Is it true, or does an idle storyMake the timid dream that after death,380When the loved one shuts the wearied eyelids,When the last day's sun has come and gone,And the funeral urn has hid the ashes,He shall still live on among the shades?Does it not avail to bear the dear one385To the grave? Must misery still endureLonger life beyond? Does not all perishWhen the fleeting spirit fades in airCloudlike? When the dreaded fire is lighted'Neath the body, does no part remain?390Whatsoe'er the rising sun or settingSees; whatever ebbing tide or floodOf the ocean with blue waters washes,Time with Pegasean flight destroys.Like the sweep of whirling constellations,395Like the circling of their king the sun,Haste the ages. As obliquely turningHecate speeds, so all must seek their fate;He who touches once the gloomy waterSacred to the god, exists no more.400As the sordid smoke from smoldering embersSwiftly dies, or as a heavy cloud,That the north wind scatters, ends its being,So the soul that rules us slips away;After death is nothing; death is nothing405But the last mete of a swift-run race,Which to eager souls gives hope, to fearfulSets a limit to their fears. BelieveEager time and the abyss engulf us;Death is fatal to the flesh, nor spares410Spirit even; Tænaris, the kingdomOf the gloomy monarch, and the doorWhere sits Cerberus and guards the portal,Are but empty rumors, senseless names,Fables vain, that trouble anxious sleep.415Ask you whither go we after death?Where they lie who never have been born.
Is it true, or does an idle storyMake the timid dream that after death,380When the loved one shuts the wearied eyelids,When the last day's sun has come and gone,And the funeral urn has hid the ashes,He shall still live on among the shades?Does it not avail to bear the dear one385To the grave? Must misery still endureLonger life beyond? Does not all perishWhen the fleeting spirit fades in airCloudlike? When the dreaded fire is lighted'Neath the body, does no part remain?390Whatsoe'er the rising sun or settingSees; whatever ebbing tide or floodOf the ocean with blue waters washes,Time with Pegasean flight destroys.Like the sweep of whirling constellations,395Like the circling of their king the sun,Haste the ages. As obliquely turningHecate speeds, so all must seek their fate;He who touches once the gloomy waterSacred to the god, exists no more.400As the sordid smoke from smoldering embersSwiftly dies, or as a heavy cloud,That the north wind scatters, ends its being,So the soul that rules us slips away;After death is nothing; death is nothing405But the last mete of a swift-run race,Which to eager souls gives hope, to fearfulSets a limit to their fears. BelieveEager time and the abyss engulf us;Death is fatal to the flesh, nor spares410Spirit even; Tænaris, the kingdomOf the gloomy monarch, and the doorWhere sits Cerberus and guards the portal,Are but empty rumors, senseless names,Fables vain, that trouble anxious sleep.415Ask you whither go we after death?Where they lie who never have been born.
Andromache, An Old Man.
Andromache.Why tear your hair, my Phrygian followers,Why beat your breasts and mar your cheeks with tears?The grief is light that has the power to weep.420Troy fell for you but now, for me long sinceWhen fierce Achilles urged at speed his car,And dragged behind his wheel my very self;The axle, made of wood from Pelion's groves,Groaned heavily, and under Hector's weight425Trembled. O'erwhelmed and crushed, I bore unmovedWhate'er befell, for I was stunned with grief.I would have followed Hector long ago,And freed me from the Greeks, but this my sonHeld me, subdued my heart, forbade my death,430Compelled me still to ask the gods a boon,Added a longer life to misery.He took away my sorrow's richest fruit—To know no fear. All chance of better thingsIs snatched away, and worse are yet to come;435'Tis wretchedness to fear where hope is lost.Old Man.What sudden fear assails thee, troubled one?Andromache.From great misfortunes, greater ever spring;Troy needs must fill the measure of her woes.Old Man.Though he should wish, what can the god do more?440Andromache.The entrance of the bottomless abyssOf gloomy Styx lies open; lest defeatShould lack enough of fear, the buried foeComes forth from Dis. Can Greeks alone return?Death certainly is equal; Phrygians feel445This common fear; a dream of dreadful nightMe only terrified.Old Man.What dream is this?Andromache.The sweet night's second watch was hardly passed,The Seven Stars were turning from the height;At length there came an unaccustomed calm450To me afflicted; on my eyes there stoleBrief sleep, if that dull lethargy be sleepThat comes to grief-worn souls; when, suddenly,Before my eyes stood Hector, not as whenHe bore against the Greeks avenging fire,455Seeking the Argive fleet with Trojan torch;Nor as he raged with slaughter 'gainst the Greeks,And bore away Achilles' arms—true spoil,From him who played Achilles' part, nor wasA true Achilles. Not with flame-bright face460He came, but marred with tears, dejected, sad,Like us, and all unkempt his loosened hair;Yet I rejoiced to see him. Then he said,Shaking his head: 'O faithful wife, awake!Bear hence thy son and hide him, this alone465Is safety. Weep not! Do you weep for Troy?Would all were fallen! Hasten, seek a placeOf safety for the child.' Then I awoke,Cold horror and a trembling broke my sleep.Fearful, I turned my eyes now here, now there.470Me miserable, careless of my son,I sought for Hector, but the fleeting shadeSlipped from my arms, eluded my embrace.O child, true son of an illustrious sire;Troy's only hope; last of a stricken race;475Too noble offspring of an ancient house;Too like thy father! Such my Hector's face,Such was his gait, his manner, so he heldHis mighty hands, and so his shoulders broad,So threatened with bold brow when shaking back480His heavy hair! Oh, born too late for Troy,Too soon for me, will ever come that time,That happy day, when thou shalt build againTroy's walls, and lead from flight her scattered hosts,Avenging and defending mightily,485And give again a name to Troy's fair land?But, mindful of my fate, I dare not wish;We live, and life is all that slaves can hope.Alas, what place of safety can I find,Where hide thee? That high citadel, god-built,490Is dust, her streets are flame, and naught remainsOf all the mighty city, not so muchAs where to hide an infant. Oh, what placeOf safety can I find? The mighty tomb,Reared to my husband—this the foe must fear.495His father, Priam, in his sorrow built,With no ungenerous hand, great Hector's tomb;I rightly trust a father. Yet I fearThe baleful omen of the place of tombs,And a cold sweat my trembling members bathes.500Old Man.The safe may choose, the wretched seize defense.Andromache.We may not hide him without heavy fearLest some one find him.Old Man.Cover up the traceOf our device.Andromache.And if the foe should ask?Old Man.In the destruction of the land he died,—505It oft has saved a man that he was deemedAlready dead.Andromache.No other hope is left.He bears the heavy burden of his name;If he must come once more into their powerWhat profits it to hide him?510Old Man.Victors oftAre savage only in the first attack.Andromache.[To Astyanax] What distant, pathless land will keep thee safe,Or who protect thee, give thee aid in fear?O Hector, now as ever guard thine own,Preserve the secret of thy faithful wife,515And to thy trusted ashes take thy child!My son, go thou into thy father's tomb.What, do you turn and shun the dark retreat?I recognize thy father's strength of soul,Ashamed of fear. Put by thy inborn pride,520Thy courage; take what fortune has to give.See what is left of all the Trojan host:A tomb, a child, a captive! We succumbTo such misfortunes. Dare to enter nowThy buried father's sacred resting-place;525If fate is kind thou hast a safe retreat,If fate refuse thee aid, thou hast a grave.Old Man.The sepulcher will safely hide thy son;Go hence lest thou shouldst draw them to the spot.Andromache.One's fear is lightlier borne when near at hand,530But elsewhere will I go, since that seems best.Old Man.Stay yet a while, but check the signs of grief;This way the Grecian leader bends his steps.
Andromache.Why tear your hair, my Phrygian followers,Why beat your breasts and mar your cheeks with tears?The grief is light that has the power to weep.420Troy fell for you but now, for me long sinceWhen fierce Achilles urged at speed his car,And dragged behind his wheel my very self;The axle, made of wood from Pelion's groves,Groaned heavily, and under Hector's weight425Trembled. O'erwhelmed and crushed, I bore unmovedWhate'er befell, for I was stunned with grief.I would have followed Hector long ago,And freed me from the Greeks, but this my sonHeld me, subdued my heart, forbade my death,430Compelled me still to ask the gods a boon,Added a longer life to misery.He took away my sorrow's richest fruit—To know no fear. All chance of better thingsIs snatched away, and worse are yet to come;435'Tis wretchedness to fear where hope is lost.
Old Man.What sudden fear assails thee, troubled one?
Andromache.From great misfortunes, greater ever spring;Troy needs must fill the measure of her woes.
Old Man.Though he should wish, what can the god do more?440
Andromache.The entrance of the bottomless abyssOf gloomy Styx lies open; lest defeatShould lack enough of fear, the buried foeComes forth from Dis. Can Greeks alone return?Death certainly is equal; Phrygians feel445This common fear; a dream of dreadful nightMe only terrified.
Old Man.What dream is this?
Andromache.The sweet night's second watch was hardly passed,The Seven Stars were turning from the height;At length there came an unaccustomed calm450To me afflicted; on my eyes there stoleBrief sleep, if that dull lethargy be sleepThat comes to grief-worn souls; when, suddenly,Before my eyes stood Hector, not as whenHe bore against the Greeks avenging fire,455Seeking the Argive fleet with Trojan torch;Nor as he raged with slaughter 'gainst the Greeks,And bore away Achilles' arms—true spoil,From him who played Achilles' part, nor wasA true Achilles. Not with flame-bright face460He came, but marred with tears, dejected, sad,Like us, and all unkempt his loosened hair;Yet I rejoiced to see him. Then he said,Shaking his head: 'O faithful wife, awake!Bear hence thy son and hide him, this alone465Is safety. Weep not! Do you weep for Troy?Would all were fallen! Hasten, seek a placeOf safety for the child.' Then I awoke,Cold horror and a trembling broke my sleep.Fearful, I turned my eyes now here, now there.470Me miserable, careless of my son,I sought for Hector, but the fleeting shadeSlipped from my arms, eluded my embrace.O child, true son of an illustrious sire;Troy's only hope; last of a stricken race;475Too noble offspring of an ancient house;Too like thy father! Such my Hector's face,Such was his gait, his manner, so he heldHis mighty hands, and so his shoulders broad,So threatened with bold brow when shaking back480His heavy hair! Oh, born too late for Troy,Too soon for me, will ever come that time,That happy day, when thou shalt build againTroy's walls, and lead from flight her scattered hosts,Avenging and defending mightily,485And give again a name to Troy's fair land?But, mindful of my fate, I dare not wish;We live, and life is all that slaves can hope.Alas, what place of safety can I find,Where hide thee? That high citadel, god-built,490Is dust, her streets are flame, and naught remainsOf all the mighty city, not so muchAs where to hide an infant. Oh, what placeOf safety can I find? The mighty tomb,Reared to my husband—this the foe must fear.495His father, Priam, in his sorrow built,With no ungenerous hand, great Hector's tomb;I rightly trust a father. Yet I fearThe baleful omen of the place of tombs,And a cold sweat my trembling members bathes.500
Old Man.The safe may choose, the wretched seize defense.
Andromache.We may not hide him without heavy fearLest some one find him.
Old Man.Cover up the traceOf our device.
Andromache.And if the foe should ask?
Old Man.In the destruction of the land he died,—505It oft has saved a man that he was deemedAlready dead.
Andromache.No other hope is left.He bears the heavy burden of his name;If he must come once more into their powerWhat profits it to hide him?510
Old Man.Victors oftAre savage only in the first attack.
Andromache.[To Astyanax] What distant, pathless land will keep thee safe,Or who protect thee, give thee aid in fear?O Hector, now as ever guard thine own,Preserve the secret of thy faithful wife,515And to thy trusted ashes take thy child!My son, go thou into thy father's tomb.What, do you turn and shun the dark retreat?I recognize thy father's strength of soul,Ashamed of fear. Put by thy inborn pride,520Thy courage; take what fortune has to give.See what is left of all the Trojan host:A tomb, a child, a captive! We succumbTo such misfortunes. Dare to enter nowThy buried father's sacred resting-place;525If fate is kind thou hast a safe retreat,If fate refuse thee aid, thou hast a grave.
Old Man.The sepulcher will safely hide thy son;Go hence lest thou shouldst draw them to the spot.
Andromache.One's fear is lightlier borne when near at hand,530But elsewhere will I go, since that seems best.
Old Man.Stay yet a while, but check the signs of grief;This way the Grecian leader bends his steps.
Andromache, Ulysses with a retinue of warriors.[The old man withdraws.]
Ulysses.Coming a messenger of cruel fate,I pray you deem not mine the bitter words535I speak, for this is but the general voiceOf all the Greeks, too long from home detainedBy Hector's child: him do the fates demand.The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace,Fear will compel them still to look behind540Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child,Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy.So prophesies the god's interpreter;And had the prophet Calchas held his peace,Hector had spoken; Hector and his son545I greatly fear: those sprung of noble raceMust needs grow great. With proudly lifted headAnd haughty neck, the young and hornless bullLeads the paternal herd and rules the flock;And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk550Soon rears itself above the parent trunk,Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven;The spark mischance has left from some great fire,Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son.If well you weigh our act, you will forgive,555Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spentTen weary winters, ten long harvests spentIn war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear,Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks,560But a young Hector; free them from this fear;This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet,This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not,By lot commanded Hector's son to seek;I sought Orestes once; with patience bear565What we ourselves have borne.Andromache.Alas, my son,Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms!Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee,What region holds thee, torn from my embrace!Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears,570My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my sideBy biting flame were girdled, not for thisWould I put off my mother-guardianship!What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land,575Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liestOn Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?Ulysses.No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive580Ulysses; I have power to overcomeA mother's wiles, although she be divine.Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?Andromache.Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host?Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all.585Ulysses.What thou refusest willingly to tell,Thou shalt be forced to say.Andromache.She rests secureWho can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.Ulysses.Near death may put an end to such proud boast.Andromache.Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force590Andromache to speak, threat longer life;Death is to me a wished-for messenger.Ulysses.With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself,I will compel thy heart's deep-hidden thought;Necessity is stronger far than death.595Andromache.Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stingsOf cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deepWithin this bosom, or the prison dark—Whatever angry, fearful victors may;Learn that a loving mother knows no fear.600Ulysses.And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenchedSo stubbornly, admonishes the GreeksTo think of their own children. Even now,After these long ten years, this weary war,I should fear less the danger Calchas threats,605If for myself I feared—but thou prepar'stWar for Telemachus.Andromache.UnwillinglyI give the Grecians joy, but I must give.Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain;Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back610As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian hostThe joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.Ulysses.How prove it to the Greeks?Andromache.Fall on me elseThe greatest ill the victor can inflict:Fate free me by an easy, timely death,615And hide me underneath my native soil!Lightly on Hector lie his country's earthAs it is true that, hidden from the light,Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.Ulysses.Accomplished then the fate of Hector's race;620A joyous message of established peaceI take the Greeks. [He turns to go, then hesitates.Ulysses, wouldst thou so?The Greeks have trusted thee, thou trustest—whom?A mother. Would a mother tell this lieNor fear the augury of dreaded death?625They fear the auguries, who fear naught else.She swears it with an oath—yet, falsely sworn,What has she worse to fear? Now call to aidAll that thou hast of cunning, stratagem,And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not.630Watch well the mother; see—she mourns, she weeps,She groans, turns every way her anxious steps,Listens with ear attentive; more she fearsThan sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care.[To Andromache.] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve;635Thee, wretched one, we must congratulateThat thou hast lost a son whose fate had beenTo die, hurled headlong from the one high towerRemaining of the ruined walls of Troy.Andromache[aside]. Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear640Freezes my blood.Ulysses[aside]. She trembles; here the placeFor my attack; she is betrayed by fear;I'll add worse fear. [To his followers.Go quickly; somewhere lies,By mother's guile concealed, the hidden foe—The Greeks last enemy of Trojan name.645Go, seek him, drag him hither. [After a pause as though the child were found.] It is well;The child is taken; hasten, bring him me.[To Andromache.] Why do you look around and seem to fear?The boy is dead.Andromache.Would fear were possible!Long have I feared, and now too late my soul650Unlearns its lesson.Ulysses.Since by happier fateSnatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice,The lustral offering from the walls of TroyAnd may not now obey the seer's command,Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned,655And Grecian ships at last may find return,If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground,His ashes scattered on the sea; the tombMust feel my hand, since Hector's child escapesHis destined death.Andromache[aside]. Alas, what shall I do?660A double fear distracts me; here my son,And there my husband's sacred sepulcher,Which conquers? O inexorable gods,O manes of my husband—my true god,Bear witness; in my son 'tis thee I love,665My Hector, and my son shall live to bearHis father's image! Shall the sacred dustBe cast upon the waves? Nay, better death.Canst thou a mother bear to see him die,—To see him from Troy's tower downward hurled?670I can and will, that Hector, after death,Be not the victor's sport. The boy may feelThe pain, where death has made the father safe.Decide, which one shall pay the penalty.Ungrateful, why in doubt? Thy Hector's here!675'Tis false, each one is Hector; this one lives,Perchance th' avenger of his father's death.I cannot save them both, what shall I do?Oh, save the one whom most the Grecians fear!Ulysses.I will fulfill the oracle, will raze680The tomb to its foundations.Andromache.Which ye sold?Ulysses.I'll do it, I will level with the dustThe sepulcher.Andromache.I call the faith of heaven,Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, saveThy father's gift.685Ulysses.The tomb shall instantlyBe leveled with the plain.Andromache.This crime aloneThe Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanesEven of favoring gods, ye've spared the tomb.I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll standAgainst your armored host; rage gives me strength,690And as the savage Amazon opposedThe Grecian army, or the Mænad wild,Armed with the thyrsus, by the god possessed,Wounding herself spreads terror through the grove,Herself unpained, I'll rush into your midst,695And in defending the dear ashes die. [She places herself before the grave.Ulysses[angrily to the shrinking soldiers.Why pause? A woman's wrath and feeble noiseAlarms you so? Do quickly my command.
Ulysses.Coming a messenger of cruel fate,I pray you deem not mine the bitter words535I speak, for this is but the general voiceOf all the Greeks, too long from home detainedBy Hector's child: him do the fates demand.The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace,Fear will compel them still to look behind540Nor lay aside their armor, while thy child,Andromache, gives strength to fallen Troy.So prophesies the god's interpreter;And had the prophet Calchas held his peace,Hector had spoken; Hector and his son545I greatly fear: those sprung of noble raceMust needs grow great. With proudly lifted headAnd haughty neck, the young and hornless bullLeads the paternal herd and rules the flock;And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk550Soon rears itself above the parent trunk,Shadows the earth, and lifts its boughs to heaven;The spark mischance has left from some great fire,Renews its strength; like these is Hector's son.If well you weigh our act, you will forgive,555Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spentTen weary winters, ten long harvests spentIn war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear,Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks,560But a young Hector; free them from this fear;This cause alone holds back our waiting fleet,This stops the ships. Too cruel think me not,By lot commanded Hector's son to seek;I sought Orestes once; with patience bear565What we ourselves have borne.
Andromache.Alas, my son,Would that thou wert within thy mother's arms!Would that I knew what fate encompassed thee,What region holds thee, torn from my embrace!Although my breast were pierced with hostile spears,570My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my sideBy biting flame were girdled, not for thisWould I put off my mother-guardianship!What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land,575Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liestOn Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
Ulysses.No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive580Ulysses; I have power to overcomeA mother's wiles, although she be divine.Put by thy empty plots; where is thy son?
Andromache.Where is my Hector? Where the Trojan host?Where Priam? Thou seek'st one, I seek them all.585
Ulysses.What thou refusest willingly to tell,Thou shalt be forced to say.
Andromache.She rests secureWho can, who ought, nay, who desires to die.
Ulysses.Near death may put an end to such proud boast.
Andromache.Ulysses, if thou hop'st through fear to force590Andromache to speak, threat longer life;Death is to me a wished-for messenger.
Ulysses.With fire, scourge, torment, even death itself,I will compel thy heart's deep-hidden thought;Necessity is stronger far than death.595
Andromache.Threat flames, wounds, hunger, thirst, the bitter stingsOf cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deepWithin this bosom, or the prison dark—Whatever angry, fearful victors may;Learn that a loving mother knows no fear.600
Ulysses.And yet this love, in which thou standst entrenchedSo stubbornly, admonishes the GreeksTo think of their own children. Even now,After these long ten years, this weary war,I should fear less the danger Calchas threats,605If for myself I feared—but thou prepar'stWar for Telemachus.
Andromache.UnwillinglyI give the Grecians joy, but I must give.Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain;Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back610As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian hostThe joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.
Ulysses.How prove it to the Greeks?
Andromache.Fall on me elseThe greatest ill the victor can inflict:Fate free me by an easy, timely death,615And hide me underneath my native soil!Lightly on Hector lie his country's earthAs it is true that, hidden from the light,Deep in the tomb, among the shades he rests.
Ulysses.Accomplished then the fate of Hector's race;620A joyous message of established peaceI take the Greeks. [He turns to go, then hesitates.Ulysses, wouldst thou so?The Greeks have trusted thee, thou trustest—whom?A mother. Would a mother tell this lieNor fear the augury of dreaded death?625They fear the auguries, who fear naught else.She swears it with an oath—yet, falsely sworn,What has she worse to fear? Now call to aidAll that thou hast of cunning, stratagem,And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not.630Watch well the mother; see—she mourns, she weeps,She groans, turns every way her anxious steps,Listens with ear attentive; more she fearsThan sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care.[To Andromache.] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve;635Thee, wretched one, we must congratulateThat thou hast lost a son whose fate had beenTo die, hurled headlong from the one high towerRemaining of the ruined walls of Troy.
Andromache[aside]. Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear640Freezes my blood.
Ulysses[aside]. She trembles; here the placeFor my attack; she is betrayed by fear;I'll add worse fear. [To his followers.Go quickly; somewhere lies,By mother's guile concealed, the hidden foe—The Greeks last enemy of Trojan name.645Go, seek him, drag him hither. [After a pause as though the child were found.] It is well;The child is taken; hasten, bring him me.[To Andromache.] Why do you look around and seem to fear?The boy is dead.
Andromache.Would fear were possible!Long have I feared, and now too late my soul650Unlearns its lesson.
Ulysses.Since by happier fateSnatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice,The lustral offering from the walls of TroyAnd may not now obey the seer's command,Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned,655And Grecian ships at last may find return,If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground,His ashes scattered on the sea; the tombMust feel my hand, since Hector's child escapesHis destined death.
Andromache[aside]. Alas, what shall I do?660A double fear distracts me; here my son,And there my husband's sacred sepulcher,Which conquers? O inexorable gods,O manes of my husband—my true god,Bear witness; in my son 'tis thee I love,665My Hector, and my son shall live to bearHis father's image! Shall the sacred dustBe cast upon the waves? Nay, better death.Canst thou a mother bear to see him die,—To see him from Troy's tower downward hurled?670I can and will, that Hector, after death,Be not the victor's sport. The boy may feelThe pain, where death has made the father safe.Decide, which one shall pay the penalty.Ungrateful, why in doubt? Thy Hector's here!675'Tis false, each one is Hector; this one lives,Perchance th' avenger of his father's death.I cannot save them both, what shall I do?Oh, save the one whom most the Grecians fear!
Ulysses.I will fulfill the oracle, will raze680The tomb to its foundations.
Andromache.Which ye sold?
Ulysses.I'll do it, I will level with the dustThe sepulcher.
Andromache.I call the faith of heaven,Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, saveThy father's gift.685
Ulysses.The tomb shall instantlyBe leveled with the plain.
Andromache.This crime aloneThe Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanesEven of favoring gods, ye've spared the tomb.I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll standAgainst your armored host; rage gives me strength,690And as the savage Amazon opposedThe Grecian army, or the Mænad wild,Armed with the thyrsus, by the god possessed,Wounding herself spreads terror through the grove,Herself unpained, I'll rush into your midst,695And in defending the dear ashes die. [She places herself before the grave.
Ulysses[angrily to the shrinking soldiers.Why pause? A woman's wrath and feeble noiseAlarms you so? Do quickly my command.
[The soldiers go toward the grave, Andromache throws herself upon them.
Andromache.The sword must first slay me.—Ah, woe is me,They drive me back. Hector, come forth the tomb;700Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelmThe Grecian chief—thy shade would be enough!The weapon clangs and flashes in his hand;Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alonePerceive him?Ulysses.I will lay it in the dust.705Andromache[aside]. What have I done? To ruin I have broughtFather and son together; yet, perchance,With supplications I may move the Greeks.The tomb's great weight will presently destroyIts hidden treasure; O my wretched child,710Die wheresoe'er the fates decree,—not here!Oh, may the father not o'erwhelm the son,The son fall not upon his father's dust!
Andromache.The sword must first slay me.—Ah, woe is me,They drive me back. Hector, come forth the tomb;700Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelmThe Grecian chief—thy shade would be enough!The weapon clangs and flashes in his hand;Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alonePerceive him?
Ulysses.I will lay it in the dust.705
Andromache[aside]. What have I done? To ruin I have broughtFather and son together; yet, perchance,With supplications I may move the Greeks.The tomb's great weight will presently destroyIts hidden treasure; O my wretched child,710Die wheresoe'er the fates decree,—not here!Oh, may the father not o'erwhelm the son,The son fall not upon his father's dust!
[She casts herself at the feet of Ulysses.
Ulysses, at thy feet a suppliantI fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees;715Never before a suppliant, here I askThy pity on a mother; hear my prayerWith patience; on the fallen, lightly press,Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights!The gifts thou grantst the wretched are to fate720A hostage; so again thou mayst beholdThy wife; and old Laertes' years endureUntil once more he see thee; so thy sonSucceed thee and outrun thy fairest hopesIn his good fortune, and his age exceed725Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine.Have pity on a mother to whose griefNaught else remains of comfort.Ulysses.Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.Andromache.Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son,730Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.
Ulysses, at thy feet a suppliantI fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees;715Never before a suppliant, here I askThy pity on a mother; hear my prayerWith patience; on the fallen, lightly press,Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights!The gifts thou grantst the wretched are to fate720A hostage; so again thou mayst beholdThy wife; and old Laertes' years endureUntil once more he see thee; so thy sonSucceed thee and outrun thy fairest hopesIn his good fortune, and his age exceed725Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine.Have pity on a mother to whose griefNaught else remains of comfort.
Ulysses.Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.
Andromache.Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son,730Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.
Ulysses, Andromache, Astyanax.
Andromache.Ulysses, this is he who terrifiesThe thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son,A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord,And do him reverence; nor think it base,735Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.Forget thy royal race, the power of oneRenowned through all the world; Hector forget;Act the sad captive on thy bended knee,And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet740Thou feelest not thy woes. [To Ulysses.] Troy saw long sinceThe weeping of a royal child: the tearsOf youthful Priam turned aside the threatsOf stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierceWho tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates745Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward pathOpened, was conquered by his young foe's tears.'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government,Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintainThy scepter with a better faith than he;'750So fared the captives of this conqueror;Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!Or do the arms alone of HerculesSeem pleasing to thee? Of as noble raceAs Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies,755And asks of thee his life; let fortune giveTo whom she will Troy's kingdom.Ulysses.Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much!Our Grecian mothers' sorrow moves me more,To cause whose bane this child would grow a man.760Andromache.These ruins of a land to ashes burnedCould he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy?Troy has no hope, if such is all remains.We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear.And has the child his father's spirit? Yes,765But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's selfHad lost that courage which great ills o'ercame.If vengeance is your wish, what worse revengeThan to this noble neck to fit the yoke?Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied770This bounty to a king?Ulysses.The seer forbids,'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.Andromache.Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile,Whose warlike valor never felled a foe;By the deceit and guile of whose false heart775E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretenseOf blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the workOf thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war,Now dar'st at last one deed in open day—A brave boy's death.780Ulysses.My valor to the GreeksIs known, and to the Phrygians too well known.We may not waste the day in idle talk—Our ships weigh anchor.Andromache.Grant a brief delay,While I, a mother, for my son performThe last sad office, satiate my grief,785My mother's sorrow, with a last embrace.Ulysses.I would that I might pity! What I may,Time and delay, I grant thee; let thy tearsFall freely; weeping ever softens grief.Andromache.O pledge of love, light of a fallen house,790Last of the Trojan dead, fear of the Greeks,Thy mother's empty hope, for whom I prayed—Fool that I was—that thou mightst have the yearsOf Priam, and thy father's warlike soul,The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield795A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy,Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt sendThy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flightThe Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels,Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms;800Nor wilt thou hunt the dwellers in the wood,Nor on high festival, in Trojan games,Lead forth the noble band of Trojan youth;Nor round the altars with swift-moving steps,That the reëchoing of the twisted horn805Makes swifter, honor with accustomed danceThe Phrygian temples. Oh, most bitter death!Ulysses.Great sorrow knows no limit, cease thy moans!Andromache.How narrow is the time we seek for tears!Grant me a trivial boon: that with these hands810His living eyes be bound. My little one,Thou diest, but feared already by thy foes;Thy Troy awaits thee; go, in freedom go,To meet free Trojans.Astyanax.Mother, pity me!Andromache.Why hold thy mother's hands and clasp her neck,815And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull,Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hearsThe roaring of the lion; from her sideBy the fierce lion driv'n, the tender preyIs seized, and crushed, and dragged apart; so thee820Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast.Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks,Go to thy father, bear him these few wordsOf my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keepsIts former cares, if died not on the flames825Thy former love, why leave AndromacheTo serve the Grecians? Hector, cruel one,Dost thou lie cold and vanquished in the grave?Achilles came again.' Take then these locks,These tears, for these alone I have to give,830Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kissTo give thy father; leave thy robe for me,Since it has touched his tomb and his dear dust;I'll search it well so any ashes lurkWithin its folds.835Ulysses.Weep no more, bear him hence;Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet.
Andromache.Ulysses, this is he who terrifiesThe thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son,A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord,And do him reverence; nor think it base,735Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.Forget thy royal race, the power of oneRenowned through all the world; Hector forget;Act the sad captive on thy bended knee,And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet740Thou feelest not thy woes. [To Ulysses.] Troy saw long sinceThe weeping of a royal child: the tearsOf youthful Priam turned aside the threatsOf stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierceWho tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates745Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward pathOpened, was conquered by his young foe's tears.'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government,Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintainThy scepter with a better faith than he;'750So fared the captives of this conqueror;Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!Or do the arms alone of HerculesSeem pleasing to thee? Of as noble raceAs Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies,755And asks of thee his life; let fortune giveTo whom she will Troy's kingdom.
Ulysses.Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much!Our Grecian mothers' sorrow moves me more,To cause whose bane this child would grow a man.760
Andromache.These ruins of a land to ashes burnedCould he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy?Troy has no hope, if such is all remains.We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear.And has the child his father's spirit? Yes,765But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's selfHad lost that courage which great ills o'ercame.If vengeance is your wish, what worse revengeThan to this noble neck to fit the yoke?Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied770This bounty to a king?
Ulysses.The seer forbids,'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.
Andromache.Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile,Whose warlike valor never felled a foe;By the deceit and guile of whose false heart775E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretenseOf blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the workOf thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war,Now dar'st at last one deed in open day—A brave boy's death.780
Ulysses.My valor to the GreeksIs known, and to the Phrygians too well known.We may not waste the day in idle talk—Our ships weigh anchor.
Andromache.Grant a brief delay,While I, a mother, for my son performThe last sad office, satiate my grief,785My mother's sorrow, with a last embrace.
Ulysses.I would that I might pity! What I may,Time and delay, I grant thee; let thy tearsFall freely; weeping ever softens grief.
Andromache.O pledge of love, light of a fallen house,790Last of the Trojan dead, fear of the Greeks,Thy mother's empty hope, for whom I prayed—Fool that I was—that thou mightst have the yearsOf Priam, and thy father's warlike soul,The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield795A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy,Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt sendThy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flightThe Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels,Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms;800Nor wilt thou hunt the dwellers in the wood,Nor on high festival, in Trojan games,Lead forth the noble band of Trojan youth;Nor round the altars with swift-moving steps,That the reëchoing of the twisted horn805Makes swifter, honor with accustomed danceThe Phrygian temples. Oh, most bitter death!
Ulysses.Great sorrow knows no limit, cease thy moans!
Andromache.How narrow is the time we seek for tears!Grant me a trivial boon: that with these hands810His living eyes be bound. My little one,Thou diest, but feared already by thy foes;Thy Troy awaits thee; go, in freedom go,To meet free Trojans.
Astyanax.Mother, pity me!
Andromache.Why hold thy mother's hands and clasp her neck,815And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull,Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hearsThe roaring of the lion; from her sideBy the fierce lion driv'n, the tender preyIs seized, and crushed, and dragged apart; so thee820Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast.Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks,Go to thy father, bear him these few wordsOf my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keepsIts former cares, if died not on the flames825Thy former love, why leave AndromacheTo serve the Grecians? Hector, cruel one,Dost thou lie cold and vanquished in the grave?Achilles came again.' Take then these locks,These tears, for these alone I have to give,830Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kissTo give thy father; leave thy robe for me,Since it has touched his tomb and his dear dust;I'll search it well so any ashes lurkWithin its folds.835
Ulysses.Weep no more, bear him hence;Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet.
Chorus of Trojan Women.
What country calls the captives? Tempe dark?Or the Thessalian hills? or Phthia's landFamous for warriors? Trachin's stony plains,Breeders of cattle? or the great sea's queen,840Iolchos? or the spacious land of CreteBoasting its hundred towns? Gortyna small?Or sterile Tricca? or Mothone crossedBy swift and frequent rivers? She who liesBeneath the shadow of the Œtean woods,845Whose hostile bowmen came, not once alone,Against the walls of Troy?Or Olenos whose homes lie far apart?Or Pleuron, hateful to the virgin god?Or Trœzen on the ocean's curving shore?850Or Pelion, mounting heavenward, the realmOf haughty Prothous? There in a vast caveGreat Chiron, teacher of the savage child,Struck with his plectrum from the sounding stringsWild music, stirred the boy with songs of war.855Perchance Carystus, for its marbles famed,Calls us; or Chalcis, lying on the coastOf the unquiet sea whose hastening tideBeats up the strait; Calydna's wave-swept shore;Or stormy Genoessa; or the isle860Of Peparethus near the seaward lineOf Attica; Enispe smitten oftBy Boreas; or Eleusis, reverencedFor Ceres' holy, secret mysteries?Or shall we seek great Ajax' Salamis?865Or Calydon the home of savage beasts?Or countries that the Titaressus lavesWith its slow waters? Scarphe, Pylos old,Or Bessus, Pharis, Pisa, Elis famedFor the Olympian games?870It matters not what tempest drives us hence,Or to what land it bears us, so we shunSparta, the curse alike of Greece and Troy;Nor seek the land of Argos, nor the homeOf cruel Pelops, Neritus hemmed in875By narrower limits than Zacynthus small,Nor threatening cliffs of rocky Ithaca.O Hecuba, what fate, what land, what lordRemains for thee? In whose realm meetst thou death?
What country calls the captives? Tempe dark?Or the Thessalian hills? or Phthia's landFamous for warriors? Trachin's stony plains,Breeders of cattle? or the great sea's queen,840Iolchos? or the spacious land of CreteBoasting its hundred towns? Gortyna small?Or sterile Tricca? or Mothone crossedBy swift and frequent rivers? She who liesBeneath the shadow of the Œtean woods,845Whose hostile bowmen came, not once alone,Against the walls of Troy?Or Olenos whose homes lie far apart?Or Pleuron, hateful to the virgin god?Or Trœzen on the ocean's curving shore?850Or Pelion, mounting heavenward, the realmOf haughty Prothous? There in a vast caveGreat Chiron, teacher of the savage child,Struck with his plectrum from the sounding stringsWild music, stirred the boy with songs of war.855Perchance Carystus, for its marbles famed,Calls us; or Chalcis, lying on the coastOf the unquiet sea whose hastening tideBeats up the strait; Calydna's wave-swept shore;Or stormy Genoessa; or the isle860Of Peparethus near the seaward lineOf Attica; Enispe smitten oftBy Boreas; or Eleusis, reverencedFor Ceres' holy, secret mysteries?Or shall we seek great Ajax' Salamis?865Or Calydon the home of savage beasts?Or countries that the Titaressus lavesWith its slow waters? Scarphe, Pylos old,Or Bessus, Pharis, Pisa, Elis famedFor the Olympian games?870It matters not what tempest drives us hence,Or to what land it bears us, so we shunSparta, the curse alike of Greece and Troy;Nor seek the land of Argos, nor the homeOf cruel Pelops, Neritus hemmed in875By narrower limits than Zacynthus small,Nor threatening cliffs of rocky Ithaca.O Hecuba, what fate, what land, what lordRemains for thee? In whose realm meetst thou death?
Helen, Hecuba, Andromache, Polyxena.
Helen[soliloquizing]. Whatever sad and joyless marriage bond880Holds slaughter, lamentations, bloody war,Is worthy Helen. Even to fallen TroyI bring misfortune, bidden to declareThe bridal that Achilles' son preparesFor his dead father, and demand the robe885And Grecian ornaments. By me betrayed,And by my fraud, must Paris' sister die.So be it, this were happier lot for her;A fearless death must be a longed-for death.Why shrink to do his bidding? On the head890Of him who plots the crime remains the guilt.
Helen[soliloquizing]. Whatever sad and joyless marriage bond880Holds slaughter, lamentations, bloody war,Is worthy Helen. Even to fallen TroyI bring misfortune, bidden to declareThe bridal that Achilles' son preparesFor his dead father, and demand the robe885And Grecian ornaments. By me betrayed,And by my fraud, must Paris' sister die.So be it, this were happier lot for her;A fearless death must be a longed-for death.Why shrink to do his bidding? On the head890Of him who plots the crime remains the guilt.
[Aloud to Polyxena.
Thou noble daughter of Troy's kingly house,A milder god on thy misfortune looks,Prepares for thee a happy marriage day.Not Priam nor unfallen Troy could give895Such bridal, for the brightest ornamentOf the Pelasgian race, the man who holdsThe kingdom of the wide Thessalian land,Would make thee his by lawful marriage bonds.Great Tethys, and the ocean goddesses,900And Thetis, gentle nymph of swelling seas,Will call thee theirs; when thou art Pyrrhus' bridePeleus will call thee kin, as Nereus will.Put off thy robe of mourning, deck thyselfIn gay attire; unlearn the captive's mien,905And suffer skillful hands to smooth thy hairNow so unkempt. Perchance fate cast thee downFrom thy high place to seat thee higher still;It may be profit to have been a slave.Andromache.This one ill only lacked to fallen Troy:910Pleasure, while Pergamus still smoking lies!Fit hour for marriage! Dare one then refuse?When Helen would persuade, who doubtful weds?Thou curse! Two nations owe to thee their fall!Seest thou the royal tomb, these bones that lie915Unburied, scattered over all the field?Thy bridal is the cause. All Asia's blood,All Europe's flows for thee, whilst thou, unstirred,Canst see two husbands fighting, nor decideWhich one to wish the victor! Go, prepare920The marriage bed; what need of wedding torchOr nuptial lights, when burning Troy providesThe fires for these new bridals? Celebrate,O Trojan women, honor worthilyThe marriage feast of Pyrrhus. Smite your breasts,925And weep aloud.Helen.Soft comfort is refusedBy deep despair, which loses reason, hatesThe very sharers of its grief. My causeI yet may plead before this hostile judge,Since I have suffered heavier ills than she.930Andromache mourns Hector openly,Hecuba weeps for Priam, I, alone,In secret, weep for Paris. Is it hard,Grievous, and hateful to bear servitude?For ten long years I bore the captive's yoke.935Is Ilium laid low, her household godsCast down? To lose one's land is hard indeed—To fear is worse. Your sorrow friendship cheers,Me conquerors and conquered hate alike.For thee, there long was doubt whom thou shouldst serve,940My master drags me hence without the chanceOf lot. Was I the bringer of the war?Of so great Teucrian carnage? Think this trueIf first a Spartan keel thy waters cut;But if of Phrygian oars I am the prey,945By the victorious goddess as a prizeGiven for Paris' judgment, pardon me!An angry judge awaits me, and my causeIs left to Menelaus. Weep no more,Andromache, put by thy grief. Alas,950Hardly can I myself restrain my tears.Andromache.How great the ill that even Helen weeps!Why does she weep? What trickery or crimePlots now the Ithacan? From Ida's top,Or Troy's high tower, will he cast the maid955Upon the rocks? Or hurl her to the deepFrom the great cliff which, from its riven side,Out of the shallow bay, Sigeon lifts?What wouldst thou cover with deceitful face?No ill were heavier than this: to see960Pyrrhus the son of Priam's Hecuba.Speak, plainly tell the penalty thou bringst.Take from defeat at least this evil,—fraud.Thou seest thou dost not find us loth to die.Helen.Would that Apollo's prophet bade me take965The long delay of my so hated life;Or that, upon Achilles' sepulcher,I might be slain by Pyrrhus' cruel hand,The sharer of thy fate, Polyxena,Whom harsh Achilles bids them give to him—970To offer to his manes, as his brideIn the Elysian Fields.
Thou noble daughter of Troy's kingly house,A milder god on thy misfortune looks,Prepares for thee a happy marriage day.Not Priam nor unfallen Troy could give895Such bridal, for the brightest ornamentOf the Pelasgian race, the man who holdsThe kingdom of the wide Thessalian land,Would make thee his by lawful marriage bonds.Great Tethys, and the ocean goddesses,900And Thetis, gentle nymph of swelling seas,Will call thee theirs; when thou art Pyrrhus' bridePeleus will call thee kin, as Nereus will.Put off thy robe of mourning, deck thyselfIn gay attire; unlearn the captive's mien,905And suffer skillful hands to smooth thy hairNow so unkempt. Perchance fate cast thee downFrom thy high place to seat thee higher still;It may be profit to have been a slave.
Andromache.This one ill only lacked to fallen Troy:910Pleasure, while Pergamus still smoking lies!Fit hour for marriage! Dare one then refuse?When Helen would persuade, who doubtful weds?Thou curse! Two nations owe to thee their fall!Seest thou the royal tomb, these bones that lie915Unburied, scattered over all the field?Thy bridal is the cause. All Asia's blood,All Europe's flows for thee, whilst thou, unstirred,Canst see two husbands fighting, nor decideWhich one to wish the victor! Go, prepare920The marriage bed; what need of wedding torchOr nuptial lights, when burning Troy providesThe fires for these new bridals? Celebrate,O Trojan women, honor worthilyThe marriage feast of Pyrrhus. Smite your breasts,925And weep aloud.
Helen.Soft comfort is refusedBy deep despair, which loses reason, hatesThe very sharers of its grief. My causeI yet may plead before this hostile judge,Since I have suffered heavier ills than she.930Andromache mourns Hector openly,Hecuba weeps for Priam, I, alone,In secret, weep for Paris. Is it hard,Grievous, and hateful to bear servitude?For ten long years I bore the captive's yoke.935Is Ilium laid low, her household godsCast down? To lose one's land is hard indeed—To fear is worse. Your sorrow friendship cheers,Me conquerors and conquered hate alike.For thee, there long was doubt whom thou shouldst serve,940My master drags me hence without the chanceOf lot. Was I the bringer of the war?Of so great Teucrian carnage? Think this trueIf first a Spartan keel thy waters cut;But if of Phrygian oars I am the prey,945By the victorious goddess as a prizeGiven for Paris' judgment, pardon me!An angry judge awaits me, and my causeIs left to Menelaus. Weep no more,Andromache, put by thy grief. Alas,950Hardly can I myself restrain my tears.
Andromache.How great the ill that even Helen weeps!Why does she weep? What trickery or crimePlots now the Ithacan? From Ida's top,Or Troy's high tower, will he cast the maid955Upon the rocks? Or hurl her to the deepFrom the great cliff which, from its riven side,Out of the shallow bay, Sigeon lifts?What wouldst thou cover with deceitful face?No ill were heavier than this: to see960Pyrrhus the son of Priam's Hecuba.Speak, plainly tell the penalty thou bringst.Take from defeat at least this evil,—fraud.Thou seest thou dost not find us loth to die.
Helen.Would that Apollo's prophet bade me take965The long delay of my so hated life;Or that, upon Achilles' sepulcher,I might be slain by Pyrrhus' cruel hand,The sharer of thy fate, Polyxena,Whom harsh Achilles bids them give to him—970To offer to his manes, as his brideIn the Elysian Fields.
[Polyxena shows great joy, Hecuba sinks fainting to the ground.