Andromache.See with what joy a noble woman meetsDeath-sentence, bids them bring the royal robe,And fitly deck her hair. She deemed it death975To be the bride of Pyrrhus, but this deathA bridal seems. The wretched mother faints,Her sinking spirit fails; unhappy one,Arise, lift up thy heart, be strong of soul!Life hangs but by a thread—how slight a thing980Glads Hecuba! She breathes, she lives again,Death flies the wretched.Hecuba.Lives Achilles stillTo vex the Trojans? Still pursues his foes?Light was the hand of Paris; but the tombAnd ashes of Achilles drink our blood.985Once I was circled by a happy throngOf children, by their kisses weary made,Parted my mother love amongst them all.She, now, alone is left; for her I pray,Companion, solace, healer of my grief,990The only child of Hecuba, her voiceAlone may call me mother! Bitter life,Pass from me, slip away, spare this last blow!Tears overflow my cheeks—a storm of tearsFalls from her eyes!995Andromache.We are the ones should weep,We, Hecuba, whom, scattered here and there,The Grecian ships shall carry far away.The maid will find at least a sepulcherIn the dear soil of her loved native land.Helen.Thy own lot known, yet more thou'lt envy hers.1000Andromache.Is any portion of my lot unknown?Helen.The fatal urn has given thee a lord.Andromache.Whom call I master? Speak, who bears me henceA slave?Helen.Lot gave thee to the Scyrian king.Andromache.Happy Cassandra, whom Apollo's wrath1005Spared from such fate!Helen.The prince of kings claims her.Hecuba.Be glad, rejoice, my child; AndromacheDesires thy bridals, and Cassandra, too,Desires them. Is there any one would chooseHecuba for his bride?1010Helen.Thou fallst a preyTo the unwilling Ithacan.Hecuba.Alas,What powerless, cruel, unrelenting godGives kings by lot to be the prey of kings?What god unfriendly thus divides the spoil?What cruel arbiter forbids us choose1015Our masters? With Achilles' arms confoundsGreat Hector's mother?To Ulysses' lot!Conquered and captive am I now indeed,Besieged by all misfortunes! 'Tis my lordPuts me to shame, and not my servitude!1020Harsh land and sterile, by rough seas enclosed,Thou wilt not hold my grave! Lead on, lead on,Ulysses, I delay not, I will go—Will follow thee; my fate will follow me.No tranquil calm will rest upon the sea;1025Wind, war, and flame shall rage upon the deep,My woes and Priam's! When these things shall come,Respite from punishment shall come to Troy.Mine is the lot, from thee I snatch the prize!But see where Pyrrhus comes with hasty steps1030And troubled face. Why pause? On, Pyrrhus, on!Into this troubled bosom drive the sword,And join to thy Achilles his new kin!Slayer of aged men, up, here is blood,Blood worthy of thy sword; drag off thy spoil,1035And with thy hideous slaughter stain the gods—The gods who sit in heaven and those in hell!What can I pray for thee? I pray for seasWorthy these rites; I pray the thousand ships,The fleet of the Pelasgians, may meet1040Such fate as that I fain would whelm the shipThat bears me hence a captive.
Andromache.See with what joy a noble woman meetsDeath-sentence, bids them bring the royal robe,And fitly deck her hair. She deemed it death975To be the bride of Pyrrhus, but this deathA bridal seems. The wretched mother faints,Her sinking spirit fails; unhappy one,Arise, lift up thy heart, be strong of soul!Life hangs but by a thread—how slight a thing980Glads Hecuba! She breathes, she lives again,Death flies the wretched.
Hecuba.Lives Achilles stillTo vex the Trojans? Still pursues his foes?Light was the hand of Paris; but the tombAnd ashes of Achilles drink our blood.985Once I was circled by a happy throngOf children, by their kisses weary made,Parted my mother love amongst them all.She, now, alone is left; for her I pray,Companion, solace, healer of my grief,990The only child of Hecuba, her voiceAlone may call me mother! Bitter life,Pass from me, slip away, spare this last blow!Tears overflow my cheeks—a storm of tearsFalls from her eyes!995
Andromache.We are the ones should weep,We, Hecuba, whom, scattered here and there,The Grecian ships shall carry far away.The maid will find at least a sepulcherIn the dear soil of her loved native land.
Helen.Thy own lot known, yet more thou'lt envy hers.1000
Andromache.Is any portion of my lot unknown?
Helen.The fatal urn has given thee a lord.
Andromache.Whom call I master? Speak, who bears me henceA slave?
Helen.Lot gave thee to the Scyrian king.
Andromache.Happy Cassandra, whom Apollo's wrath1005Spared from such fate!
Helen.The prince of kings claims her.
Hecuba.Be glad, rejoice, my child; AndromacheDesires thy bridals, and Cassandra, too,Desires them. Is there any one would chooseHecuba for his bride?1010
Helen.Thou fallst a preyTo the unwilling Ithacan.
Hecuba.Alas,What powerless, cruel, unrelenting godGives kings by lot to be the prey of kings?What god unfriendly thus divides the spoil?What cruel arbiter forbids us choose1015Our masters? With Achilles' arms confoundsGreat Hector's mother?To Ulysses' lot!Conquered and captive am I now indeed,Besieged by all misfortunes! 'Tis my lordPuts me to shame, and not my servitude!1020Harsh land and sterile, by rough seas enclosed,Thou wilt not hold my grave! Lead on, lead on,Ulysses, I delay not, I will go—Will follow thee; my fate will follow me.No tranquil calm will rest upon the sea;1025Wind, war, and flame shall rage upon the deep,My woes and Priam's! When these things shall come,Respite from punishment shall come to Troy.Mine is the lot, from thee I snatch the prize!But see where Pyrrhus comes with hasty steps1030And troubled face. Why pause? On, Pyrrhus, on!Into this troubled bosom drive the sword,And join to thy Achilles his new kin!Slayer of aged men, up, here is blood,Blood worthy of thy sword; drag off thy spoil,1035And with thy hideous slaughter stain the gods—The gods who sit in heaven and those in hell!What can I pray for thee? I pray for seasWorthy these rites; I pray the thousand ships,The fleet of the Pelasgians, may meet1040Such fate as that I fain would whelm the shipThat bears me hence a captive.
Chorus.Sweet is a nation's grief to one who grieves—Sweet are the lamentations of a land!The sting of tears and grief is less when shared1045By many; sorrow, cruel in its pain,Is glad to see its lot by many shared,To know that not alone it suffers loss.None shuns the hapless fate that many bear;None deems himself forlorn, though truly so,1050If none are happy near him. Take awayHis riches from the wealthy, take awayThe hundred cattle that enrich his soil,The poor will lift again his lowered head;'Tis only by comparison man's poor.1055O'erwhelmed in hopeless ruin, it is sweetTo see none happy. He deplores his fateWho, shipwrecked, naked, finds the longed-for portAlone. He bears with calmer mien his fateWho sees, with his, a thousand vessels wrecked1060By the fierce tempest, sees the broken planksHeaped on the shore, the while the northwest windDrives on the coast, nor he alone returnsA shipwrecked beggar. When the radiant ram,The gold-fleeced leader of the flock, bore forth1065Phryxus and Helle, Phryxus mourned the fallOf Helle dropped into the Hellespont.Pyrrha, Deucalion's wife, restrained her tears,As he did, when they saw the sea, naught else,And they alone of living men remained.1070The Grecian fleet shall scatter far and wideOur grief and lamentations. When shall soundThe trumpet, bidding spread the sails? When dipThe laboring oars, and Troy's shores seem to flee?When shall the land grow faint and far, the sea1075Expand before, Mount Ida fade behind?Then grows our sorrow; then what way Troy liesMother and son shall gaze. The son shall say,Pointing the while, 'There where the curving lineOf smoke floats, there is Ilium.' By that sign1080May Trojans know their country.
Chorus.Sweet is a nation's grief to one who grieves—Sweet are the lamentations of a land!The sting of tears and grief is less when shared1045By many; sorrow, cruel in its pain,Is glad to see its lot by many shared,To know that not alone it suffers loss.None shuns the hapless fate that many bear;None deems himself forlorn, though truly so,1050If none are happy near him. Take awayHis riches from the wealthy, take awayThe hundred cattle that enrich his soil,The poor will lift again his lowered head;'Tis only by comparison man's poor.1055O'erwhelmed in hopeless ruin, it is sweetTo see none happy. He deplores his fateWho, shipwrecked, naked, finds the longed-for portAlone. He bears with calmer mien his fateWho sees, with his, a thousand vessels wrecked1060By the fierce tempest, sees the broken planksHeaped on the shore, the while the northwest windDrives on the coast, nor he alone returnsA shipwrecked beggar. When the radiant ram,The gold-fleeced leader of the flock, bore forth1065Phryxus and Helle, Phryxus mourned the fallOf Helle dropped into the Hellespont.Pyrrha, Deucalion's wife, restrained her tears,As he did, when they saw the sea, naught else,And they alone of living men remained.1070The Grecian fleet shall scatter far and wideOur grief and lamentations. When shall soundThe trumpet, bidding spread the sails? When dipThe laboring oars, and Troy's shores seem to flee?When shall the land grow faint and far, the sea1075Expand before, Mount Ida fade behind?Then grows our sorrow; then what way Troy liesMother and son shall gaze. The son shall say,Pointing the while, 'There where the curving lineOf smoke floats, there is Ilium.' By that sign1080May Trojans know their country.
Hecuba, Andromache, Messenger.
Messenger.O bitter, cruel, lamentable fate!In these ten years of crime what deed so hard,So sad, has Mars encountered? What decreeOf fate shall I lament? Thy bitter lot,1085Andromache? Or thine, thou aged one?Hecuba.Whatever woe thou mournst is Hecuba's;Their own griefs only others have to bear,I bear the woes of all, all die through me,And sorrow follows all who call me friend.1090Andromache.Suffering ever loves to tell its woes,Tell of the deaths—the tale of double crime;Speak, tell us all.Messenger.One mighty tower remainsOf Troy, no more is left; from this high seatPriam, the arbiter of war, was wont1095To view his troops; and in this tower he satAnd, in caressing arms, embraced the sonOf Hector, when that hero put to flightWith fire and sword the trembling, conquered Greeks.From thence he showed the child its father's deeds.1100This tower, the former glory of our walls,Is now a lonely, ruined mass of rock;Thither the throng of chiefs and people flock;From the deserted ships the Grecian hostCome pouring; on the hills some find a place,1105Some on the rising cliffs, upon whose topThey stand tiptoe; some climb the pines, and birch,And laurel, till beneath the gathered crowdThe whole wood trembles; some have found the peaksOf broken crags; some climb a swaying roof,1110Or toppling turret of the falling wall;And some, rude lookers-on, mount Hector's tomb.Through all the crowded space, with haughty mien,Passes the Ithacan, and by the handLeads Priam's grandson; nor with tardy step1115Does the young hero mount the lofty wall.Standing upon the top, with fearless heartHe turns his eagle glance from side to side.As the young, tender cub of some wild beast,Not able yet to raven with its teeth,1120Bites harmlessly, and proudly feels himselfA lion; so this brave and fearless child,Holding the right hand of his enemy,Moves host and leaders and Ulysses' self.He only does not weep for whom all weep,1125But while the Ithacan begins the wordsOf the prophetic message and the prayersTo the stern gods, he leaps into the midstOf his and Priam's kingdom, willingly.Andromache.Was ever such a deed by Colchians done,1130Or wandering Scythians, or the lawless raceThat dwells beside the Caspian? Never yetHas children's blood Busiris' altars stained,Nor Diomedes feasted his fierce steedsOn children's limbs! Who took thy body up,1135My son, and bore it to the sepulcher?Messenger.What would that headlong leap have left? His bonesLie dashed in pieces by the heavy fall,His face and noble form, inheritanceFrom his illustrious father, are with earth1140Commingled; broken is his neck; his headIs dashed in pieces on the cruel stonesSo that the brains gush forth; his body liesDevoid of form.Andromache.Like Hector, too, in this.Messenger.When from the wall the boy was headlong cast1145And the Achaians wept the crime they did,Then turned these same Achaians to new crimes,And to Achilles' tomb. With quiet flowThe Rhœtean waters beat the further side,And opposite the tomb the level plain1150Slopes gently upward, and surrounds the placeLike a wide amphitheater; here the strandIs thronged with lookers-on, who think to endWith this last death their vessels' long delay,And glad themselves to think the foeman's seed1155At last cut off. The fickle, common crowdLook coldly on; the most part hate the crime.The Trojans haste with no less eagernessTo their own funeral rites, and, pale with fear,Behold the final fall of ruined Troy.1160As at a marriage, suddenly they bringThe bridal torches; Helen goes before,Attendant to the bride, with sad head bent.'So may the daughter of HermioneBe wed,' the Phrygians pray, 'base Helen find1165Again her husband.' Terror seizes bothThe awe-struck peoples. With her glance cast down,Modestly comes the victim; but her cheeksGlow, and her beauty shines unwontedly;So shines the light of Phœbus gloriously1170Before his setting, when the stars returnAnd day is darkened by approaching night.The throng is silenced; all men praise the maidWho now must die: some praise her lovely form,Her tender age moves some, and some lament1175The fickleness of fortune; every oneIs touched at heart by her courageous soul,Her scorn of death. She comes, by Pyrrhus led;All wonder, tremble, pity; when the hillIs reached, and on his father's grave advanced,1180The young king stands, the noble maid shrinks not,But waits unflinchingly the fatal blow.Her unquelled spirit moves the hearts of all;And—a new prodigy—Pyrrhus is slowAt slaughter; but at length, with steady hand,1185He buries to the hilt the gleaming swordWithin her breast; the life-blood gushes forthFrom the deep wound; in death as heretoforeHer soul is strong; with angry thud she fallsAs she would make the earth a heavy load1190Upon Achilles' breast. Both armies weep;The Trojans offer only feeble moans;The victors mourn more freely. So was madeThe sacrifice; her blood lay not for longUpon the soil, nor flowed away; the tomb1195Drank cruelly the gore.Hecuba.Go, conquering Greeks,Securely seek your homes; with all sail set,Your fleet may safely skim the longed-for sea.The lad and maid are dead, the war is done!Where can I hide my woe, where lay aside1200The long delay of the slow-passing years?Whom shall I weep? my husband, grandson, child,Or country? Mourn the living or the dead?O longed-for death, with violence dost thou comeTo babes and maidens, but thou fleest from me!1205Through long night sought, mid fire, and swords, and spears,Why fly me? Not the foe, nor ruined home,Nor flame could slay me, though so near I stoodTo Priam!Messenger.[Talthybius, coming from the Greek camp.Captive women, seek with speedThe sea; the sails are filled, the vessels move.1210
Messenger.O bitter, cruel, lamentable fate!In these ten years of crime what deed so hard,So sad, has Mars encountered? What decreeOf fate shall I lament? Thy bitter lot,1085Andromache? Or thine, thou aged one?
Hecuba.Whatever woe thou mournst is Hecuba's;Their own griefs only others have to bear,I bear the woes of all, all die through me,And sorrow follows all who call me friend.1090
Andromache.Suffering ever loves to tell its woes,Tell of the deaths—the tale of double crime;Speak, tell us all.
Messenger.One mighty tower remainsOf Troy, no more is left; from this high seatPriam, the arbiter of war, was wont1095To view his troops; and in this tower he satAnd, in caressing arms, embraced the sonOf Hector, when that hero put to flightWith fire and sword the trembling, conquered Greeks.From thence he showed the child its father's deeds.1100This tower, the former glory of our walls,Is now a lonely, ruined mass of rock;Thither the throng of chiefs and people flock;From the deserted ships the Grecian hostCome pouring; on the hills some find a place,1105Some on the rising cliffs, upon whose topThey stand tiptoe; some climb the pines, and birch,And laurel, till beneath the gathered crowdThe whole wood trembles; some have found the peaksOf broken crags; some climb a swaying roof,1110Or toppling turret of the falling wall;And some, rude lookers-on, mount Hector's tomb.Through all the crowded space, with haughty mien,Passes the Ithacan, and by the handLeads Priam's grandson; nor with tardy step1115Does the young hero mount the lofty wall.Standing upon the top, with fearless heartHe turns his eagle glance from side to side.As the young, tender cub of some wild beast,Not able yet to raven with its teeth,1120Bites harmlessly, and proudly feels himselfA lion; so this brave and fearless child,Holding the right hand of his enemy,Moves host and leaders and Ulysses' self.He only does not weep for whom all weep,1125But while the Ithacan begins the wordsOf the prophetic message and the prayersTo the stern gods, he leaps into the midstOf his and Priam's kingdom, willingly.
Andromache.Was ever such a deed by Colchians done,1130Or wandering Scythians, or the lawless raceThat dwells beside the Caspian? Never yetHas children's blood Busiris' altars stained,Nor Diomedes feasted his fierce steedsOn children's limbs! Who took thy body up,1135My son, and bore it to the sepulcher?
Messenger.What would that headlong leap have left? His bonesLie dashed in pieces by the heavy fall,His face and noble form, inheritanceFrom his illustrious father, are with earth1140Commingled; broken is his neck; his headIs dashed in pieces on the cruel stonesSo that the brains gush forth; his body liesDevoid of form.
Andromache.Like Hector, too, in this.
Messenger.When from the wall the boy was headlong cast1145And the Achaians wept the crime they did,Then turned these same Achaians to new crimes,And to Achilles' tomb. With quiet flowThe Rhœtean waters beat the further side,And opposite the tomb the level plain1150Slopes gently upward, and surrounds the placeLike a wide amphitheater; here the strandIs thronged with lookers-on, who think to endWith this last death their vessels' long delay,And glad themselves to think the foeman's seed1155At last cut off. The fickle, common crowdLook coldly on; the most part hate the crime.The Trojans haste with no less eagernessTo their own funeral rites, and, pale with fear,Behold the final fall of ruined Troy.1160As at a marriage, suddenly they bringThe bridal torches; Helen goes before,Attendant to the bride, with sad head bent.'So may the daughter of HermioneBe wed,' the Phrygians pray, 'base Helen find1165Again her husband.' Terror seizes bothThe awe-struck peoples. With her glance cast down,Modestly comes the victim; but her cheeksGlow, and her beauty shines unwontedly;So shines the light of Phœbus gloriously1170Before his setting, when the stars returnAnd day is darkened by approaching night.The throng is silenced; all men praise the maidWho now must die: some praise her lovely form,Her tender age moves some, and some lament1175The fickleness of fortune; every oneIs touched at heart by her courageous soul,Her scorn of death. She comes, by Pyrrhus led;All wonder, tremble, pity; when the hillIs reached, and on his father's grave advanced,1180The young king stands, the noble maid shrinks not,But waits unflinchingly the fatal blow.Her unquelled spirit moves the hearts of all;And—a new prodigy—Pyrrhus is slowAt slaughter; but at length, with steady hand,1185He buries to the hilt the gleaming swordWithin her breast; the life-blood gushes forthFrom the deep wound; in death as heretoforeHer soul is strong; with angry thud she fallsAs she would make the earth a heavy load1190Upon Achilles' breast. Both armies weep;The Trojans offer only feeble moans;The victors mourn more freely. So was madeThe sacrifice; her blood lay not for longUpon the soil, nor flowed away; the tomb1195Drank cruelly the gore.
Hecuba.Go, conquering Greeks,Securely seek your homes; with all sail set,Your fleet may safely skim the longed-for sea.The lad and maid are dead, the war is done!Where can I hide my woe, where lay aside1200The long delay of the slow-passing years?Whom shall I weep? my husband, grandson, child,Or country? Mourn the living or the dead?O longed-for death, with violence dost thou comeTo babes and maidens, but thou fleest from me!1205Through long night sought, mid fire, and swords, and spears,Why fly me? Not the foe, nor ruined home,Nor flame could slay me, though so near I stoodTo Priam!
Messenger.[Talthybius, coming from the Greek camp.Captive women, seek with speedThe sea; the sails are filled, the vessels move.1210