By which so oft Ulysses hath prevailed; For truth, though long concealed, can never die.
Now watch the mother; note her grief, her tears, 615 Her sighs; with restless step, now here, now there, She wanders, and she strains her anxious ears To catch some whispered word. 'Tis evident, She more by present fear than grief is swayed.
So must I ply her with the subtlest art.
[_To_ Andromache.]
When others mourn, 'tis fit in sympathy To speak with kindred grief; but thou, poor soul, I bid rejoice that thou hast lost thy son, 620 Whom cruel fate awaited; for 'twas willed That from the lofty tower that doth remain Alone of Troy's proud walls, he should be dashed, And headlong fall to quick and certain death.
_Andromache_ [_aside_]: My soul is faint within me, and my limbs Do quake; while chilling fear congeals my blood. 625 _Ulysses_ [_aside_]: She trembles; here must I pursue my quest.
Her fear betrayeth her; wherefore this fear Will I redouble.-- [_To attendants._] Go in haste, my men, And find this foe of Greece, the last defense Of Troy, who by his mother's cunning hand Is safe bestowed, and set him in our midst.
[_Pretending that the boy is discovered._] 'Tis well! He's found. Now bring him here with haste. 630 [_To_ Andromache.]
Why dost thou start, and tremble? Of a truth Thy son is dead, for so hast thou declared.
_Andromache:_ Oh, that I had just cause of dread. But now, My old habitual fear instinctive starts; The mind ofttimes forgets a well-conned woe.
_Ulysses:_ Now since thy boy hath shunned the sacrifice That to the walls was due, and hath escaped 635 By grace of better fate, our priest declares That only can our homeward way be won If Hector's ashes, scattered o'er the waves, Appease the sea, and this his sepulcher Be leveled with the ground. Since Hector's son Has failed to pay the debt he owed to fate, 640 Then Hector's sacred dust must be despoiled.
_Andromache_ [_aside_]: Ah me, a double fear distracts my soul!
Here calls my son, and here my husband's dust.
Which shall prevail? Attest, ye heartless gods, And ye, my husband's shades, true deities: 645 Naught else, O Hector, pleased me in my son, Save only thee; then may he still survive To bring thine image back to life and me.-- Shall then my husband's ashes be defiled?
Shall I permit his bones to be the sport Of waves, and lie unburied in the sea?
Oh, rather, let my only son be slain!-- 650 And canst thou, mother, see thy helpless child To awful death given up? Canst thou behold His body whirling from the battlements?
I can, I shall endure and suffer this, Provided only, by his death appeased, The victor's hand shall spare my Hector's bones.-- But he can suffer yet, while kindly fate 655 Hath placed his sire beyond the reach of harm.
Why dost thou hesitate? Thou must decide Whom thou wilt designate for punishment.
What doubts harass thy troubled soul? No more Is Hector here.--Oh, say not so; I feel He is both here and there. But sure am I That this my child is still in life, perchance To be the avenger of his father's death.
But both I cannot spare. What then? O soul, 660 Save of the two, whom most the Greeks do fear.
_Ulysses_ [_aside_]: Now must I force her answer.
[_To_ Andromache.]
From its base Will I this tomb destroy.
_Andromache:_ The tomb of him Whose body thou didst ransom for a price?
_Ulysses:_ I will destroy it, and the sepulcher From its high mound will utterly remove. 665 _Andromache:_ The sacred faith of heaven do I invoke, And just Achilles' plighted word: do thou, O Pyrrhus, keep thy father's sacred oath.
_Ulysses:_ This tomb shall soon lie level with the plain.
_Andromache:_ Such sacrilege the Greeks, though impious, Have never dared. 'Tis true the sacred fanes, E'en of your favoring gods, ye have defiled; 670 But still your wildest rage hath spared our tombs.
I will resist, and match your warriors' arms With my weak woman's hands. Despairing wrath Will nerve my arm. Like that fierce Amazon, Who wrought dire havoc in the Grecian ranks; Or some wild Maenad by the god o'ercome, Who, thrysus-armed, doth roam the trackless glades With frenzied step, and, clean of sense bereft, 675 Strikes deadly blows but feels no counter-stroke: So will I rush against ye in defense Of Hector's tomb, and perish, if I must, An ally of his shade.
_Ulysses_ [_to attendants_]: Do ye delay, And do a woman's tears and empty threats And outcry move you? Speed the task I bid. 680 Destroy me first! Oh, take my life instead!
[_The attendants roughly thrust her away._] Alas, they thrust me back! O Hector, come, Break through the bands of fate, upheave the earth, That thou mayst stay Ulysses' lawless hand.
Thy spirit will suffice.--Behold he comes!
His arms he brandishes, and firebrands hurls.
Ye Greeks, do ye behold him, or do I, With solitary sight, alone behold? 685 _Ulysses:_ This tomb and all it holds will I destroy.
_Andromache_ [_aside, while the attendants begin to demolish the tomb_]: Ah me, can I permit the son and sire To be in common ruin overwhelmed?
Perchance I may prevail upon the Greeks By prayer.--But even now those massive stones Will crush my hidden child.--Oh, let him die, In any other way, and anywhere, 690 If only father crush not son, and son No desecration bring to father's dust.
[_Casts herself at the feet of_ Ulysses.]
A humble suppliant at thy knees I fall, Ulysses; I, who never yet to man Have bent the knee in prayer, thy feet embrace.
By all the gods, have pity on my woes, And with a calm and patient heart receive My pious prayers. And as the heavenly powers 695 Have high exalted thee in pride and might, The greater mercy show thy fallen foes.
Whate'er is given to wretched suppliant Is loaned to fate. So mayst thou see again Thy faithful wife; so may Laërtes live To greet thee yet again; so may thy son Behold thy face, and, more than that thou canst pray, 700 Excel his father's valor and the years Of old Laërtes. Pity my distress: The only comfort left me in my woe, Is this my son.
_Ulysses:_ Produce the boy--and pray.
_Andromache_ [_goes to the tomb and calls to_ Astyanax]: Come forth, my son, from the place of thy hiding 705 Where thy mother bestowed thee with weeping and fear.
[Astyanax _appears from the tomb_. Andromache _presents him to_ Ulysses.]
Here, here is the lad, Ulysses, behold him; The fear of thy armies, the dread of thy fleet!
[_To_ Astyanax.]
My son, thy suppliant hands upraise, And at the feet of this proud lord, Bend low in prayer, nor think it base 710 To suffer the lot which our fortune appoints.
Put out of mind thy regal birth, Thy agéd grandsire's glorious rule Of wide domain; and think no more Of Hector, thy illustrious sire.
Be captive alone--bend the suppliant knee; 715 And if thine own fate move thee not, Then weep by thy mother's woe inspired.
[_To_ Ulysses.]
That older Troy beheld the tears Of its youthful king, and those tears prevailed To stay the fierce threats of the victor's wrath, 720 The mighty Hercules. Yea he, To whose vast strength all monsters had yielded, Who burst the stubborn gates of hell, And o'er that murky way returned, Even he was o'ercome by the tears of a boy. 725 "Take the reins of the state," to the prince he said; "Reign thou on thy father's lofty throne, But reign with the scepter of power--and truth."
Thus did that hero subdue his foes.
And thus do thou temper thy wrath with forbearance. 730 And let not the power of great Hercules, only, Be model to thee. Behold at thy feet, As noble a prince as Priam of old Pleads only for life! The kingdom of Troy Let fortune bestow where she will. 735 _Ulysses_ [_aside_]: This woe-struck mother's grief doth move me sore; But still the Grecian dames must more prevail, Unto whose grief this lad is growing up.
_Andromache_ [_hearing him_]: What? These vast ruins of our fallen town, To very ashes brought, shall he uprear?
Shall these poor boyish hands build Troy again? 740 No hopes indeed hath Troy, if such her hopes.
So low the Trojans lie, there's none so weak That he need fear our power. Doth lofty thought Of mighty Hector nerve his boyish heart?
What valor can a fallen Hector stir?
When this our Troy was lost, his father's self Would then have bowed his lofty spirit's pride; For woe can bend and break the proudest soul. 745 If punishment be sought, some heavier fate Let him endure; upon his royal neck Let him support the yoke of servitude.
Must princes sue in vain for this poor boon?
_Ulysses:_ Not I, but Calchas doth refuse thy prayer.
_Andromache:_ O man of lies, artificer of crime, 750 By whom in open fight no foe is slain, But by whose tricks and cunning, evil mind The very chiefs of Greece are overthrown, Dost thou now seek to hide thy dark intent Behind a priest and guiltless gods? Nay, nay: This deed within thy sinful heart was born.
Thou midnight prowler, brave to work the death 755 Of this poor boy, dost dare at length alone To do a deed, and that in open day?
_Ulysses:_ Ulysses' valor do the Grecians know Full well, and all too well the Phrygians.
But we are wasting time with empty words.
The impatient ships are tugging at their chains.
_Andromache:_ But grant a brief delay, while to my son 760 I pay the rites of woe, and sate my grief With tears and last embrace.
_Ulysses:_ I would 'twere mine To spare thy tears; but what alone I may, I'll give thee respite and a time for grief.
Then weep thy fill, for tears do soften woe. 765 _Andromache_ [_to_ Astyanax]: O darling pledge of love, thou only stay Of our poor fallen house, last pang of Troy; O thou whom Grecians fear, O mother's hope, Alas too vain, for whom, with folly blind, I prayed the war-earned praises of his sire, His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength: But God hath scorned my prayers. 770 Thou shalt not live To wield the scepter in the royal courts Of ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws, And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes; Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks, Nor from thy car in retribution drag Achilles' son; the dart from thy small hand 775 Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chase Of scattered beasts throughout the forest glades; And when the sacred lustral day is come, Troy's yearly ritual of festal games, The charging squadrons of the noble youth Thou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born; Nor yet among the blazing altar fires, 780 With nimble feet the ancient sacred dance At some barbaric temple celebrate, While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies.
Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war!
More tearful sight than mighty Hector's end The walls of Troy must see. 785 _Ulysses:_ Now stay thy tears, For mighty grief no bound or respite finds.
_Andromache:_ Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask; Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant, That I may close his eyes though living still, And do a mother's part.
[_To_ Astyanax.]
Lo, thou must die, For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared.
Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride, 790 And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved.
_Astyanax:_ O mother, mother, pity me and save!
_Andromache:_ My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes, And seek the vain protection of my hand?
As when the hungry lion's roar is heard, The frightened calf for safety presses close 795 Its mother's side; but that remorseless beast, Thrusting away the mother's timid form, With ravenous jaws doth grasp the lesser prey, And, crushing, drag it hence: so shalt thou, too, Be snatched away from me by heartless foes.
Then take my tears and kisses, O my son, Take these poor locks, and, full of mother love, 800 Go speed thee to thy sire; and in his ear Speak these, thy grieving mother's parting words: "If still thy manes feel their former cares, And on the pyre thy love was not consumed, Why dost thou suffer thy Andromache To serve a Grecian lord, O cruel Hector?
Why dost thou lie in careless indolence? 805 Achilles has returned."
Take once again These hairs, these flowing tears, which still remain From Hector's piteous death; this fond caress And rain of parting kisses take for him.
But leave this cloak to comfort my distress, For it, within his tomb and near his shade, Hath lain enwrapping thee. If to its folds 810 One tiny mote of his dear ashes clings, My eager lips shall seek it till they find.
_Ulysses:_ Thy grief is limitless. Come, break away, And end our Grecian fleet's too long delay.
[_He leads the boy away with him._] * * * * * _Chorus:_ Where lies the home of our captivity?
On Thessaly's famed mountain heights?
Where Tempe's dusky shade invites? 815 Or Phthia, sturdy warriors' home, Or where rough Trachin's cattle roam?
Iolchos, mistress of the main, Or Crete, whose cities crowd the plain? 820 Where frequent flow Mothone's rills, Beneath the shade of Oete's hills, Whence came Alcides' fatal bow Twice destined for our overthrow? 825 But whither shall our alien course be sped?
Perchance to Pleuron's gates we go, Where Dian's self was counted foe; Perchance to Troezen's winding shore, The land which mighty Theseus bore; Or Pelion, by whose rugged side Their mad ascent the giants tried.
Here, stretched within his mountain cave, 830 Once Chiron to Achilles gave The lyre, whose stirring strains attest The warlike passions of his breast. 835 What foreign shore our homeless band invites?
Must we our native country deem Where bright Carystos' marbles gleam?
Where Chalcis breasts the heaving tide, And swift Euripus' waters glide?
Perchance unhappy fortune calls 840 To bleak Gonoëssa's windswept walls; Perchance our wondering eyes shall see Eleusin's awful mystery; 845 Or Elis, where great heroes strove To win the Olympic crown of Jove. 850 Then welcome, stranger lands beyond the sea!
Let breezes waft our wretched band, Where'er they list, to any land; If only Sparta's curséd state (To Greeks and Trojans common fate) And Argos, never meet our view, And bloody Pelops' city too; 855 May we ne'er see Ulysses' isle, Whose borders share their master's guile.
But thee, O Hecuba, what fate, What land, what Grecian lord await? 860 ACT IV [_Enter_ Helen.]
_Helen_ [_aside_]: Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate, Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears, Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.
And now must I still further harm inflict Upon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my part To feign Polyxena, the royal maid, Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife, 865 And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.
So by my artful words shall she be snared, And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.
But let her be deceived; 'tis better so; To die without the shrinking fear of death Is joy indeed. But why dost thou delay Thy bidden task? If aught of sin there be, 870 'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.
[_To_ Polyxena.]
O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock, The gods begin to look upon thy house In kinder mood, and even now prepare To grant thee happy marriage; such a mate As neither Troy herself in all her power Nor royal Priam could have found for thee. 875 For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords, Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plains Acknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.
Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own, And Thetis, whose majestic deity Doth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphs Who dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' bride 880 Thou shalt be called the child of Peleus old, And Nereus the divine.
Then change the garb Of thy captivity for festal robes, And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.
Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permit That I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head. 885 This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throne More lofty far than ever Priam saw.
The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.
_Andromache:_ This was the one thing lacking to our woes-- That they should bid us smile when we would weep.
See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps; A fitting time to talk of marriages! 890 But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids, Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?
Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too, Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence, Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?
And dost thou see these poor unburied bones That everywhere lie whitening on the plain?
This desolation hath thy marriage wrought. 895 For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for thee Did Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased, Didst look abroad upon the warring kings, Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!
There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!
What need of torches for the solemn rites?
What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forth 900 The ruddy flames to light her latest bride.
Then come, my sisters, come and celebrate Lord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise: With groans and wailing let the scene resound.
_Helen:_ Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed, And oft the very comrades of its woe, Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to stand 905 And plead my cause before a hostile judge, For I have suffered heavier ills than these.
Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn, And Hecuba her Priam; each may claim The public sympathy; but Helena Alone must weep for Paris secretly.
Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hard 910 To bear? This grievous yoke have I endured, Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lie In dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hard To lose one's native land, but harder still To fear the land that gave you birth. Your woes Are lightened by community of grief; But friend and foe are foes alike to me.
Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubt 915 That sorts you to your lords; but I alone, Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.
Think you that I have been the cause of war, And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it true If in a Spartan vessel I approached Your land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars, 920 I came a helpless prey; if to the judge Of beauty's rival claims I fell the prize By conquering Venus' gift, then pity me, The plaything of the fates. An angry judge Full soon my cause shall have--my Grecian lord.
Then leave to him the question of my guilt, And judge me not.
But now forget thy woes A little space, Andromache, and bid 925 This royal maid--but as I think on her My tears unbidden flow.
[_She stops, overcome by emotion._] _Andromache_ [_in scorn_]: Now great indeed Must be the evil when our Helen weeps!
But dry thy tears, and tell what Ithacus Is plotting now, what latest deed of shame?
Must this poor maid be hurled from Ida's heights, Or from the top of Ilium's citadel?
Must she be flung into the cruel sea 930 That roars beneath this lofty precipice, Which our Sigeum's rugged crag uprears?
Come, tell what thou dost hide with mimic grief.
In all our ills there's none so great as this, That any princess of our royal house Should wed with Pyrrhus. Speak thy dark intent; 935 What further suffering remains to bear?
To compensate our woes, this grace impart, That we may know the worst that can befall.
Behold us ready for the stroke of fate.
_Helen:_ Alas! I would 'twere mine to break the bonds Which bind me to this life I hate; to die By Pyrrhus' cruel hand upon the tomb 940 Of great Achilles, and to share thy fate, O poor Polyxena. For even now, The ghost doth bid that thou be sacrificed, And that thy blood be spilt upon his tomb; That thus thy parting soul may mate with his, Within the borders of Elysium.
_Andromache_ [_observing the joy with which_ Polyxena _receives these tidings_]: Behold, her soul leaps up with mighty joy 945 At thought of death; she seeks the festal robes Wherewith to deck her for the bridal rites, And yields her golden locks to Helen's hands.
Who late accounted wedlock worse than death, Now hails her death with more than bridal joy.
[_Observing_ Hecuba.]
But see, her mother stands amazed with woe, Her spirit staggers 'neath the stroke of fate. 950 [_To_ Hecuba.]
Arise, O wretched queen, stand firm in soul, And gird thy fainting spirit up.
Behold, By what a slender thread her feeble life Is held to earth. How slight the barrier now That doth remove our Hecuba from joy.
But no, she breathes, alas! she lives again, For from the wretched, death is first to flee.
_Hecuba_ [_reviving_]: Still dost thou live, Achilles, for our bane? 955 Dost still prolong the bitter strife? O Paris, Thine arrow should have dealt a deadlier wound.
For see, the very ashes and the tomb Of that insatiate chieftain still do thirst For Trojan blood. But lately did a throng Of happy children press me round; and I, With fond endearment and the sweet caress That mother love would shower upon them all, Was oft forespent. But now this child alone 960 Is left, my comrade, comfort of my woes, For whom to pray, in whom to rest my soul.
Hers are the only lips still left to me To call me mother. Poor, unhappy soul, Why dost thou cling so stubbornly to life?
Oh speed thee out, and grant me death at last, The only boon I seek. Behold, I weep; And from my cheeks, o'erwhelmed with sympathy, 965 A sudden rain of grieving tears descends.
_Andromache:_ We, Hecuba, Oh, we should most be mourned, Whom soon the fleet shall scatter o'er the sea; 970 While _she_ shall rest beneath the soil she loves.
_Helen:_ Still more wouldst thou begrudge thy sister's lot, If thou didst know thine own.
_Andromache:_ Remains there still Some punishment that I must undergo?
_Helen:_ The whirling urn hath given you each her lord.
_Andromache:_ To whom hath fate allotted me a slave? 975 Proclaim the chief whom I must call my lord.
_Helen:_ To Pyrrhus hast thou fallen by the lot.
_Andromache:_ O happy maid, Cassandra, blest of heaven, For by thy madness art thou held exempt From fate that makes us chattels to the Greeks.
_Helen:_ Not so, for even now the Grecian king Doth hold her as his prize.
_Hecuba_ [_to_ Polyxena]: Rejoice, my child.
How gladly would thy sisters change their lot For thy death-dooming marriage.
[_To_ Helen.]
Tell me now, Does any Greek lay claim to Hecuba?
_Helen:_ The Ithacan, though much against his will, 980 Hath gained by lot a short-lived prize in thee.
_Hecuba:_ What cruel, ruthless providence hath given A royal slave to serve unkingly[50] men?
What hostile god divides our captive band?
What heartless arbiter of destiny So carelessly allots our future lords, That Hector's mother is assigned to him 985 Who hath by favor gained th' accursed arms Which laid my Hector low? And must I then Obey the Ithacan? Now conquered quite, Alas, and doubly captive do I seem, And sore beset by all my woes at once.
Now must I blush, not for my slavery, 990 But for my master's sake. Yet Ithaca, That barren land by savage seas beset, Shall not receive my bones.
Then up, Ulysses, And lead thy captive home. I'll not refuse To follow thee as lord; for well I know That my untoward fates shall follow me.
No gentle winds shall fill thy homeward sails, 995 But stormy blasts shall rage; destructive wars, And fires, and Priam's evil fates and mine, Shall haunt thee everywhere. But even now, While yet those ills delay, hast thou received Some punishment. For I usurped thy lot, And stole thy chance to win a fairer prize.
[_Enter_ Pyrrhus.]
But see, with hurried step and lowering brow, Stern Pyrrhus comes. 1000 [_To_ Pyrrhus.]
Why dost thou hesitate?
Come pierce my vitals with thy impious sword, And join the parents of Achilles' bride.
Make haste, thou murderer of agéd men, My blood befits thee too.
Away with her; Defile the face of heaven with murder's stain, Defile the shades.--But why make prayer to you? 1005 I'll rather pray the sea whose savage rage Befits these bloody rites; the selfsame doom, Which for my ship I pray and prophesy, May that befall the thousand ships of Greece, And so may evil fate engulf them all.
* * * * * _Chorus:_ 'Tis sweet for one in grief to know That he but feels a common woe; 1010 And lighter falls the stroke of care Which all with equal sorrow bear; For selfish and malign is human grief 1015 Which in the tears of others finds relief.
Remove all men to fortune born, And none will think himself forlorn; Remove rich acres spreading wide, 1020 With grazing herds on every side: Straight will the poor man's drooping soul revive, For none are poor if all in common thrive. 1025 The mariner his fate bewails, Who in a lonely vessel sails, And, losing all his scanty store, With life alone attains the shore; But with a stouter heart the gale he braves, That sinks a thousand ships beneath the waves. 1030 When Phrixus fled in days of old Upon the ram with fleece of gold, His sister Helle with him fared And all his exiled wanderings shared; But when she fell and left him quite alone, Then nothing could for Helle's loss atone. 1035 Not so they wept, that fabled pair, Deucalion and Pyrrha fair, When 'midst the boundless sea they stood The sole survivors of the flood; For though their lot was hard and desolate, They shared their sorrow--'twas a common fate. 1040 Too soon our grieving company Shall scatter on the rolling sea, Where swelling sails and bending oars 1045 Shall speed us on to distant shores.
Oh, then how hard shall be our wretched plight, When far away our country lies, And round us heaving billows rise, And lofty Ida's summit sinks from sight.
Then mother shall her child embrace, 1050 And point with straining eyes the place Where Ilium's smouldering ruins lie, Far off beneath the eastern sky: "See there, my child, our Trojan ashes glow, Where wreathing smoke in murky clouds The distant, dim horizon shrouds; And by that sign alone our land we know." 1055 FOOTNOTES: ACT V _Messenger_ [_entering_]: Oh, cruel fate, Oh, piteous, horrible!
What sight so fell and bloody have we seen In ten long years of war? Between thy woes, Andromache, and thine, O Hecuba, I halt, and know not which to weep the more.
_Hecuba:_ Weep whosesoe'er thou wilt--thou weepest mine. 1060 While others bow beneath their single cares, I feel the weight of all. All die to me; Whatever grief there is, is Hecuba's.
_Messenger:_ The maid is slain, the boy dashed from the walls.
But each has met his death with royal soul.
_Andromache:_ Expound the deed in order, and display 1065 The twofold crime. My mighty grief is fain To hear the gruesome narrative entire.
Begin thy tale, and tell it as it was.
_Messenger:_ One lofty tower of fallen Troy is left, Well known to Priam, on whose battlements He used to sit and view his warring hosts. 1070 Here in his arms his grandson he would hold With kind embrace, and bid the lad admire His father's warlike deeds upon the field, Where Hector, armed with fire and sword, pursued The frightened Greeks. Around this lofty tower 1075 Which lately stood, the glory of the walls, But now a lonely crag, the people pour, A motley, curious throng of high and low.
For some, a distant hill gives open view; While others seek a cliff, upon whose edge 1080 The crowd in tiptoed expectation stand.
The beech tree, laurel, pine, each has its load; The whole wood bends beneath its human fruit.
One climbs a smouldering roof; unto another A crumbling wall precarious footing gives; 1085 While others (shameless!) stand on Hector's tomb.
Now through the thronging crowd with stately tread Ulysses makes his way, and by the hand He leads the little prince of Ilium.
With equal pace the lad approached the wall; 1090 But when he reached the lofty battlement, He stood and gazed around with dauntless soul.
And as the savage lion's tender young, Its fangless jaws, all powerless to harm, Still snaps with helpless wrath and swelling heart; 1095 So he, though held in that strong foeman's grasp, Stood firm, defiant. Then the crowd of men, And leaders, and Ulysses' self, were moved.
But he alone wept not of all the throng Who wept for him. And now Ulysses spake In priestly wise the words of fate, and prayed, 1100 And summoned to the rite the savage gods; When suddenly, on self-destruction bent, The lad sprang o'er the turret's edge, and plunged Into the depths below.-- _Andromache:_ What Colchian, what wandering Scythian, What lawless race that dwells by Caspia's sea 1105 Could do or dare a crime so hideous?
No blood of helpless children ever stained Busiris' altars, monster though he was; Nor did the horses of the Thracian king E'er feed on tender limbs. Where is my boy?
Who now will take and lay him in the tomb? 1110 _Messenger:_ Alas, my lady, how can aught remain From such a fall, but broken, scattered bones, Dismembered limbs, and all those noble signs In face and feature of his royal birth, Confused and crushed upon the ragged ground?
Who was thy son lies now a shapeless corse. 1115 _Andromache:_ Thus also is he like his noble sire.
_Messenger:_ When headlong from the tower the lad had sprung, And all the Grecian throng bewailed the crime Which it had seen and done; that selfsame throng Returned to witness yet another crime 1120 Upon Achilles' tomb. The seaward side Is beaten by Rhoeteum's lapping waves; While on the other sides a level space, And rounded, gently sloping hills beyond, Encompass it, and make a theater.
Here rush the multitude and fill the place 1125 With eager throngs. A few rejoice that now Their homeward journey's long delay will end, And that another prop of fallen Troy Is stricken down. But all the common herd Look on in silence at the crime they hate.
The Trojans, too, attend the sacrifice, 1130 And wait with quaking hearts the final scene Of Ilium's fall. When suddenly there shone The gleaming torches of the wedding march; And, as the bride's attendant, Helen came With drooping head. Whereat the Trojans prayed: "Oh, may Hermione be wed like this, 1135 With bloody rites; like this may Helena Return unto her lord." Then numbing dread Seized Greeks and Trojans all, as they beheld The maid. She walked with downcast, modest eyes, But on her face a wondrous beauty glowed