In Salamis, filled with the foamingOf billows and murmur of bees,Old Telamon stayed from his roaming,Long ago, on a throne of the seas;Looking out on the hills olive-laden,Enchanted, where first from the earthThe grey-gleaming fruit of the MaidenAthena had birth;A soft grey crown for a cityBelovèd, a City of Light:Yet he rested not there, nor had pity,But went forth in his might,Where Heracles wandered, the lonelyBow-bearer, and lent him his handsFor the wrecking of one land only,Of Ilion, Ilion only,Most hated of lands!
[Antistrophe1
Of the bravest of Hellas he made himA ship-folk, in wrath for the Steeds,And sailed the wide waters, and stayed himAt last amid Simoïs' reeds;And the oars beat slow in the river,And the long ropes held in the strand,And he felt for his bow and his quiver,The wrath of his hand.And the old king died; and the towersThat Phoebus had builded did fall,And his wrath, as a flame that devours,Ran red over all;And the fields and the woodlands lay blasted,Long ago. Yea, twice hath the SireUplifted his hand and downcast itOn the wall of the Dardan, downcast itAs a sword and as fire.
[Strophe2.
In vain, all in vain,O thou 'mid the wine-jars goldenThat movest in delicate joy,Ganymêdês, child of Troy,The lips of the Highest drainThe cup in thine hand upholden:And thy mother, thy mother that bore thee,Is wasted with fire and torn;And the voice of her shores is heard,Wild, as the voice of a bird,For lovers and children before theeCrying, and mothers outworn.And the pools of thy bathing are perished,And the wind-strewn ways of thy feet:Yet thy face as aforetime is cherishedOf Zeus, and the breath of it sweet;Yea, the beauty of Calm is upon itIn houses at rest and afar.But thy land, He hath wrecked and o'erthrown itIn the wailing of war.
[Antistrophe2.
O Love, ancient Love,Of old to the Dardan given;Love of the Lords of the Sky;How didst thou lift us highIn Ilion, yea, and aboveAll cities, as wed with heaven!For Zeus—O leave it unspoken:But alas for the love of the Morn;Morn of the milk-white wing,The gentle, the earth-loving,That shineth on battlements brokenIn Troy, and a people forlorn!And, lo, in her bowers Tithônus,Our brother, yet sleeps as of old:O, she too hath loved us and known us,And the Steeds of her star, flashing gold,Stooped hither and bore him above us;Then blessed we the Gods in our joy.But all that made them to love usHath perished from Troy.
[As the song ceases, the KingMenelausenters, richly armed and followed by a bodyguard of Soldiers.He is a prey to violent and conflicting emotions.
Menelaus.
How bright the face of heaven, and how sweetThe air this day, that layeth at my feetThe woman that I . . . Nay: 'twas not for herI came. 'Twas for the man, the cozenerAnd thief, that ate with me and stole awayMy bride. But Paris lieth, this long day,By God's grace, under the horse-hoofs of the Greek,And round him all his land. And now I seek . . .Curse her! I scarce can speak the name she bears,That was my wife. Here with the prisonersThey keep her, in these huts, among the hordesOf numbered slaves.—The host whose labouring swordsWon her, have given her up to me, to fillMy pleasure; perchance kill her, or not kill,But lead her home.—Methinks I have foregoneThe slaying of Helen here in Ilion . . .Over the long seas I will bear her back,And there, there, cast her out to whatso wrackOf angry death they may devise, who knowTheir dearest dead for her in Ilion.—Ho!Ye soldiers! Up into the chambers whereShe croucheth! Grip the long blood-reeking hair,And drag her to mine eyes . . . [Controlling himself.And when there comeFair breezes, my long ships shall bear her home.
[The Soldiers go to force open the door of the second hut on the left.
Hecuba.
Thou deep Base of the World, and thou high ThroneAbove the World, whoe'er thou art, unknownAnd hard of surmise, Chain of Things that be,Or Reason of our Reason; God, to theeI lift my praise, seeing the silent roadThat bringeth justice ere the end be trodTo all that breathes and dies.
Menelaus(turning).
Ha! who is thereThat prayeth heaven, and in so strange a prayer?
Hecuba.
I bless thee, Menelaus, I bless thee,If thou wilt slay her! Only fear to seeHer visage, lest she snare thee and thou fall!She snareth strong men's eyes; she snareth tallCities; and fire from out her eateth upHouses. Such magic hath she, as a cupOf death! . . . Do I not know her? Yea, and thou,And these that lie around, do they not know?
[The Soldiers return from the hut and stand aside to letHelenpass between them.She comes through them, gentle and unafraid: there is no disorder in her raiment.
Helen.
King Menelaus, thy first deed might makeA woman fear. Into my chamber brakeThine armèd men, and lead me wrathfully.Methinks, almost, I know thou hatest me.Yet I would ask thee, what decree is goneForth for my life or death?
Menelaus(struggling with his emotion).
There was not oneThat scrupled for thee. All, all with one willGave thee to me, whom thou hast wronged, to kill!
Helen.
And is it granted that I speak, or no,In answer to them ere I die, to showI die most wronged and innocent?
Menelaus.
I seekTo kill thee, woman; not to hear thee speak!
Hecuba.
O hear her! She must never die unheard,King Menelaus! And give me the wordTo speak in answer! All the wrong she wroughtAway from thee, in Troy, thou knowest not.The whole tale set together is a deathToo sure; she shall not 'scape thee!
Menelaus.
'Tis but breathAnd time. For thy sake, Hecuba, if she needTo speak, I grant the prayer. I have no heedNor mercy—let her know it well—for her!
Helen.
It may be that, how false or true soe'erThou deem me, I shall win no word from thee.So sore thou holdest me thine enemy.Yet I will take what words I think thy heartHoldeth of anger: and in even partSet my wrong and thy wrong, and all that fell.
[Pointing toHecuba.
Shecometh first, who bare the seed and wellOf springing sorrow, when to life she broughtParis: and that old King, who quenchèd notQuick in the spark, ere yet he woke to slay,The firebrand's image.—But enough: a dayCame, and this Paris judged beneath the treesThree Crowns of Life, three diverse Goddesses.The gift of Pallas was of War, to leadHis East in conquering battles, and make bleedThe hearths of Hellas. Hera held a Throne—If majesties he craved—to reign aloneFrom Phrygia to the last realm of the West.And Cypris, if he deemed her loveliest,Beyond all heaven, made dreams about my faceAnd for her grace gave me. And, lo! her graceWas judged the fairest, and she stood aboveThose twain.—Thus was I loved, and thus my loveHath holpen Hellas. No fierce Eastern crownIs o'er your lands, no spear hath cast them down.O, it was well for Hellas! But for meMost ill; caught up and sold across the seaFor this my beauty; yea, dishonourèdFor that which else had been about my headA crown of honour. . . . Ah, I see thy thought;The first plain deed, 'tis that I answer not,How in the dark out of thy house I fled . . .There came the Seed of Fire, this woman's seed;Came—O, a Goddess great walked with him then—This Alexander, Breaker-down-of-Men,This Paris, Strength-is-with-him; whom thou, whom—O false and light of heart—thou in thy roomDidst leave, and spreadest sail for Cretan seas,Far, far from me! . . . And yet, how strange it is!I ask not thee; I ask my own sad thought,What was there in my heart, that I forgotMy home and land and all I loved, to flyWith a strange man? Surely it was not I,But Cypris, there! Lay thou thy rod on her,And be more high than Zeus and bitterer,Who o'er all other spirits hath his throne,But knows her chain must bind him. My wrong doneHath its own pardon. . . .One word yet thou hast,Methinks, of righteous seeming. When at lastThe earth for Paris oped and all was o'er,And her strange magic bound my feet no more,Why kept I still his house, why fled not ITo the Argive ships? . . . Ah, how I strove to fly!The old Gate-Warden could have told thee all,My husband, and the watchers from the wall;It was not once they took me, with the ropeTied, and this body swung in the air, to gropeIts way towardthee, from that dim battlement.Ah, husband still, how shall thy hand be bentTo slay me? Nay, if Right be come at last,What shalt thou bring but comfort for pains past,And harbour for a woman storm-driven:A woman borne away by violent men:And this one birthright of my beauty, thisThat might have been my glory, lo, it isA stamp that God hath burned, of slavery!Alas! and if thou cravest still to beAs one set above gods, inviolate,'Tis but a fruitless longing holds thee yet.
Leader.
O Queen, think of thy children and thy land,And break her spell! The sweet soft speech, the handAnd heart so fell: it maketh me afraid.
Hecuba.
Meseems her goddesses first cry mine aidAgainst these lying lips! . . . Not Hera, nay,Nor virgin Pallas deem I such low clay,To barter their own folk, Argos and braveAthens, to be trod down, the Phrygian's slave,All for vain glory and a shepherd's prizeOn Ida! Wherefore should great Hera's eyesSo hunger to be fair?Shedoth not useTo seek for other loves, being wed with Zeus.And maiden Pallas . . . did some strange god's faceBeguile her, that she craved for loveliness,Who chose from God one virgin gift aboveAll gifts, and fleëth from the lips of love?Ah, deck not out thine own heart's evil springsBy making spirits of heaven as brutish thingsAnd cruel. The wise may hear thee, and guess all!And Cypris must take ship—fantastical!Sail with my son and enter at the gateTo seek thee! Had she willed it, she had sateAt peace in heaven, and wafted thee, and allAmyclae with thee, under Ilion's wall.My son was passing beautiful, beyondHis peers; and thine own heart, that saw and connedHis face, became a spirit enchanting thee.For all wild things that in mortalityHave being, are Aphroditê; and the nameShe bears in heaven is born and writ of them.Thou sawest him in gold and orient vestShining, and lo, a fire about thy breastLeapt! Thou hadst fed upon such little things,Pacing thy ways in Argos. But now wingsWere come! Once free from Sparta, and there rolledThe Ilian glory, like broad streams of gold,To steep thine arms and splash the towers! How small,How cold that day was Menelaus' hall!Enough of that. It was by force my sonTook thee, thou sayst, and striving. . . . Yet not oneIn Sparta knew! No cry, no sudden prayerRang from thy rooms that night. . . . Castor was thereTo hear thee, and his brother: both true men,Not yet among the stars! And after, whenThou camest here to Troy, and in thy trackArgos and all its anguish and the rackOf war—Ah God!—perchance men told thee 'NowThe Greek prevails in battle': then wouldst thouPraise Menelaus, that my son might smart,Striving with that old image in a heartUncertain still. Then Troy had victories:And this Greek was as naught! Alway thine eyesWatched Fortune's eyes, to follow hot where sheLed first. Thou wouldst not follow Honesty.Thy secret ropes, thy body swung to fallFar, like a desperate prisoner, from the wall!Who found thee so? When wast thou taken? Nay,Hadst thou no surer rope, no sudden wayOf the sword, that any woman honest-souledHad sought long since, loving her lord of old?Often and often did I charge thee; 'Go,My daughter; go thy ways. My sons will knowNew loves. I will give aid, and steal thee pastThe Argive watch. O give us peace at last,Us and our foes!' But out thy spirit criedAs at a bitter word. Thou hadst thy prideIn Alexander's house, and O, 'twas sweetTo hold proud Easterns bowing at thy feet.They were great things to thee! . . . And comest thou nowForth, and hast decked thy bosom and thy brow,And breathest with thy lord the same blue air,Thou evil heart? Low, low, with ravaged hair,Rent raiment, and flesh shuddering, and within—O shame at last, not glory for thy sin;So face him if thou canst! . . . Lo, I have done.Be true, O King; let Hellas bear her crownOf Justice. Slay this woman, and upraiseThe law for evermore: she that betraysHer husband's bed, let her be judged and die.
Leader.
Be strong, O King; give judgment worthilyFor thee and thy great house. Shake off thy longReproach; not weak, but iron against the wrong!
Menelaus.
Thy thought doth walk with mine in one intent.'Tis sure; her heart was willing, when she wentForth to a stranger's bed. And all her fairTale of enchantment, 'tis a thing of air! . . .
[Turning furiously uponHelen.
Out, woman! There be those that seek thee yetWith stones! Go, meet them. So shall thy long debtBe paid at last. And ere this night is o'erThy dead face shall dishonour me no more!
Helen(kneeling before him and embracing him).
Behold, mine arms are wreathed about thy knees;Lay not upon my head the phantasiesOf Heaven. Remember all, and slay me not!
Hecuba.
Remember them she murdered, them that foughtBeside thee, and their children! Hear that prayer!
Menelaus.
Peace, agèd woman, peace! 'Tis not for her;She is as naught to me.(To the Soldiers) . . . March on before,Ye ministers, and tend her to the shore . . .And have some chambered galley set for her,Where she may sail the seas.
Hecuba.
Ifthoube there,I charge thee, let not her set foot therein!
Menelaus.
How? Shall the ship go heavier for her sin?
Hecuba.
A lover once, will alway love again.
Menelaus.
If that he loved be evil, he will fainHate it! . . . Howbeit, thy pleasure shall be done.Some other ship shall bear her, not mine own. . . .Thou counsellest very well . . . And when we comeTo Argos, then . . . O then some pitiless doomWell-earned, black as her heart! One that shall bindOnce for all time the law on womankindOf faithfulness! . . . 'Twill be no easy thing,God knoweth. But the thought thereof shall flingA chill on the dreams of women, though they beWilder of wing and loathèd more than she!
[Exit, followingHelen,who is escorted by the Soldiers.
Chorus.
Some Women.
[Strophe1.
And hast thou turned from the Altar of frankincense,And given to the Greek thy temple of Ilion?The flame of the cakes of corn, is it gone from hence,The myrrh on the air and the wreathèd towers gone?And Ida, dark Ida, where the wild ivy grows,The glens that run as rivers from the summer-broken snows,And the Rock, is it forgotten, where the first sunbeam glows,The lit house most holy of the Dawn?
Others.
[Antistrophe1.
The sacrifice is gone and the sound of joy,The dancing under the stars and the night-long prayer:The Golden Images and the Moons of Troy,The Twelve Moons and the mighty names they bear:My heart, my heart crieth, O Lord Zeus on high,Were they all to thee as nothing, thou thronèd in the sky,Thronèd in the fire-cloud, where a City, near to die,Passeth in the wind and the flare?
A Woman.
[Strophe2.
Dear one, O husband mine,Thou in the dim dominionsDriftest with waterless lips,Unburied; and me the shipsShall bear o'er the bitter brine,Storm-birds upon angry pinions,Where the towers of the Giants shineO'er Argos cloudily,And the riders ride by the sea.
Others.
And children still in the GateCrowd and cry,A multitude desolate,Voices that float and waitAs the tears run dry:'Mother, alone on the shoreThey drive me, far from thee:Lo, the dip of the oar,The black hull on the sea!Is it the Isle Immortal,Salamis, waits for me?Is it the Rock that broodsOver the sundered floodsOf Corinth, the ancient portalOf Pelops' sovranty?'
A Woman.
[Antistrophe2.
Out in the waste of foam,Where rideth dark Menelaus,Come to us there, O whiteAnd jagged, with wild sea-lightAnd crashing of oar-blades, come,O thunder of God, and slay us:While our tears are wet for home,While out in the storm go we,Slaves of our enemy!
Others.
And, God, may Helen be there,With mirror of gold,Decking her face so fair,Girl-like; and hear, and stare,And turn death-cold:Never, ah, never moreThe hearth of her home to see,Nor sand of the Spartan shore,Nor tombs where her fathers be,Nor Athena's bronzen Dwelling,Nor the towers of Pitanê;For her face was a dark desireUpon Greece, and shame like fire,And her dead are welling, welling,From red Simoïs to the sea!
[Talthybius,followed by one or two Soldiers and bearing the childAstyanaxdead, is seen approaching.
Leader.
Ah, change on change! Yet each one racksThis land with evil manifold;Unhappy wives of Troy, behold,They bear the dead Astyanax,Our prince, whom bitter Greeks this hourHave hurled to death from Ilion's tower.
Talthybius.
One galley, Hecuba, there lingereth yet,Lapping the wave, to gather the last freightOf Pyrrhus' spoils for Thessaly. The chiefHimself long since hath parted, much in griefFor Pêleus' sake, his grandsire, whom, men say,Acastus, Pelias' son, in war arrayHath driven to exile. Loath enough beforeWas he to linger, and now goes the moreIn haste, bearing Andromache, his prize.'Tis she hath charmed these tears into mine eyes,Weeping her fatherland, as o'er the waveShe gazed, and speaking words to Hector's grave.Howbeit, she prayed us that due rites be doneFor burial of this babe, thine Hector's son,That now from Ilion's tower is fallen and dead.And, lo! this great bronze-fronted shield, the dreadOf many a Greek, that Hector held in fray,O never in God's name—so did she pray—Be this borne forth to hang in Pêleus' hallOr that dark bridal chamber, that the wallMay hurt her eyes; but here, in Troy o'erthrown,Instead of cedar wood and vaulted stone,Be this her child's last house. . . . And in thine handsShe bade me lay him, to be swathed in bandsOf death and garments, such as rest to theeIn these thy fallen fortunes; seeing that sheHath gone her ways, and, for her master's haste,May no more fold the babe unto his rest.Howbeit, so soon as he is garlandedAnd robed, we will heap earth above his headAnd lift our sails. . . . See all be swiftly done,As thou art bidden. I have saved thee oneLabour. For as I passed Scamander's streamHard by, I let the waters run on him,And cleansed his wounds.—See, I will go forth nowAnd break the hard earth for his grave: so thouAnd I will haste together, to set freeOur oars at last to beat the homeward sea!
[He goes out with his Soldiers, leaving the body of the Child inHecuba'sarms.
Hecuba.
Set the great orb of Hector's shield to lieHere on the ground. 'Tis bitter that mine eyeShould see it. . . . O ye Argives, was your spearKeen, and your hearts so low and cold, to fearThis babe? 'Twas a strange murder for brave men!For fear this babe some day might raise againHis fallen land! Had ye so little pride?While Hector fought, and thousands at his side,Ye smote us, and we perished; and now, now,When all are dead and Ilion lieth low,Ye dread this innocent! I deem it notWisdom, that rage of fear that hath no thought. . . .Ah, what a death hath found thee, little one!Hadst thou but fallen fighting, hadst thou knownStrong youth and love and all the majestyOf godlike kings, then had we spoken of theeAs of one blessèd . . . could in any wiseThese days know blessedness. But now thine eyesHave seen, thy lips have tasted, but thy soulNo knowledge had nor usage of the wholeRich life that lapt thee round. . . . Poor little child!Was it our ancient wall, the circuit piledBy loving Gods, so savagely hath rentThy curls, these little flowers innocentThat were thy mother's garden, where she laidHer kisses; here, just where the bone-edge frayedGrins white above—Ah heaven, I will not see!Ye tender arms, the same dear mould have yeAs his; how from the shoulder loose ye dropAnd weak! And dear proud lips, so full of hopeAnd closed for ever! What false words ye saidAt daybreak, when he crept into my bed,Called me kind names, and promised: 'Grandmother,When thou art dead, I will cut close my hair,And lead out all the captains to ride byThy tomb.' Why didst thou cheat me so? 'Tis I,Old, homeless, childless, that for thee must shedCold tears, so young, so miserably dead.Dear God, the pattering welcomes of thy feet,The nursing in my lap; and O, the sweetFalling asleep together! All is gone.How should a poet carve the funeral stoneTo tell thy story true? 'There lieth hereA babe whom the Greeks feared, and in their fearSlew him.' Aye, Greece will bless the tale it tells!Child, they have left thee beggared of all elseIn Hector's house; but one thing shalt thou keep,This war-shield bronzen-barred, wherein to sleep.Alas, thou guardian true of Hector's fairLeft arm, how art thou masterless! And thereI see his handgrip printed on thy hold;And deep stains of the precious sweat, that rolledIn battle from the brows and beard of him,Drop after drop, are writ about thy rim.Go, bring them—such poor garments hazardousAs these days leave. God hath not granted usWherewith to make much pride. But all I can,I give thee, Child of Troy.—O vain is man,Who glorieth in his joy and hath no fears:While to and fro the chances of the yearsDance like an idiot in the wind! And noneBy any strength hath his own fortune won.
[During these lines several Women are seen approaching with garlands and raiment in their hands.
Leader.
Lo these, who hear thee raiment harvestedFrom Ilion's slain, to fold upon the dead.
[During the following sceneHecubagradually takes the garments and wraps them about the Child.
Hecuba.
O not in pride for speeding of the carBeyond thy peers, not for the shaft of warTrue aimed, as Phrygians use; not any prizeOf joy for thee, nor splendour in men's eyes,Thy father's mother lays these offeringsAbout thee, from the many fragrant thingsThat were all thine of old. But now no more.One woman, loathed of God, hath broke the doorAnd robbed thy treasure-house, and thy warm breathMade cold, and trod thy people down to death!
Chorus.
Some Women.
Deep in the heart of meI feel thine hand,Mother: and is it heDead here, our prince to be,And lord of the land?
Hecuba.
Glory of Phrygian raiment, which my thoughtKept for thy bridal day with some far-soughtQueen of the East, folds thee for evermore.And thou, grey Mother, Mother-Shield that boreA thousand days of glory, thy last crownIs here. . . . Dear Hector's shield! Thou shalt lie downUndying with the dead, and lordlier thereThan all the gold Odysseus' breast can bear,The evil and the strong!
Chorus.
Some Women.
Child of the Shield-bearer,Alas, Hector's child!Great Earth, the All-mother,Taketh thee unto herWith wailing wild!
Others.
Mother of misery,Give Death his song!(Hec.Woe!) Aye and bitterly(Hec.Woe!) We too weep for thee,And the infinite wrong!
[During these linesHecuba,kneeling by the body, has been performing a funeral rite symbolically staunching the dead Child's wounds.
Hecuba.
I make thee whole;I bind thy wounds, O little vanished soul.This wound and this I heal with linen white:O emptiness of aid! . . . Yet let the riteBe spoken. This and . . . Nay, not I, but he,Thy father far away shall comfort thee!
[She bows her head to the ground and remains motionless and unseeing.
Chorus.
Beat, beat thine head:Beat with the wailing chimeOf hands lifted in time:Beat and bleed for the dead.Woe is me for the dead!
Hecuba.
O Women! Ye, mine own...
[She rises bewildered, as though she had seen a vision.
Leader.
Hecuba, speak!Thine are we all. Oh, ere thy bosom break . . .
Hecuba.
Lo, I have seen the open hand of God;And in it nothing, nothing, save the rodOf mine affliction, and the eternal hate,Beyond all lands, chosen and lifted greatFor Troy! Vain, vain were prayer and incense-swellAnd bulls' blood on the altars! . . . All is well.Had He not turned us in His hand, and thrustOur high things low and shook our hills as dust,We had not been this splendour, and our wrongAn everlasting music for the songOf earth and heaven!Go, women: lay our deadIn his low sepulchre. He hath his meedOf robing. And, methinks, but little careToucheth the tomb, if they that moulder thereHave rich encerëment. 'Tis we, 'tis we,That dream, we living and our vanity!
[The Women bear out the dead Child upon the shield, singing, when presently flames of fire and dim forms are seen among the ruins of the City.
Chorus.
Some Women.
Woe for the mother that bare thee, child,Thread so frail of a hope so high,That Time hath broken: and all men smiledAbout thy cradle, and, passing by,Spoke of thy father's majesty.Low, low, thou liest!
Others.
Ha! Who be these on the crested rock?Fiery hands in the dusk, and a shockOf torches flung! What lingereth stillO wounded City, of unknown ill,Ere yet thou diest?
Talthybius(coming out through the ruined Wall).
Ye Captains that have charge to wreck this keepOf Priam's City, let your torches sleepNo more! Up, fling the fire into her heart!Then have we done with Ilion, and may partIn joy to Hellas from this evil land.And ye—so hath one word two faces—stand,Daughters of Troy, till on your ruined wallThe echo of my master's trumpet callIn signal breaks: then, forward to the sea,Where the long ships lie waiting.And for thee,O ancient woman most unfortunate,Follow: Odysseus' men be here, and waitTo guide thee. . . . 'Tis to him thou go'st for thrall.
Hecuba.
Ah, me! and is it come, the end of all,The very crest and summit of my days?I go forth from my land, and all its waysAre filled with fire! Bear me, O aged feet,A little nearer: I must gaze, and greetMy poor town ere she fall.Farewell, farewell!O thou whose breath was mighty on the swellOf orient winds, my Troy! Even thy nameShall soon be taken from thee. Lo, the flameHath thee, and we, thy children, pass awayTo slavery . . . God! O God of mercy! . . . Nay:Why call I on the Gods? They know, they know,My prayers, and would not hear them long ago.Quick, to the flames! O, in thine agony,My Troy, mine own, take me to die with thee!
[She springs toward the flames, but is seized and held by the Soldiers.
Talthybius.
Back! Thou art drunken with thy miseries,Poor woman!—Hold her fast, men, till it pleaseOdysseus that she come. She was his lotChosen from all and portioned. Lose her not!
[He goes to watch over the burning of the City. The dusk deepens.
Chorus.
Divers Women.
Woe, woe, woe!Thou of the Ages, O wherefore fleëst thou,Lord of the Phrygian, Father that made us?'Tis we, thy children; shall no man aid us?'Tis we, thy children! Seëst thou, seëst thou?
Others.
He seëth, only his heart is pitiless;And the land dies: yea, she,She of the Mighty Cities perisheth citiless!Troy shall no more be!
Others.
Woe, woe, woe!Ilion shineth afar!Fire in the deeps thereof,Fire in the heights above,And crested walls of War!
Others.
As smoke on the wing of heavenClimbeth and scattereth,Torn of the spear and driven,The land crieth for death:O stormy battlements that red fire hath riven,And the sword's angry breath!
[A new thought comes toHecuba;she kneels and beats the earth with her hands.
Hecuba.
[Strophe.
O Earth, Earth of my children; hearken! and O mine own,Yehave hearts and forget not,yein the darkness lying!
Leader.
Now hast thou found thy prayer, crying to them that are gone.
Hecuba.