_Agamemnon._ More than their children, kings should love their land.
_Pyrrhus._ No law spares captives or denies revenge. 335 _Agamemnon._ What law forbids not, honor's self forbids.
_Pyrrhus._ To victors is permitted what they will.
_Agamemnon._ He least should wish to whom is granted most.
_Pyrrhus._ And this thou sayest to us, who ten long years 339 Have borne thy heavy yoke, whom my hand freed?
_Agamemnon._ Is this the boast of Scyros?
_Pyrrhus._ There no stain Of brother's blood is found.
_Agamemnon._ Shut in by waves-- _Pyrrhus._ Nay, but the seas are kin. I know thy house-- Yea, Atreus' and Thyestes' noble house! 344 _Agamemnon._ Son of Achilles ere he was a man, And of the maid he ravished secretly-- _Pyrrhus._ Of that Achilles, who, by right of race, Through all the world held sway, inherited The ocean from his mother, and the shades From Æacus, from Jupiter the sky. 350 _Agamemnon._ Achilles, who by Paris' hand was slain.
_Pyrrhus._ One whom the gods attacked not openly.
_Agamemnon._ To curb thy insolence and daring words I well were able, but my sword can spare The conquered.
[_To some of the soldiers, who surround him._ Call the god's interpreter. 355 [_A few of the soldiers go out, Calchas comes in._ SCENE III _Agamemnon._ [_To Calchas._] Thou, who hast freed the anchors of the fleet; Ended the war's delay; and by thy arts Hast opened heaven; to whom the secret things Revealed in sacrifice, in shaken earth, And star that draws through heaven its flaming length, 360 Are messengers of fate; whose words have been To me the words of doom; speak, Calchas, tell What thing the god commands, and govern us By thy wise counsels.
_Calchas._ Fate a pathway grants To Grecians only at the wonted price. 365 A virgin must be slain upon the tomb Of the Thessalian leader, and adorned In robes like those Thessalian virgins wear To grace their bridals, or Ionian maids, Or damsels of Mycene; and the bride 370 Shall be by Pyrrhus to his father brought-- So is she rightly wed. Yet not alone Is this the cause that holds our ships in port, But blood must flow for blood, and nobler blood Than thine, Polyxena. Whom fate demands-- 375 Grandchild of Priam, Hector's only son-- Hurled headlong from Troy's wall shall meet his death; Then shall our thousand sails make white the strait.
SCENE IV _Chorus of Trojan Women._ Is it true, or does an idle story Make the timid dream that after death, 380 When 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 one 385 To the grave? Must misery still endure Longer life beyond? Does not all perish When the fleeting spirit fades in air Cloudlike? When the dreaded fire is lighted 'Neath the body, does no part remain? 390 Whatsoe'er the rising sun or setting Sees; whatever ebbing tide or flood Of the ocean with blue waters washes, Time with Pegasean flight destroys.
Like the sweep of whirling constellations, 395 Like the circling of their king the sun, Haste the ages. As obliquely turning Hecate speeds, so all must seek their fate; He who touches once the gloomy water Sacred to the god, exists no more. 400 As the sordid smoke from smoldering embers Swiftly 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 nothing 405 But the last mete of a swift-run race, Which to eager souls gives hope, to fearful Sets a limit to their fears. Believe Eager time and the abyss engulf us; Death is fatal to the flesh, nor spares 410 Spirit even; Tænaris, the kingdom Of the gloomy monarch, and the door Where sits Cerberus and guards the portal, Are but empty rumors, senseless names, Fables vain, that trouble anxious sleep. 415 Ask you whither go we after death?
Where they lie who never have been born.
ACT III SCENE I _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. 420 Troy fell for you but now, for me long since When 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 weight 425 Trembled. O'erwhelmed and crushed, I bore unmoved Whate'er befell, for I was stunned with grief.
I would have followed Hector long ago, And freed me from the Greeks, but this my son Held me, subdued my heart, forbade my death, 430 Compelled 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 things Is 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 abyss Of gloomy Styx lies open; lest defeat Should lack enough of fear, the buried foe Comes forth from Dis. Can Greeks alone return?
Death certainly is equal; Phrygians feel 445 This common fear; a dream of dreadful night Me 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 calm 450 To me afflicted; on my eyes there stole Brief sleep, if that dull lethargy be sleep That comes to grief-worn souls; when, suddenly, Before my eyes stood Hector, not as when He bore against the Greeks avenging fire, 455 Seeking 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 was A true Achilles. Not with flame-bright face 460 He 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 alone 465 Is safety. Weep not! Do you weep for Troy?
Would all were fallen! Hasten, seek a place Of safety for the child.' Then I awoke, Cold horror and a trembling broke my sleep.
Fearful, I turned my eyes now here, now there. 470 Me miserable, careless of my son, I sought for Hector, but the fleeting shade Slipped from my arms, eluded my embrace.
O child, true son of an illustrious sire; Troy's only hope; last of a stricken race; 475 Too noble offspring of an ancient house; Too like thy father! Such my Hector's face, Such was his gait, his manner, so he held His mighty hands, and so his shoulders broad, So threatened with bold brow when shaking back 480 His heavy hair! Oh, born too late for Troy, Too soon for me, will ever come that time, That happy day, when thou shalt build again Troy's walls, and lead from flight her scattered hosts, Avenging and defending mightily, 485 And 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, 490 Is dust, her streets are flame, and naught remains Of all the mighty city, not so much As where to hide an infant. Oh, what place Of safety can I find? The mighty tomb, Reared to my husband--this the foe must fear.
His father, Priam, in his sorrow built, 496 With no ungenerous hand, great Hector's tomb; I rightly trust a father. Yet I fear The 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 fear Lest some one find him.
_Old Man._ Cover up the trace Of our device.
_Andromache._ And if the foe should ask?
_Old Man._ In the destruction of the land he died,-- 505 It oft has saved a man that he was deemed Already dead.
_Andromache._ No other hope is left.
He bears the heavy burden of his name; If he must come once more into their power What profits it to hide him?
Are 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, 515 And 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, 520 Thy courage; take what fortune has to give.
See what is left of all the Trojan host: A tomb, a child, a captive! We succumb To such misfortunes. Dare to enter now Thy buried father's sacred resting-place; 525 If 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, 530 But 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.
SCENE II _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 words 535 I speak, for this is but the general voice Of all the Greeks, too long from home detained By Hector's child: him do the fates demand.
The Greeks can hope for but a doubtful peace, Fear will compel them still to look behind 540 Nor 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 son 545 I greatly fear: those sprung of noble race Must needs grow great. With proudly lifted head And haughty neck, the young and hornless bull Leads the paternal herd and rules the flock; And when the tree is cut, the tender stalk 550 Soon 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, 555 Though grief is harsh of judgment. We have spent Ten weary winters, ten long harvests spent In war; and now, grown old, our soldiers fear, Even from fallen Troy, some new defeat.
'Tis not a trifling thing that moves the Greeks, 560 But 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 bear 565 What 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, 570 My hands bound fast with wounding chains, my side By biting flame were girdled, not for this Would I put off my mother-guardianship!
What spot, what fortune holds thee now, my son?
Art thou a wanderer in an unknown land, 575 Or have the flames of Troy devoured thee?
Or does the conqueror in thy blood rejoice?
Or, snatched by some wild beast, perhaps thou liest On Ida's summit, food for Ida's birds?
_Ulysses._ No more pretend. Thou mayst not so deceive 580 Ulysses; I have power to overcome A 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 secure Who 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 force 590 Andromache 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 stings Of cruel grief, all torments, sword plunged deep Within 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 entrenched So stubbornly, admonishes the Greeks To think of their own children. Even now, After these long ten years, this weary war, I should fear less the danger Calchas threats, 605 If for myself I feared--but thou prepar'st War for Telemachus.
_Andromache._ Unwillingly I give the Grecians joy, but I must give.
Ulysses, anguish must confess its pain; Rejoice, O son of Atreus, carry back 610 As thou art wont, to the Pelasgian host The joyous news: great Hector's son is dead.
_Ulysses._ How prove it to the Greeks?
_Andromache._ Fall on me else The greatest ill the victor can inflict: Fate free me by an easy, timely death, 615 And hide me underneath my native soil!
Lightly on Hector lie his country's earth As 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; 620 A joyous message of established peace I 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 lie Nor fear the augury of dreaded death? 625 They 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 aid All that thou hast of cunning, stratagem, And guile, the whole Ulysses; truth dies not. 630 Watch well the mother; see--she mourns, she weeps, She groans, turns every way her anxious steps, Listens with ear attentive; more she fears Than sorrows; thou hast need of utmost care.
[_To Andromache._] For other mothers' loss 'tis right to grieve; 635 Thee, wretched one, we must congratulate That thou hast lost a son whose fate had been To die, hurled headlong from the one high tower Remaining of the ruined walls of Troy.
_Andromache_ [_aside_]. Life fails, I faint, I fall, an icy fear 640 Freezes my blood.
_Ulysses_ [_aside_]. She trembles; here the place For 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. 645 Go, 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 soul 650 Unlearns its lesson.
_Ulysses._ Since by happier fate Snatched hence, the lad forestalls the sacrifice, The lustral offering from the walls of Troy And may not now obey the seer's command, Thus saith the prophet: this may be atoned, 655 And Grecian ships at last may find return, If Hector's tomb be leveled with the ground, His ashes scattered on the sea; the tomb Must feel my hand, since Hector's child escapes His destined death.
_Andromache_ [_aside_]. Alas, what shall I do? 660 A 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, 665 My Hector, and my son shall live to bear His father's image! Shall the sacred dust Be 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? 670 I can and will, that Hector, after death, Be not the victor's sport. The boy may feel The 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 raze 680 The tomb to its foundations.
_Andromache._ Which ye sold?
_Ulysses._ I'll do it, I will level with the dust The sepulcher.
_Andromache._ I call the faith of heaven, Achilles' faith, to aid; come, Pyrrhus, save Thy father's gift.
_Ulysses._ The tomb shall instantly 685 Be leveled with the plain.
_Andromache._ This crime alone The Greeks had shunned; ye've sacked the holy fanes Even of favoring gods, ye've spared the tomb.
I will not suffer it, unarmed I'll stand Against your armored host; rage gives me strength, 690 And as the savage Amazon opposed The 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, 695 And 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 noise Alarms 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; 700 Break through the fate's delay, and overwhelm The Grecian chief--thy shade would be enough!
The weapon clangs and flashes in his hand; Greeks, see you Hector? Or do I alone Perceive him?
_Ulysses._ I will lay it in the dust. 705 _Andromache_ [_aside_]. What have I done? To ruin I have brought Father and son together; yet, perchance, With supplications I may move the Greeks.
The tomb's great weight will presently destroy Its hidden treasure; O my wretched child, 710 Die 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 suppliant I fall, and with my right hand clasp thy knees; 715 Never before a suppliant, here I ask Thy pity on a mother; hear my prayer With patience; on the fallen, lightly press, Since thee the gods lift up to greater heights!
The gifts thou grantst the wretched are to fate 720 A hostage; so again thou mayst behold Thy wife; and old Laertes' years endure Until once more he see thee; so thy son Succeed thee and outrun thy fairest hopes In his good fortune, and his age exceed 725 Laertes', and his gifts outnumber thine.
Have pity on a mother to whose grief Naught else remains of comfort.
_Ulysses._ Bring forth the boy, then thou mayst ask for grace.
_Andromache._ Come hither from thy hiding-place, my son, 730 Thy wretched mother's lamentable theft.
SCENE III _Andromache._ Ulysses, this is he who terrifies The thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son, A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord, And do him reverence; nor think it base, 735 Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.
Forget thy royal race, the power of one Renowned through all the world; Hector forget; Act the sad captive on thy bended knee, And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet 740 Thou feelest not thy woes. [_To Ulysses._] Troy saw long since The weeping of a royal child: the tears Of youthful Priam turned aside the threats Of stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierce Who tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates 745 Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward path Opened, was conquered by his young foe's tears.
'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government, Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintain Thy scepter with a better faith than he;' 750 So fared the captives of this conqueror; Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!
Or do the arms alone of Hercules Seem pleasing to thee? Of as noble race As Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies, 755 And asks of thee his life; let fortune give To 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 burned Could 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, 765 But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's self Had lost that courage which great ills o'ercame.
If vengeance is your wish, what worse revenge Than to this noble neck to fit the yoke?
Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied 770 This 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 heart 775 E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretense Of blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the work Of 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.
_Ulysses._ My valor to the Greeks 780 Is 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 perform The last sad office, satiate my grief, 785 My 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 tears Fall freely; weeping ever softens grief.
_Andromache._ O pledge of love, light of a fallen house, 790 Last 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 years Of Priam, and thy father's warlike soul, The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy, 796 Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt send Thy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flight The Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels, Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms; 800 Nor 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 horn 805 Makes swifter, honor with accustomed dance The 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 hands 810 His 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, 815 And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull, Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hears The roaring of the lion; from her side By the fierce lion driv'n, the tender prey Is seized, and crushed, and dragged apart; so thee Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast. 821 Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks, Go to thy father, bear him these few words Of my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keeps Its former cares, if died not on the flames 825 Thy former love, why leave Andromache To 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, 830 Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kiss To 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 lurk Within its folds.
_Ulysses._ Weep no more, bear him hence; Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet. 836 SCENE IV _Chorus of Trojan Women._ What country calls the captives? Tempe dark?
Or the Thessalian hills? or Phthia's land Famous for warriors? Trachin's stony plains, Breeders of cattle? or the great sea's queen, 840 Iolchos? or the spacious land of Crete Boasting its hundred towns? Gortyna small?
Or sterile Tricca? or Mothone crossed By swift and frequent rivers? She who lies Beneath the shadow of the Œtean woods, 845 Whose 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? 850 Or Pelion, mounting heavenward, the realm Of haughty Prothous? There in a vast cave Great Chiron, teacher of the savage child, Struck with his plectrum from the sounding strings Wild music, stirred the boy with songs of war. 855 Perchance Carystus, for its marbles famed, Calls us; or Chalcis, lying on the coast Of the unquiet sea whose hastening tide Beats up the strait; Calydna's wave-swept shore; Or stormy Genoessa; or the isle 860 Of Peparethus near the seaward line Of Attica; Enispe smitten oft By Boreas; or Eleusis, reverenced For Ceres' holy, secret mysteries?
Or shall we seek great Ajax' Salamis? 865 Or Calydon the home of savage beasts?
Or countries that the Titaressus laves With its slow waters? Scarphe, Pylos old, Or Bessus, Pharis, Pisa, Elis famed For the Olympian games? 870 It matters not what tempest drives us hence, Or to what land it bears us, so we shun Sparta, the curse alike of Greece and Troy; Nor seek the land of Argos, nor the home Of cruel Pelops, Neritus hemmed in 875 By narrower limits than Zacynthus small, Nor threatening cliffs of rocky Ithaca.
O Hecuba, what fate, what land, what lord Remains for thee? In whose realm meetst thou death?
ACT IV SCENE I _Helen, Hecuba, Andromache, Polyxena._ _Helen_ [_soliloquizing_]. Whatever sad and joyless marriage bond 880 Holds slaughter, lamentations, bloody war, Is worthy Helen. Even to fallen Troy I bring misfortune, bidden to declare The bridal that Achilles' son prepares For his dead father, and demand the robe 885 And 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 head 890 Of him who plots the crime remains the guilt.
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 give 895 Such bridal, for the brightest ornament Of the Pelasgian race, the man who holds The kingdom of the wide Thessalian land, Would make thee his by lawful marriage bonds.
Great Tethys, and the ocean goddesses, 900 And Thetis, gentle nymph of swelling seas, Will call thee theirs; when thou art Pyrrhus' bride Peleus will call thee kin, as Nereus will.
Put off thy robe of mourning, deck thyself In gay attire; unlearn the captive's mien, 905 And suffer skillful hands to smooth thy hair Now so unkempt. Perchance fate cast thee down From 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: 910 Pleasure, 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 lie 915 Unburied, 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 decide Which one to wish the victor! Go, prepare 920 The marriage bed; what need of wedding torch Or nuptial lights, when burning Troy provides The fires for these new bridals? Celebrate, O Trojan women, honor worthily The marriage feast of Pyrrhus. Smite your breasts, 925 And weep aloud.
_Helen._ Soft comfort is refused By deep despair, which loses reason, hates The very sharers of its grief. My cause I yet may plead before this hostile judge, Since I have suffered heavier ills than she. 930 Andromache 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. 935 Is Ilium laid low, her household gods Cast 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, 940 My master drags me hence without the chance Of lot. Was I the bringer of the war?
Of so great Teucrian carnage? Think this true If first a Spartan keel thy waters cut; But if of Phrygian oars I am the prey, 945 By the victorious goddess as a prize Given for Paris' judgment, pardon me!
An angry judge awaits me, and my cause Is left to Menelaus. Weep no more, Andromache, put by thy grief. Alas, 950 Hardly can I myself restrain my tears.
_Andromache._ How great the ill that even Helen weeps!
Why does she weep? What trickery or crime Plots now the Ithacan? From Ida's top, Or Troy's high tower, will he cast the maid 955 Upon the rocks? Or hurl her to the deep From 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 see 960 Pyrrhus 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 take 965 The 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-- To offer to his manes, as his bride 971 In the Elysian Fields.
[_Polyxena shows great joy, Hecuba sinks fainting to the ground._ _Andromache._ See with what joy a noble woman meets Death-sentence, bids them bring the royal robe, And fitly deck her hair. She deemed it death 975 To be the bride of Pyrrhus, but this death A 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 thing 980 Glads Hecuba! She breathes, she lives again, Death flies the wretched.
_Hecuba._ Lives Achilles still To vex the Trojans? Still pursues his foes?
Light was the hand of Paris; but the tomb And ashes of Achilles drink our blood. 985