand?As when the hungry lion's roar is heard,The frightened calf for safety presses close795Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast,Thrusting away the mother's timid form,With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey,And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too,Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.Then take my tears and kisses, O my son,Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love,800Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his earSpeak these, thy grieving mother's parting words:"If still thy manes feel their former cares,And on the pyre thy love was not consumed,Why dost thou suffer thy AndromacheTo serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?Why dost thou lie in careless indolence?805Achilles has returned."Take once againThese hairs, these flowing tears, which still remainFrom Hector's piteous death; this fond caressAnd rain of parting kisses take for him.But leave this cloak to comfort my distress,For it, within his tomb and near his shade,Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds810One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings,My eager lips shall seek it till they find.Ulysses:Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away,And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.[He leads the boy away with him.]Chorus:Where lies the home of our captivity?On Thessaly's famed mountain heights?Where Tempe's dusky shade invites?815Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home,Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam?Iolchos, mistress of the main,Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain?820Where frequent flow Mothone's rills,Beneath the shade of Oete's hills,Whence came Alcides' fatal bowTwice destined for our overthrow?825But whither shall our alien course be sped?Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go,Where Dian's self was counted foe;Perchance to Troezen's winding shore,The land which mighty Theseus bore;Or Pelion, by whose rugged sideTheir mad ascent the giants tried.Here, stretched within his mountain cave,830Once Chiron to Achilles gaveThe lyre, whose stirring strains attestThe warlike passions of his breast.835What foreign shore our homeless band invites?Must we our native country deemWhere bright Carystos' marbles gleam?Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide,And swift Euripus' waters glide?Perchance unhappy fortune calls840To bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls;Perchance our wondering eyes shall seeEleusin's awful mystery;845Or Elis, where great heroes stroveTo win the Olympic crown of Jove.850Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea!Let breezes waft our wretched band,Where'er they list, to any land;If only Sparta's curséd state(To Greeks and Trojans common fate)And Argos, never meet our view,And bloody Pelops' city too;855May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle,Whose borders share their master's guile.But thee, O Hecuba, what fate,What land, what Grecian lord await?860ACT IV[EnterHelen.]Helen[aside]: Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate,Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears,Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.And now must I still further harm inflictUpon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my partTo feign Polyxena, the royal maid,Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife,865And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.So by my artful words shall she be snared,And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.But let her be deceived; 'tis better so;To die without the shrinking fear of deathIs joy indeed. But why dost thou delayThy bidden task? If aught of sin there be,870'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.[ToPolyxena.]O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock,The gods begin to look upon thy houseIn kinder mood, and even now prepareTo grant thee happy marriage; such a mateAs neither Troy herself in all her powerNor royal Priam could have found for thee.875For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords,Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plainsAcknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own,And Thetis, whose majestic deityDoth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphsWho dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' bride880Thou shalt be called the child of Peleus old,And Nereus the divine.Then change the garbOf thy captivity for festal robes,And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permitThat I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head.885This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throneMore lofty far than ever Priam saw.The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.Andromache:This was the one thing lacking to our woes—That they should bid us smile when we would weep.See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;A fitting time to talk of marriages!890But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?And dost thou see these poor unburied bonesThat everywhere lie whitening on the plain?This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.895For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for theeDid Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!What need of torches for the solemn rites?What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth900The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.Then come, my sisters, come and celebrateLord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:With groans and wailing let the scene resound.Helen:Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,And oft the very comrades of its woe,Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand905And plead my cause before a hostile judge,For I have suffered heavier ills than these.Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,And Hecuba her Priam; each may claimThe public sympathy; but HelenaAlone must weep for Paris secretly.Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard910To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lieIn dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hardTo lose one's native land, but harder stillTo fear the land that gave you birth. Your woesAre lightened by community of grief;But friend and foe are foes alike to me.Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt915That sorts you to your lords; but I alone,Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.Think you that I have been the cause of war,And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it trueIf in a Spartan vessel I approachedYour land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,920I came a helpless prey; if to the judgeOf beauty's rival claims I fell the prizeBy conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,The plaything of the fates. An angry judgeFull soon my cause shall have—my Grecian lord.Then leave to him the question of my guilt,And judge me not.But now forget thy woesA little space, Andromache, and bid925This royal maid—but as I think on herMy tears unbidden flow.[She stops, overcome by emotion.]

Chorus:When in the tomb the dead is laid,

When the last rites of love are paid;

When eyes no more behold the light,

Closed in the sleep of endless night;

Survives there aught, can we believe?

Or does an idle tale deceive?375

What boots it, then, to yield the breath

A willing sacrifice to death,

If still we gain no dreamless peace,

And find from living no release?

Say, do we, dying, end all pain?

Does no least part of us remain?

When from this perishable clay

The flitting breath has sped away;

Does then the soul that dissolution share

And vanish into elemental air?380

Whate'er the morning sunbeam knows,

Whate'er his setting rays disclose;

Whate'er is bathed by Ocean wide,

In ebbing or in flowing tide:

Time all shall snatch with hungry greed,

With mythic Pegasean speed.385

Swift is the course of stars in flight,

Swiftly the moon repairs her light;

Swiftly the changing seasons go,

While time speeds on with endless flow:

But than all these, with speed more swift,

Toward fated nothingness we drift.390

For when within the tomb we're laid,

No soul remains, no hov'ring shade.

Like curling smoke, like clouds before the blast,

This animating spirit soon has passed.395

Since naught remains, and death is naught

But life's last goal, so swiftly sought;

Let those who cling to life abate

Their fond desires, and yield to fate;

And those who fear death's fabled gloom,

Bury their cares within the tomb.

Soon shall grim time and yawning night

In their vast depths engulf us quite;400

Impartial death demands the whole—

The body slays nor spares the soul.

Dark Taenara and Pluto fell,

And Cerberus, grim guard of hell—

All these but empty rumors seem,405

The pictures of a troubled dream.

Where then will the departed spirit dwell?

Let those who never came to being tell.

[EnterAndromache,leading the littleAstyanax.]

Andromache:What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames?Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts?410Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are lightIf we endure a grief that tears can soothe.You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n;Troy fell for me long since, when that dread carOf Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed,With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight,Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse.415Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone,With stony resignation do I bearWhatever ills may come. But for this child,Long since would I have saved me from the GreeksAnd followed my dear lord; but thought of himDoth check my purpose and forbid my death.For his dear sake there still remaineth cause420To supplicate the gods, an added care.Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost—The fear of naught; and now all hope of restFrom further ills is gone, for cruel fateHath still an entrance to my grieving heart.Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness.425An Old Man:What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so?Andromache:Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise.The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.Old Man:What new disasters can the fates invent?Andromache:The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms(Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow),430Are opened wide, and forth from lowest DisThe spirit of our buried foeman comes.(May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth?For death at least doth come to all alike.)That terror doth invade the hearts of all;But what I now relate is mine alone—435A terrifying vision of the night.Old Man:What was this vision? Speak and share thy fears.Andromache:Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome.Then came to my afflicted soul a calm440Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes,For one brief hour did drowsy slumber stealIf that be sleep—the stupor of a soulForespent with ills: when suddenly I sawBefore mine eyes the shade of Hector stand;Not in such guise as when, with blazing torchHe strove in war against the Grecian ships,445Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierceAgainst the Danai, he gained true spoilFrom that feigned Peleus' son; not such his faceAll flaming with the eager battle light;But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own,All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks.450Still did my joy leap up at sight of him;And then he sadly shook his head and said:"Awake from sleep and save our son from death,O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie;Thus only can he life and safety find.Away with tears—why dost thou mourning makeFor fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n.455Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son,The stripling hope of this our vanquished home,Wherever safety lies."So did he speak,And chilling terror roused me from my sleep.Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes.Forgetful of my son, I sought the armsOf Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain:For that elusive shade, though closely pressed,460Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace.O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire,Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house,Child of a stock of too illustrious blood,Too like thy father, thou: such countenanceMy Hector had, with such a tread he walked,With such a motion did he lift his hands,Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set,And thus he oft from that high, noble browWould backward toss his flowing locks.—But thou,O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help,Too soon for me, will that time ever come,That happy day, when thou, the sole defense,470And sole avenger of our conquered Troy,Shalt raise again her fallen citadel,Recall her scattered citizens from flight,And give to fatherland and PhrygiansTheir name and fame again?—Alas, my son,Such hopes consort not with our present state.Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine—475The prayer for life.Ah me, what spot remoteCan hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-placeCan I bestow thee and abate my fears?Our city, once in pride of wealth secure,And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built,Well known of all, the envy of the world,Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low;480And from her vast extent of temples, wallsAnd towers, no part, no lurking-place remains,Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I chooseA covert safe? Behold the mighty tombWherein his father's sacred ashes lie,Whose massive pile the enemy has spared.This did old Priam rear in days of power,485Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed.Then to his father let me trust the child.—But at the very thought a chilling sweatInvades my trembling limbs, for much I fearThe gruesome omen of the place of death.490Old Man:In danger, haste to shelter where ye may;In safety, choose.Andromache:What hiding-place is safeFrom traitor's eyes?Old Man:All witnesses remove.Andromache:What if the foe inquire?Old Man:Then answer thus:"He perished in the city's overthrow."This cause alone ere now hath safety foundFor many from the stroke of death—beliefThat they have died.Andromache:But scanty hope is left;Too huge a weight of race doth press him down.Besides, what can it profit him to hide495Who must his shelter leave and face the foe?Old Man:The victor's deadliest purposes are first.Andromache:What trackless region, what obscure retreatShall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aidIn our distress and doubt? Who will defend?O thou, who always didst protect thine own,500My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trustWhich I in pious confidence impose;And in the faithful keeping of thy dustMay he in safety dwell, to live again.Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.505But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.For see what feeble forces now are left:A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.Then come, make bold to enter the abode,The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.If fate assist us in our wretchedness,510'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if lifeThe fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.

Andromache:What do ye here, sad throng of Phrygian dames?

Why tear your hair and beat your wretched breasts?410

Why stream your cheeks with tears? Our ills are light

If we endure a grief that tears can soothe.

You mourn a Troy whose walls but now have fall'n;

Troy fell for me long since, when that dread car

Of Peleus' son, urged on at cruel speed,

With doleful groanings 'neath his massive weight,

Dragged round the walls my Hector's mangled corse.415

Since then, o'erwhelmed and utterly undone,

With stony resignation do I bear

Whatever ills may come. But for this child,

Long since would I have saved me from the Greeks

And followed my dear lord; but thought of him

Doth check my purpose and forbid my death.

For his dear sake there still remaineth cause420

To supplicate the gods, an added care.

Through him the richest fruit of woe is lost—

The fear of naught; and now all hope of rest

From further ills is gone, for cruel fate

Hath still an entrance to my grieving heart.

Most sad his fear, who fears in hopelessness.425

An Old Man:What sudden cause of fear hath moved thee so?

Andromache:Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise.The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.

Andromache:Some greater ill from mighty ills doth rise.

The fate of fallen Troy is not yet stayed.

Old Man:What new disasters can the fates invent?

Andromache:The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms(Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow),430Are opened wide, and forth from lowest DisThe spirit of our buried foeman comes.(May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth?For death at least doth come to all alike.)That terror doth invade the hearts of all;But what I now relate is mine alone—435A terrifying vision of the night.

Andromache:The gates of deepest Styx, those darksome realms

(Lest fear be wanting to our overthrow),430

Are opened wide, and forth from lowest Dis

The spirit of our buried foeman comes.

(May Greeks alone retrace their steps to earth?

For death at least doth come to all alike.)

That terror doth invade the hearts of all;

But what I now relate is mine alone—435

A terrifying vision of the night.

Old Man:What was this vision? Speak and share thy fears.

Andromache:Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome.Then came to my afflicted soul a calm440Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes,For one brief hour did drowsy slumber stealIf that be sleep—the stupor of a soulForespent with ills: when suddenly I sawBefore mine eyes the shade of Hector stand;Not in such guise as when, with blazing torchHe strove in war against the Grecian ships,445Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierceAgainst the Danai, he gained true spoilFrom that feigned Peleus' son; not such his faceAll flaming with the eager battle light;But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own,All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks.450Still did my joy leap up at sight of him;And then he sadly shook his head and said:"Awake from sleep and save our son from death,O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie;Thus only can he life and safety find.Away with tears—why dost thou mourning makeFor fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n.455Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son,The stripling hope of this our vanquished home,Wherever safety lies."So did he speak,And chilling terror roused me from my sleep.Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes.Forgetful of my son, I sought the armsOf Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain:For that elusive shade, though closely pressed,460Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace.O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire,Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house,Child of a stock of too illustrious blood,Too like thy father, thou: such countenanceMy Hector had, with such a tread he walked,With such a motion did he lift his hands,Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set,And thus he oft from that high, noble browWould backward toss his flowing locks.—But thou,O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help,Too soon for me, will that time ever come,That happy day, when thou, the sole defense,470And sole avenger of our conquered Troy,Shalt raise again her fallen citadel,Recall her scattered citizens from flight,And give to fatherland and PhrygiansTheir name and fame again?—Alas, my son,Such hopes consort not with our present state.Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine—475The prayer for life.Ah me, what spot remoteCan hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-placeCan I bestow thee and abate my fears?Our city, once in pride of wealth secure,And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built,Well known of all, the envy of the world,Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low;480And from her vast extent of temples, wallsAnd towers, no part, no lurking-place remains,Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I chooseA covert safe? Behold the mighty tombWherein his father's sacred ashes lie,Whose massive pile the enemy has spared.This did old Priam rear in days of power,485Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed.Then to his father let me trust the child.—But at the very thought a chilling sweatInvades my trembling limbs, for much I fearThe gruesome omen of the place of death.490

Andromache:Now kindly night had passed her middle goal,

And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome.

Then came to my afflicted soul a calm440

Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes,

For one brief hour did drowsy slumber steal

If that be sleep—the stupor of a soul

Forespent with ills: when suddenly I saw

Before mine eyes the shade of Hector stand;

Not in such guise as when, with blazing torch

He strove in war against the Grecian ships,445

Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierce

Against the Danai, he gained true spoil

From that feigned Peleus' son; not such his face

All flaming with the eager battle light;

But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own,

All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks.450

Still did my joy leap up at sight of him;

And then he sadly shook his head and said:

"Awake from sleep and save our son from death,

O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie;

Thus only can he life and safety find.

Away with tears—why dost thou mourning make

For fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n.455

Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son,

The stripling hope of this our vanquished home,

Wherever safety lies."

So did he speak,

And chilling terror roused me from my sleep.

Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes.

Forgetful of my son, I sought the arms

Of Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain:

For that elusive shade, though closely pressed,460

Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace.

O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire,

Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house,

Child of a stock of too illustrious blood,

Too like thy father, thou: such countenance

My Hector had, with such a tread he walked,

With such a motion did he lift his hands,

Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set,

And thus he oft from that high, noble brow

Would backward toss his flowing locks.—But thou,

O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help,

Too soon for me, will that time ever come,

That happy day, when thou, the sole defense,470

And sole avenger of our conquered Troy,

Shalt raise again her fallen citadel,

Recall her scattered citizens from flight,

And give to fatherland and Phrygians

Their name and fame again?—Alas, my son,

Such hopes consort not with our present state.

Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine—475

The prayer for life.

Ah me, what spot remote

Can hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-place

Can I bestow thee and abate my fears?

Our city, once in pride of wealth secure,

And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built,

Well known of all, the envy of the world,

Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low;480

And from her vast extent of temples, walls

And towers, no part, no lurking-place remains,

Wherein a child might hide. Where shall I choose

A covert safe? Behold the mighty tomb

Wherein his father's sacred ashes lie,

Whose massive pile the enemy has spared.

This did old Priam rear in days of power,485

Whose grief no stinted sepulture bestowed.

Then to his father let me trust the child.—

But at the very thought a chilling sweat

Invades my trembling limbs, for much I fear

The gruesome omen of the place of death.490

Old Man:In danger, haste to shelter where ye may;In safety, choose.

Old Man:In danger, haste to shelter where ye may;

In safety, choose.

Andromache:What hiding-place is safeFrom traitor's eyes?

Andromache:What hiding-place is safe

From traitor's eyes?

Old Man:All witnesses remove.

Andromache:What if the foe inquire?

Old Man:Then answer thus:"He perished in the city's overthrow."This cause alone ere now hath safety foundFor many from the stroke of death—beliefThat they have died.

Old Man:Then answer thus:

"He perished in the city's overthrow."

This cause alone ere now hath safety found

For many from the stroke of death—belief

That they have died.

Andromache:But scanty hope is left;Too huge a weight of race doth press him down.Besides, what can it profit him to hide495Who must his shelter leave and face the foe?

Andromache:But scanty hope is left;

Too huge a weight of race doth press him down.

Besides, what can it profit him to hide495

Who must his shelter leave and face the foe?

Old Man:The victor's deadliest purposes are first.

Andromache:What trackless region, what obscure retreatShall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aidIn our distress and doubt? Who will defend?O thou, who always didst protect thine own,500My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trustWhich I in pious confidence impose;And in the faithful keeping of thy dustMay he in safety dwell, to live again.Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.505But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.For see what feeble forces now are left:A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.Then come, make bold to enter the abode,The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.If fate assist us in our wretchedness,510'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if lifeThe fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.

Andromache:What trackless region, what obscure retreat

Shall hold thee safe? Oh, who will bring us aid

In our distress and doubt? Who will defend?

O thou, who always didst protect thine own,500

My Hector, guard us still. Accept the trust

Which I in pious confidence impose;

And in the faithful keeping of thy dust

May he in safety dwell, to live again.

Then son, betake thee hither to the tomb.

Why backward strain, and shun that safe retreat?

I read thy nature right: thou scornest fear.505

But curb thy native pride, thy dauntless soul,

And bear thee as thine altered fates direct.

For see what feeble forces now are left:

A sepulcher, a boy, a captive band.

We cannot choose but yield us to our woes.

Then come, make bold to enter the abode,

The sacred dwelling of thy buried sire.

If fate assist us in our wretchedness,510

'Twill be to thee a safe retreat; if life

The fates deny, thou hast a sepulcher.

[The boy enters the tomb, and the gates are closed and barred behind him.]

Old Man:Now do the bolted gates protect their charge.But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaimWhere thou hast hid the boy, come far away.Andromache:Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear;515But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.

Old Man:Now do the bolted gates protect their charge.But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaimWhere thou hast hid the boy, come far away.

Old Man:Now do the bolted gates protect their charge.

But thou, lest any sign of fear proclaim

Where thou hast hid the boy, come far away.

Andromache:Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear;515But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.

Andromache:Who fears from near at hand, hath less of fear;515

But, if thou wilt, take we our steps away.

[Ulyssesis seen approaching.]

Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;For hither bends the Ithacan his course.Andromache[with a final appealing look toward the tomb]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rendTo even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,520And hide the sacred trust I gave to theeWithin the very bosom of the pit.Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.

Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;For hither bends the Ithacan his course.

Old Man: Now check thy words awhile, thy mourning cease;

For hither bends the Ithacan his course.

Andromache[with a final appealing look toward the tomb]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rendTo even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,520And hide the sacred trust I gave to theeWithin the very bosom of the pit.Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.

Andromache[with a final appealing look toward the tomb]: Yawn deep, O earth, and thou, my husband, rend

To even greater depths thy tomb's deep cave,520

And hide the sacred trust I gave to thee

Within the very bosom of the pit.

Now comes Ulysses, grave and slow of tread;

Methinks he plotteth mischief in his heart.

[EnterUlysses.]

Ulysses:As harsh fate's minister, I first imploreThat, though the words are uttered by my lips,525Thou count them not my own. They are the voiceOf all the Grecian chiefs, whom Hector's sonDoth still prohibit from that homeward voyageSo long delayed. And him the fates demand.A peace secure the Greeks can never feel,And ever will the backward-glancing fear530Compel them on defensive arms to lean,While on thy living son, Andromache,The conquered Phrygians shall rest their hopes.So doth the augur, Calchas, prophesy.Yet, even if our Calchas spake no word,Thy Hector once declared it, and I fearLest in his son a second Hector dwell;535For ever doth a noble scion growInto the stature of his noble sire.Behold the little comrade of the herd,His budding horns still hidden from the sight:Full soon with arching neck and lofty front,He doth command and lead his father's flock.540The slender twig, just lopped from parent bough,Its mother's height and girth surpasses soon,And casts its shade abroad to earth and sky.So doth a spark within the ashes left,Leap into flame again before the wind.Thy grief, I know, must partial judgment give;545Still, if thou weigh the matter, thou wilt grantThat after ten long years of grievous war.A veteran soldier doeth well to fearStill other years of slaughter, and thy TroyStill unsubdued. This fear one cause alone550Doth raise—another Hector. Free the GreeksFrom dread of war. For this and this aloneOur idle ships still wait along the shore.And let me not seem cruel in thy sight,For that, compelled of fate, I seek thy son:I should have sought our chieftain's son as well.Then gently suffer what the victor bids.555Andromache:Oh, that thou wert within my power to give,My son, and that I knew what cruel fateDoth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms—Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were piercedWith hostile spears, and though my hands with chainsWere bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides,560Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child.O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now?Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields?Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames?Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood?565Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain,And liest now a prey for savage birds?Ulysses:Away with feignéd speech; no easy taskFor thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boastThat mother's snares, and even goddesses'I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit.570Where is thy son?Andromache:And where is Hector too?Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians?Thouseekest one;myquest includes them all.Ulysses:By stern necessity thou soon shalt speakWhat thy free will withholds.Andromache:But safe is she,Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.Ulysses:But death brought near would still thy haughty words.Andromache:If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire575Andromache with fear, then threaten life;For death has long been object of my prayer.Ulysses:With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of deathShalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will,What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heartIts inmost secrets bring. Necessity580Doth often prove more strong than piety.Andromache:Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the artsDevised for cruel punishment: dire thirst,Starvation, every form of suffering;Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust;In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all585A victor, full of wrath and fear, can doOr dare; still will my mother heart, inspiredWith high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.Ulysses:This very love of thine, which makes thee bold,Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons.590This strife, from home remote, these ten long yearsOf war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads,Would slight appear to me, if for myselfI feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.Andromache:Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I giveTo thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy;Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe,The secret grief that doth oppress my soul.595Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,According to thy wont, glad tidings bearTo thy companions:Hector's son is dead.Ulysses:What proof have we that this thy word is true?Andromache:May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;600May I be buried in my native soil,May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:According as my son, deprived of light,Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tombConsigned, hath known the funeral honors dueTo those who live no more.605Ulysses[joyfully]:Then are the fatesIndeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead,And I with joy unto the Greeks will go,With grateful tale of peace at last secure.[Aside.]But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine!The Greeks will readily believethyword;But what dost thou believe?—his mother's oath.Would then a mother feign her offspring's death,And fear no baleful omens of that word?They omens fear who have no greater dread.610Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath.If that she perjured be, what greater fearDoth vex her soul? Now have I urgent needOf all my skill and cunning, all my arts,By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed;For truth, though long concealed, can never die.Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears,615Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,She wanders, and she strains her anxious earsTo catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,She more by present fear than grief is swayed.So must I ply her with the subtlest art.[ToAndromache.]When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathyTo speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,620Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willedThat from the lofty tower that doth remainAlone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed,And headlong fall to quick and certain death.Andromache[aside]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbsDo quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood.625Ulysses[aside]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fearWill I redouble.—[To attendants.]Go in haste, my men,And find this foe of Greece, the last defenseOf Troy, who by his mother's cunning handIs safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.[Pretending that the boy is discovered.]'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste.630[ToAndromache.]Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truthThy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.Andromache:Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now,My old habitual fear instinctive starts;The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.Ulysses:Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrificeThat to the walls was due, and hath escaped635By grace of better fate, our priest declaresThat only can our homeward way be wonIf Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves,Appease the sea, and this his sepulcherBe leveled with the ground. Since Hector's sonHas failed to pay the debt he owed to fate,640Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.Andromache[aside]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods,And ye, my husband's shades, true deities:645Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son,Save only thee; then may he still surviveTo bring thine image back to life and me.—Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?Shall I permit his bones to be the sportOf waves, and lie unburied in the sea?Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!—650And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless childTo awful death given up? Canst thou beholdHis body whirling from the battlements?I can, I shall endure and suffer this,Provided only, by his death appeased,The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.—But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate655Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decideWhom thou wilt designate for punishment.What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No moreIs Hector here.—Oh, say not so; I feelHe is both here and there. But sure am IThat this my child is still in life, perchanceTo be the avenger of his father's death.But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul,660Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.Ulysses[aside]: Now must I force her answer.[ToAndromache.]From its baseWill I this tomb destroy.Andromache:The tomb of himWhose body thou didst ransom for a price?Ulysses:I will destroy it, and the sepulcherFrom its high mound will utterly remove.665Andromache:The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke,And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou,O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.Ulysses:This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.Andromache:Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious,Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes,E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled;670But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.I will resist, and match your warriors' armsWith my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrathWill nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon,Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks;Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome,Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless gladesWith frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,675Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:So will I rush against ye in defenseOf Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,An ally of his shade.Ulysses[to attendants]:Do ye delay,And do a woman's tears and empty threatsAnd outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.680Andromache[struggling with attendants]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead![The attendants roughly thrust her away.]Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come,Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth,That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.Thy spirit will suffice.—Behold he comes!His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I,With solitary sight, alone behold?685Ulysses:This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.Andromache[aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sireTo be in common ruin overwhelmed?Perchance I may prevail upon the GreeksBy prayer.—But even now those massive stonesWill crush my hidden child.—Oh, let him die,In any other way, and anywhere,690If only father crush not son, and sonNo desecration bring to father's dust.[Casts herself at the feet ofUlysses.]A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall,Ulysses; I, who never yet to manHave bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.By all the gods, have pity on my woes,And with a calm and patient heart receiveMy pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers695Have high exalted thee in pride and might,The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.Whate'er is given to wretched suppliantIs loaned to fate. So mayst thou see againThy faithful wife; so may Laërtes liveTo greet thee yet again; so may thy sonBehold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray,700Excel his father's valor and the yearsOf old Laërtes. Pity my distress:The only comfort left me in my woe,Is this my son.Ulysses:Produce the boy—and pray.Andromache[goes to the tomb and calls toAstyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding705Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.[Astyanaxappears from the tomb. Andromachepresents him toUlysses.]Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him;The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet![ToAstyanax.]My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,And at the feet of this proud lord,Bend low in prayer, nor think it base710To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.Put out of mind thy regal birth,Thy agéd grandsire's glorious ruleOf wide domain; and think no moreOf Hector, thy illustrious sire.Be captive alone—bend the suppliant knee;715And if thine own fate move thee not,Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.[ToUlysses.]That older Troy beheld the tearsOf its youthful king, and those tears prevailedTo stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath,720The mighty Hercules. Yea he,To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded,Who burst the stubborn gates of hell,And o'er that murky way returned,Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy.725"Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said;"Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne,But reign with the scepter of power—and truth."Thus did that hero subdue his foes.And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance.730And let not the power of great Hercules, only,Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet,As noble a prince as Priam of oldPleads only for life! The kingdom of TroyLet fortune bestow where she will.735Ulysses[aside]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore;But still the Grecian dames must more prevail,Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.Andromache[hearing him]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town,To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again?740No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weakThat he need fear our power. Doth lofty thoughtOf mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?What valor can a fallen Hector stir?When this our Troy was lost, his father's selfWould then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;For woe can bend and break the proudest soul.745If punishment be sought, some heavier fateLet him endure; upon his royal neckLet him support the yoke of servitude.Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?Ulysses:Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.Andromache:O man of lies, artificer of crime,750By whom in open fight no foe is slain,But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mindThe very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intentBehind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:This deed within thy sinful heart was born.Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death755Of this poor boy, dost dare at length aloneTo do a deed, and that in open day?Ulysses:Ulysses' valor do the Grecians knowFull well, and all too well the Phrygians.But we are wasting time with empty words.The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.Andromache:But grant a brief delay, while to my son760I pay the rites of woe, and sate my griefWith tears and last embrace.Ulysses:I would 'twere mineTo spare thy tears; but what alone I may,I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe.765Andromache[toAstyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stayOf our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire,His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength:But God hath scorned my prayers.770Thou shalt not liveTo wield the scepter in the royal courtsOf ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws,And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes;Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks,Nor from thy car in retribution dragAchilles' son; the dart from thy small hand775Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chaseOf scattered beasts throughout the forest glades;And when the sacred lustral day is come,Troy's yearly ritual of festal games,The charging squadrons of the noble youthThou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born;Nor yet among the blazing altar fires,780With nimble feet the ancient sacred danceAt some barbaric temple celebrate,While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!More tearful sight than mighty Hector's endThe walls of Troy must see.785Ulysses:Now stay thy tears,For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.Andromache:Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,That I may close his eyes though living still,And do a mother's part.[ToAstyanax.]Lo, thou must die,For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,790And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.Astyanax:O mother, mother, pity me and save!Andromache:My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes,And seek the vain protection of my hand?As when the hungry lion's roar is heard,The frightened calf for safety presses close795Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast,Thrusting away the mother's timid form,With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey,And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too,Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.Then take my tears and kisses, O my son,Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love,800Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his earSpeak these, thy grieving mother's parting words:"If still thy manes feel their former cares,And on the pyre thy love was not consumed,Why dost thou suffer thy AndromacheTo serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?Why dost thou lie in careless indolence?805Achilles has returned."Take once againThese hairs, these flowing tears, which still remainFrom Hector's piteous death; this fond caressAnd rain of parting kisses take for him.But leave this cloak to comfort my distress,For it, within his tomb and near his shade,Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds810One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings,My eager lips shall seek it till they find.Ulysses:Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away,And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.

Ulysses:As harsh fate's minister, I first implore

That, though the words are uttered by my lips,525

Thou count them not my own. They are the voice

Of all the Grecian chiefs, whom Hector's son

Doth still prohibit from that homeward voyage

So long delayed. And him the fates demand.

A peace secure the Greeks can never feel,

And ever will the backward-glancing fear530

Compel them on defensive arms to lean,

While on thy living son, Andromache,

The conquered Phrygians shall rest their hopes.

So doth the augur, Calchas, prophesy.

Yet, even if our Calchas spake no word,

Thy Hector once declared it, and I fear

Lest in his son a second Hector dwell;535

For ever doth a noble scion grow

Into the stature of his noble sire.

Behold the little comrade of the herd,

His budding horns still hidden from the sight:

Full soon with arching neck and lofty front,

He doth command and lead his father's flock.540

The slender twig, just lopped from parent bough,

Its mother's height and girth surpasses soon,

And casts its shade abroad to earth and sky.

So doth a spark within the ashes left,

Leap into flame again before the wind.

Thy grief, I know, must partial judgment give;545

Still, if thou weigh the matter, thou wilt grant

That after ten long years of grievous war.

A veteran soldier doeth well to fear

Still other years of slaughter, and thy Troy

Still unsubdued. This fear one cause alone550

Doth raise—another Hector. Free the Greeks

From dread of war. For this and this alone

Our idle ships still wait along the shore.

And let me not seem cruel in thy sight,

For that, compelled of fate, I seek thy son:

I should have sought our chieftain's son as well.

Then gently suffer what the victor bids.555

Andromache:Oh, that thou wert within my power to give,My son, and that I knew what cruel fateDoth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms—Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were piercedWith hostile spears, and though my hands with chainsWere bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides,560Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child.O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now?Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields?Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames?Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood?565Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain,And liest now a prey for savage birds?

Andromache:Oh, that thou wert within my power to give,

My son, and that I knew what cruel fate

Doth hold thee now, snatched from my eager arms—

Where thou dost lie; then, though my breast were pierced

With hostile spears, and though my hands with chains

Were bound, and scorching flames begirt my sides,560

Thy mother's faith would ne'er betray her child.

O son, what place, what lot doth hold thee now?

Dost thou with wandering footsteps roam the fields?

Wast thou consumed amid the raging flames?

Hath some rude victor reveled in thy blood?565

Or, by some ravening beast hast thou been slain,

And liest now a prey for savage birds?

Ulysses:Away with feignéd speech; no easy taskFor thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boastThat mother's snares, and even goddesses'I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit.570Where is thy son?

Ulysses:Away with feignéd speech; no easy task

For thee to catch Ulysses: 'tis my boast

That mother's snares, and even goddesses'

I have o'ercome. Have done with vain deceit.570

Where is thy son?

Andromache:And where is Hector too?Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians?Thouseekest one;myquest includes them all.

Andromache:And where is Hector too?

Where agéd Priam and the Phrygians?

Thouseekest one;myquest includes them all.

Ulysses:By stern necessity thou soon shalt speakWhat thy free will withholds.

Ulysses:By stern necessity thou soon shalt speak

What thy free will withholds.

Andromache:But safe is she,Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.

Andromache:But safe is she,

Who can face death, who ought and longs to die.

Ulysses:But death brought near would still thy haughty words.

Andromache:If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire575Andromache with fear, then threaten life;For death has long been object of my prayer.

Andromache:If 'tis thy will, Ulysses, to inspire575

Andromache with fear, then threaten life;

For death has long been object of my prayer.

Ulysses:With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of deathShalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will,What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heartIts inmost secrets bring. Necessity580Doth often prove more strong than piety.

Ulysses:With stripes, with flames, with lingering pains of death

Shalt thou be forced to speak, against thy will,

What now thou dost conceal, and from thy heart

Its inmost secrets bring. Necessity580

Doth often prove more strong than piety.

Andromache:Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the artsDevised for cruel punishment: dire thirst,Starvation, every form of suffering;Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust;In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all585A victor, full of wrath and fear, can doOr dare; still will my mother heart, inspiredWith high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.

Andromache:Prepare thy flames, thy blows, and all the arts

Devised for cruel punishment: dire thirst,

Starvation, every form of suffering;

Come, rend my vitals with the sword's deep thrust;

In dungeon, foul and dark, immure; do all585

A victor, full of wrath and fear, can do

Or dare; still will my mother heart, inspired

With high and dauntless courage, scorn thy threats.

Ulysses:This very love of thine, which makes thee bold,Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons.590This strife, from home remote, these ten long yearsOf war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads,Would slight appear to me, if for myselfI feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.

Ulysses:This very love of thine, which makes thee bold,

Doth warn the Greeks to counsel for their sons.590

This strife, from home remote, these ten long years

Of war, and all the ills which Calchas dreads,

Would slight appear to me, if for myself

I feared: but thou dost threat Telemachus.

Andromache:Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I giveTo thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy;Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe,The secret grief that doth oppress my soul.595Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,According to thy wont, glad tidings bearTo thy companions:Hector's son is dead.

Andromache:Unwillingly, Ulysses, do I give

To thee, or any Grecian, cause of joy;

Yet must I give it, and speak out the woe,

The secret grief that doth oppress my soul.595

Rejoice, O sons of Atreus, and do thou,

According to thy wont, glad tidings bear

To thy companions:Hector's son is dead.

Ulysses:What proof have we that this thy word is true?

Andromache:May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;600May I be buried in my native soil,May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:According as my son, deprived of light,Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tombConsigned, hath known the funeral honors dueTo those who live no more.605

Andromache:May thy proud victor's strongest threat befall,

And bring my death with quick and easy stroke;600

May I be buried in my native soil,

May earth press lightly on my Hector's bones:

According as my son, deprived of light,

Amidst the dead doth lie, and, to the tomb

Consigned, hath known the funeral honors due

To those who live no more.605

Ulysses[joyfully]:Then are the fatesIndeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead,And I with joy unto the Greeks will go,With grateful tale of peace at last secure.[Aside.]But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine!The Greeks will readily believethyword;But what dost thou believe?—his mother's oath.Would then a mother feign her offspring's death,And fear no baleful omens of that word?They omens fear who have no greater dread.610Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath.If that she perjured be, what greater fearDoth vex her soul? Now have I urgent needOf all my skill and cunning, all my arts,By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed;For truth, though long concealed, can never die.Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears,615Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,She wanders, and she strains her anxious earsTo catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,She more by present fear than grief is swayed.So must I ply her with the subtlest art.[ToAndromache.]When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathyTo speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,620Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willedThat from the lofty tower that doth remainAlone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed,And headlong fall to quick and certain death.

Ulysses[joyfully]:Then are the fates

Indeed fulfilled, since Hector's son is dead,

And I with joy unto the Greeks will go,

With grateful tale of peace at last secure.

[Aside.]

But stay, Ulysses, this rash joy of thine!

The Greeks will readily believethyword;

But what dost thou believe?—his mother's oath.

Would then a mother feign her offspring's death,

And fear no baleful omens of that word?

They omens fear who have no greater dread.610

Her truth hath she upheld by straightest oath.

If that she perjured be, what greater fear

Doth vex her soul? Now have I urgent need

Of all my skill and cunning, all my arts,

By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed;

For truth, though long concealed, can never die.

Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears,615

Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there,

She wanders, and she strains her anxious ears

To catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident,

She more by present fear than grief is swayed.

So must I ply her with the subtlest art.

[ToAndromache.]

When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathy

To speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul,

I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son,620

Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willed

That from the lofty tower that doth remain

Alone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed,

And headlong fall to quick and certain death.

Andromache[aside]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbsDo quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood.625

Andromache[aside]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbs

Do quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood.625

Ulysses[aside]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fearWill I redouble.—[To attendants.]Go in haste, my men,And find this foe of Greece, the last defenseOf Troy, who by his mother's cunning handIs safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.[Pretending that the boy is discovered.]'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste.630[ToAndromache.]Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truthThy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.

Ulysses[aside]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.

Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fear

Will I redouble.—

[To attendants.]

Go in haste, my men,

And find this foe of Greece, the last defense

Of Troy, who by his mother's cunning hand

Is safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.

[Pretending that the boy is discovered.]

'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste.630

[ToAndromache.]

Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truth

Thy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.

Andromache:Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now,My old habitual fear instinctive starts;The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.

Andromache:Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now,

My old habitual fear instinctive starts;

The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.

Ulysses:Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrificeThat to the walls was due, and hath escaped635By grace of better fate, our priest declaresThat only can our homeward way be wonIf Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves,Appease the sea, and this his sepulcherBe leveled with the ground. Since Hector's sonHas failed to pay the debt he owed to fate,640Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.

Ulysses:Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrifice

That to the walls was due, and hath escaped635

By grace of better fate, our priest declares

That only can our homeward way be won

If Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves,

Appease the sea, and this his sepulcher

Be leveled with the ground. Since Hector's son

Has failed to pay the debt he owed to fate,640

Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.

Andromache[aside]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods,And ye, my husband's shades, true deities:645Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son,Save only thee; then may he still surviveTo bring thine image back to life and me.—Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?Shall I permit his bones to be the sportOf waves, and lie unburied in the sea?Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!—650And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless childTo awful death given up? Canst thou beholdHis body whirling from the battlements?I can, I shall endure and suffer this,Provided only, by his death appeased,The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.—But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate655Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decideWhom thou wilt designate for punishment.What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No moreIs Hector here.—Oh, say not so; I feelHe is both here and there. But sure am IThat this my child is still in life, perchanceTo be the avenger of his father's death.But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul,660Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.

Andromache[aside]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!

Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.

Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods,

And ye, my husband's shades, true deities:645

Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son,

Save only thee; then may he still survive

To bring thine image back to life and me.—

Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?

Shall I permit his bones to be the sport

Of waves, and lie unburied in the sea?

Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!—650

And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless child

To awful death given up? Canst thou behold

His body whirling from the battlements?

I can, I shall endure and suffer this,

Provided only, by his death appeased,

The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.—

But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate655

Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.

Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decide

Whom thou wilt designate for punishment.

What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No more

Is Hector here.—Oh, say not so; I feel

He is both here and there. But sure am I

That this my child is still in life, perchance

To be the avenger of his father's death.

But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul,660

Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.

Ulysses[aside]: Now must I force her answer.[ToAndromache.]From its baseWill I this tomb destroy.

Ulysses[aside]: Now must I force her answer.

[ToAndromache.]

From its base

Will I this tomb destroy.

Andromache:The tomb of himWhose body thou didst ransom for a price?

Andromache:The tomb of him

Whose body thou didst ransom for a price?

Ulysses:I will destroy it, and the sepulcherFrom its high mound will utterly remove.665

Ulysses:I will destroy it, and the sepulcher

From its high mound will utterly remove.665

Andromache:The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke,And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou,O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.

Andromache:The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke,

And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou,

O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.

Ulysses:This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.

Andromache:Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious,Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes,E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled;670But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.I will resist, and match your warriors' armsWith my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrathWill nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon,Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks;Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome,Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless gladesWith frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,675Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:So will I rush against ye in defenseOf Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,An ally of his shade.

Andromache:Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious,

Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes,

E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled;670

But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.

I will resist, and match your warriors' arms

With my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrath

Will nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon,

Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks;

Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome,

Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless glades

With frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft,675

Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke:

So will I rush against ye in defense

Of Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must,

An ally of his shade.

Ulysses[to attendants]:Do ye delay,And do a woman's tears and empty threatsAnd outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.680

Ulysses[to attendants]:Do ye delay,

And do a woman's tears and empty threats

And outcry move you? Speed the task I bid.680

Andromache[struggling with attendants]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead![The attendants roughly thrust her away.]Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come,Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth,That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.Thy spirit will suffice.—Behold he comes!His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I,With solitary sight, alone behold?685

Andromache[struggling with attendants]: Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead!

[The attendants roughly thrust her away.]

Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come,

Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth,

That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.

Thy spirit will suffice.—Behold he comes!

His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.

Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I,

With solitary sight, alone behold?685

Ulysses:This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.

Andromache[aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sireTo be in common ruin overwhelmed?Perchance I may prevail upon the GreeksBy prayer.—But even now those massive stonesWill crush my hidden child.—Oh, let him die,In any other way, and anywhere,690If only father crush not son, and sonNo desecration bring to father's dust.[Casts herself at the feet ofUlysses.]A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall,Ulysses; I, who never yet to manHave bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.By all the gods, have pity on my woes,And with a calm and patient heart receiveMy pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers695Have high exalted thee in pride and might,The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.Whate'er is given to wretched suppliantIs loaned to fate. So mayst thou see againThy faithful wife; so may Laërtes liveTo greet thee yet again; so may thy sonBehold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray,700Excel his father's valor and the yearsOf old Laërtes. Pity my distress:The only comfort left me in my woe,Is this my son.

Andromache[aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sire

To be in common ruin overwhelmed?

Perchance I may prevail upon the Greeks

By prayer.—But even now those massive stones

Will crush my hidden child.—Oh, let him die,

In any other way, and anywhere,690

If only father crush not son, and son

No desecration bring to father's dust.

[Casts herself at the feet ofUlysses.]

A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall,

Ulysses; I, who never yet to man

Have bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.

By all the gods, have pity on my woes,

And with a calm and patient heart receive

My pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers695

Have high exalted thee in pride and might,

The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.

Whate'er is given to wretched suppliant

Is loaned to fate. So mayst thou see again

Thy faithful wife; so may Laërtes live

To greet thee yet again; so may thy son

Behold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray,700

Excel his father's valor and the years

Of old Laërtes. Pity my distress:

The only comfort left me in my woe,

Is this my son.

Ulysses:Produce the boy—and pray.

Andromache[goes to the tomb and calls toAstyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding705Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.[Astyanaxappears from the tomb. Andromachepresents him toUlysses.]Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him;The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet![ToAstyanax.]My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,And at the feet of this proud lord,Bend low in prayer, nor think it base710To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.Put out of mind thy regal birth,Thy agéd grandsire's glorious ruleOf wide domain; and think no moreOf Hector, thy illustrious sire.Be captive alone—bend the suppliant knee;715And if thine own fate move thee not,Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.[ToUlysses.]That older Troy beheld the tearsOf its youthful king, and those tears prevailedTo stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath,720The mighty Hercules. Yea he,To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded,Who burst the stubborn gates of hell,And o'er that murky way returned,Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy.725"Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said;"Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne,But reign with the scepter of power—and truth."Thus did that hero subdue his foes.And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance.730And let not the power of great Hercules, only,Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet,As noble a prince as Priam of oldPleads only for life! The kingdom of TroyLet fortune bestow where she will.735

Andromache[goes to the tomb and calls toAstyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding705

Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.

[Astyanaxappears from the tomb. Andromachepresents him toUlysses.]

Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him;

The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet!

[ToAstyanax.]

My son, thy suppliant hands upraise,

And at the feet of this proud lord,

Bend low in prayer, nor think it base710

To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.

Put out of mind thy regal birth,

Thy agéd grandsire's glorious rule

Of wide domain; and think no more

Of Hector, thy illustrious sire.

Be captive alone—bend the suppliant knee;715

And if thine own fate move thee not,

Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.

[ToUlysses.]

That older Troy beheld the tears

Of its youthful king, and those tears prevailed

To stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath,720

The mighty Hercules. Yea he,

To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded,

Who burst the stubborn gates of hell,

And o'er that murky way returned,

Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy.725

"Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said;

"Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne,

But reign with the scepter of power—and truth."

Thus did that hero subdue his foes.

And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance.730

And let not the power of great Hercules, only,

Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet,

As noble a prince as Priam of old

Pleads only for life! The kingdom of Troy

Let fortune bestow where she will.735

Ulysses[aside]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore;But still the Grecian dames must more prevail,Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.

Ulysses[aside]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore;

But still the Grecian dames must more prevail,

Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.

Andromache[hearing him]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town,To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again?740No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weakThat he need fear our power. Doth lofty thoughtOf mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?What valor can a fallen Hector stir?When this our Troy was lost, his father's selfWould then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;For woe can bend and break the proudest soul.745If punishment be sought, some heavier fateLet him endure; upon his royal neckLet him support the yoke of servitude.Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?

Andromache[hearing him]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town,

To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?

Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again?740

No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.

So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weak

That he need fear our power. Doth lofty thought

Of mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?

What valor can a fallen Hector stir?

When this our Troy was lost, his father's self

Would then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride;

For woe can bend and break the proudest soul.745

If punishment be sought, some heavier fate

Let him endure; upon his royal neck

Let him support the yoke of servitude.

Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?

Ulysses:Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.

Andromache:O man of lies, artificer of crime,750By whom in open fight no foe is slain,But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mindThe very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intentBehind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:This deed within thy sinful heart was born.Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death755Of this poor boy, dost dare at length aloneTo do a deed, and that in open day?

Andromache:O man of lies, artificer of crime,750

By whom in open fight no foe is slain,

But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mind

The very chiefs of Greece are overthrown,

Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intent

Behind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay:

This deed within thy sinful heart was born.

Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death755

Of this poor boy, dost dare at length alone

To do a deed, and that in open day?

Ulysses:Ulysses' valor do the Grecians knowFull well, and all too well the Phrygians.But we are wasting time with empty words.The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.

Ulysses:Ulysses' valor do the Grecians know

Full well, and all too well the Phrygians.

But we are wasting time with empty words.

The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.

Andromache:But grant a brief delay, while to my son760I pay the rites of woe, and sate my griefWith tears and last embrace.

Andromache:But grant a brief delay, while to my son760

I pay the rites of woe, and sate my grief

With tears and last embrace.

Ulysses:I would 'twere mineTo spare thy tears; but what alone I may,I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe.765

Ulysses:I would 'twere mine

To spare thy tears; but what alone I may,

I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.

Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe.765

Andromache[toAstyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stayOf our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire,His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength:But God hath scorned my prayers.770Thou shalt not liveTo wield the scepter in the royal courtsOf ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws,And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes;Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks,Nor from thy car in retribution dragAchilles' son; the dart from thy small hand775Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chaseOf scattered beasts throughout the forest glades;And when the sacred lustral day is come,Troy's yearly ritual of festal games,The charging squadrons of the noble youthThou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born;Nor yet among the blazing altar fires,780With nimble feet the ancient sacred danceAt some barbaric temple celebrate,While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!More tearful sight than mighty Hector's endThe walls of Troy must see.785

Andromache[toAstyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stay

Of our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy;

O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope,

Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind,

I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire,

His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength:

But God hath scorned my prayers.770

Thou shalt not live

To wield the scepter in the royal courts

Of ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws,

And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes;

Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks,

Nor from thy car in retribution drag

Achilles' son; the dart from thy small hand775

Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chase

Of scattered beasts throughout the forest glades;

And when the sacred lustral day is come,

Troy's yearly ritual of festal games,

The charging squadrons of the noble youth

Thou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born;

Nor yet among the blazing altar fires,780

With nimble feet the ancient sacred dance

At some barbaric temple celebrate,

While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.

Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!

More tearful sight than mighty Hector's end

The walls of Troy must see.785

Ulysses:Now stay thy tears,For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.

Ulysses:Now stay thy tears,

For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.

Andromache:Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,That I may close his eyes though living still,And do a mother's part.[ToAstyanax.]Lo, thou must die,For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,790And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.

Andromache:Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask;

Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant,

That I may close his eyes though living still,

And do a mother's part.

[ToAstyanax.]

Lo, thou must die,

For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.

Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride,790

And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.

Astyanax:O mother, mother, pity me and save!

Andromache:My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes,And seek the vain protection of my hand?As when the hungry lion's roar is heard,The frightened calf for safety presses close795Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast,Thrusting away the mother's timid form,With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey,And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too,Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.Then take my tears and kisses, O my son,Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love,800Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his earSpeak these, thy grieving mother's parting words:"If still thy manes feel their former cares,And on the pyre thy love was not consumed,Why dost thou suffer thy AndromacheTo serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?Why dost thou lie in careless indolence?805Achilles has returned."Take once againThese hairs, these flowing tears, which still remainFrom Hector's piteous death; this fond caressAnd rain of parting kisses take for him.But leave this cloak to comfort my distress,For it, within his tomb and near his shade,Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds810One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings,My eager lips shall seek it till they find.

Andromache:My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes,

And seek the vain protection of my hand?

As when the hungry lion's roar is heard,

The frightened calf for safety presses close795

Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast,

Thrusting away the mother's timid form,

With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey,

And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too,

Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.

Then take my tears and kisses, O my son,

Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love,800

Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his ear

Speak these, thy grieving mother's parting words:

"If still thy manes feel their former cares,

And on the pyre thy love was not consumed,

Why dost thou suffer thy Andromache

To serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?

Why dost thou lie in careless indolence?805

Achilles has returned."

Take once again

These hairs, these flowing tears, which still remain

From Hector's piteous death; this fond caress

And rain of parting kisses take for him.

But leave this cloak to comfort my distress,

For it, within his tomb and near his shade,

Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds810

One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings,

My eager lips shall seek it till they find.

Ulysses:Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away,And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.

Ulysses:Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away,

And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.

[He leads the boy away with him.]

Chorus:Where lies the home of our captivity?On Thessaly's famed mountain heights?Where Tempe's dusky shade invites?815Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home,Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam?Iolchos, mistress of the main,Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain?820Where frequent flow Mothone's rills,Beneath the shade of Oete's hills,Whence came Alcides' fatal bowTwice destined for our overthrow?825But whither shall our alien course be sped?Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go,Where Dian's self was counted foe;Perchance to Troezen's winding shore,The land which mighty Theseus bore;Or Pelion, by whose rugged sideTheir mad ascent the giants tried.Here, stretched within his mountain cave,830Once Chiron to Achilles gaveThe lyre, whose stirring strains attestThe warlike passions of his breast.835What foreign shore our homeless band invites?Must we our native country deemWhere bright Carystos' marbles gleam?Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide,And swift Euripus' waters glide?Perchance unhappy fortune calls840To bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls;Perchance our wondering eyes shall seeEleusin's awful mystery;845Or Elis, where great heroes stroveTo win the Olympic crown of Jove.850Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea!Let breezes waft our wretched band,Where'er they list, to any land;If only Sparta's curséd state(To Greeks and Trojans common fate)And Argos, never meet our view,And bloody Pelops' city too;855May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle,Whose borders share their master's guile.But thee, O Hecuba, what fate,What land, what Grecian lord await?860

Chorus:Where lies the home of our captivity?

On Thessaly's famed mountain heights?

Where Tempe's dusky shade invites?815

Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home,

Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam?

Iolchos, mistress of the main,

Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain?820

Where frequent flow Mothone's rills,

Beneath the shade of Oete's hills,

Whence came Alcides' fatal bow

Twice destined for our overthrow?825

But whither shall our alien course be sped?

Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go,

Where Dian's self was counted foe;

Perchance to Troezen's winding shore,

The land which mighty Theseus bore;

Or Pelion, by whose rugged side

Their mad ascent the giants tried.

Here, stretched within his mountain cave,830

Once Chiron to Achilles gave

The lyre, whose stirring strains attest

The warlike passions of his breast.835

What foreign shore our homeless band invites?

Must we our native country deem

Where bright Carystos' marbles gleam?

Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide,

And swift Euripus' waters glide?

Perchance unhappy fortune calls840

To bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls;

Perchance our wondering eyes shall see

Eleusin's awful mystery;845

Or Elis, where great heroes strove

To win the Olympic crown of Jove.850

Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea!

Let breezes waft our wretched band,

Where'er they list, to any land;

If only Sparta's curséd state

(To Greeks and Trojans common fate)

And Argos, never meet our view,

And bloody Pelops' city too;855

May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle,

Whose borders share their master's guile.

But thee, O Hecuba, what fate,

What land, what Grecian lord await?860

[EnterHelen.]

Helen[aside]: Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate,Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears,Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.And now must I still further harm inflictUpon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my partTo feign Polyxena, the royal maid,Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife,865And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.So by my artful words shall she be snared,And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.But let her be deceived; 'tis better so;To die without the shrinking fear of deathIs joy indeed. But why dost thou delayThy bidden task? If aught of sin there be,870'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.[ToPolyxena.]O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock,The gods begin to look upon thy houseIn kinder mood, and even now prepareTo grant thee happy marriage; such a mateAs neither Troy herself in all her powerNor royal Priam could have found for thee.875For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords,Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plainsAcknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own,And Thetis, whose majestic deityDoth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphsWho dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' bride880Thou shalt be called the child of Peleus old,And Nereus the divine.Then change the garbOf thy captivity for festal robes,And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permitThat I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head.885This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throneMore lofty far than ever Priam saw.The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.Andromache:This was the one thing lacking to our woes—That they should bid us smile when we would weep.See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;A fitting time to talk of marriages!890But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?And dost thou see these poor unburied bonesThat everywhere lie whitening on the plain?This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.895For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for theeDid Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!What need of torches for the solemn rites?What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth900The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.Then come, my sisters, come and celebrateLord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:With groans and wailing let the scene resound.Helen:Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,And oft the very comrades of its woe,Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand905And plead my cause before a hostile judge,For I have suffered heavier ills than these.Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,And Hecuba her Priam; each may claimThe public sympathy; but HelenaAlone must weep for Paris secretly.Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard910To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lieIn dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hardTo lose one's native land, but harder stillTo fear the land that gave you birth. Your woesAre lightened by community of grief;But friend and foe are foes alike to me.Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt915That sorts you to your lords; but I alone,Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.Think you that I have been the cause of war,And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it trueIf in a Spartan vessel I approachedYour land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,920I came a helpless prey; if to the judgeOf beauty's rival claims I fell the prizeBy conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,The plaything of the fates. An angry judgeFull soon my cause shall have—my Grecian lord.Then leave to him the question of my guilt,And judge me not.But now forget thy woesA little space, Andromache, and bid925This royal maid—but as I think on herMy tears unbidden flow.

Helen[aside]: Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate,

Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears,

Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.

And now must I still further harm inflict

Upon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my part

To feign Polyxena, the royal maid,

Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife,865

And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.

So by my artful words shall she be snared,

And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.

But let her be deceived; 'tis better so;

To die without the shrinking fear of death

Is joy indeed. But why dost thou delay

Thy bidden task? If aught of sin there be,870

'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.

[ToPolyxena.]

O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock,

The gods begin to look upon thy house

In kinder mood, and even now prepare

To grant thee happy marriage; such a mate

As neither Troy herself in all her power

Nor royal Priam could have found for thee.875

For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords,

Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plains

Acknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.

Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own,

And Thetis, whose majestic deity

Doth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphs

Who dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' bride880

Thou shalt be called the child of Peleus old,

And Nereus the divine.

Then change the garb

Of thy captivity for festal robes,

And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.

Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permit

That I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head.885

This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throne

More lofty far than ever Priam saw.

The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.

Andromache:This was the one thing lacking to our woes—That they should bid us smile when we would weep.See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;A fitting time to talk of marriages!890But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?And dost thou see these poor unburied bonesThat everywhere lie whitening on the plain?This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.895For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for theeDid Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!What need of torches for the solemn rites?What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth900The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.Then come, my sisters, come and celebrateLord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:With groans and wailing let the scene resound.

Andromache:This was the one thing lacking to our woes—

That they should bid us smile when we would weep.

See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;

A fitting time to talk of marriages!890

But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,

Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?

Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,

Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,

Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?

And dost thou see these poor unburied bones

That everywhere lie whitening on the plain?

This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.895

For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for thee

Did Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,

Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,

Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!

There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!

What need of torches for the solemn rites?

What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth900

The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.

Then come, my sisters, come and celebrate

Lord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:

With groans and wailing let the scene resound.

Helen:Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,And oft the very comrades of its woe,Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand905And plead my cause before a hostile judge,For I have suffered heavier ills than these.Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,And Hecuba her Priam; each may claimThe public sympathy; but HelenaAlone must weep for Paris secretly.Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard910To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lieIn dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hardTo lose one's native land, but harder stillTo fear the land that gave you birth. Your woesAre lightened by community of grief;But friend and foe are foes alike to me.Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt915That sorts you to your lords; but I alone,Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.Think you that I have been the cause of war,And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it trueIf in a Spartan vessel I approachedYour land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,920I came a helpless prey; if to the judgeOf beauty's rival claims I fell the prizeBy conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,The plaything of the fates. An angry judgeFull soon my cause shall have—my Grecian lord.Then leave to him the question of my guilt,And judge me not.But now forget thy woesA little space, Andromache, and bid925This royal maid—but as I think on herMy tears unbidden flow.

Helen:Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,

And oft the very comrades of its woe,

Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand905

And plead my cause before a hostile judge,

For I have suffered heavier ills than these.

Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,

And Hecuba her Priam; each may claim

The public sympathy; but Helena

Alone must weep for Paris secretly.

Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard910

To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,

Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lie

In dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hard

To lose one's native land, but harder still

To fear the land that gave you birth. Your woes

Are lightened by community of grief;

But friend and foe are foes alike to me.

Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt915

That sorts you to your lords; but I alone,

Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.

Think you that I have been the cause of war,

And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it true

If in a Spartan vessel I approached

Your land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,920

I came a helpless prey; if to the judge

Of beauty's rival claims I fell the prize

By conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,

The plaything of the fates. An angry judge

Full soon my cause shall have—my Grecian lord.

Then leave to him the question of my guilt,

And judge me not.

But now forget thy woes

A little space, Andromache, and bid925

This royal maid—but as I think on her

My tears unbidden flow.

[She stops, overcome by emotion.]

Back to Index Next