ACT I
Scene I
Hecuba. Let him who puts his trust in kingly crown,
Who rules in prince's court with power supreme,
Who, credulous of heart, dreads not the gods,
But in his happy lot confides, behold
My fate and Troy's. Never by clearer proof 5
Was shown how frail a thing is human pride.
Strong Asia's capital, the work of gods,
Is fallen; and she beneath whose banners fought
The men who drink the Tanais' cold stream
That flows by sevenfold outlet to the sea, 10
And those who see the new-born day where blends
Tigris' warm waters with the blushing strait,
Is fallen; her walls and towers, to ashes burned,
Lie low amid her ruined palaces.
The flames destroy the city; far and near 15
Smolders the home of King Assaracus.
But flames stay not the eager conqueror's hand
From plundering Troy. The sky is hid with smoke;
And day, as though enveloped in black cloud,
Is dark with ashes. Eager for revenge, 20
The victor stands and measures her slow fall;
Forgets the long ten years; deplores her fate;
Nor yet believes that he has vanquished her,
Although he sees her conquered in the dust.
The pillagers are busy with the spoil; 25
A thousand ships will hardly bear it hence.
Witness, ye adverse deities; and ye,
My country's ashes, and thou, Phrygia's king,
Buried beneath the ruins of thy realm;
Ye spirits of the mighty, in whose life 30
Troy lived; and ye my offspring, lesser shades;—
Whatever ills have happened; whatsoe'er
The priestess of Apollo, to whose word
The god denied belief, has prophesied,
I, going great with child, have earlier feared, 35
Nor feared in silence, though in vain I spoke;—
Cassandra too has prophesied in vain.
Alas, 'twas not the crafty Ithacan,
Nor the companions of his night attack,
Nor Sinon false, who flung into your midst 40
Devouring flame; the glowing torch was mine!
Aged, and sick of life, why weep for Troy?
Unhappy one, recall more recent woes;
The fall of Troy is now an ancient grief!
I've seen the murder of a king—base crime! 45
And, at the altar's foot allowed, I've seen
A baser crime, when Æacus' fierce son,
His left hand in the twisted locks, bent back
That royal head, and drove the iron home
In the deep wound; freely it was received, 50
And buried deep, and yet drawn forth unstained,
So sluggish is the blood of frozen age.
This old man's cruel death at the last mete
Of human life; and the immortal gods,
Witnesses of the deed; and fallen Troy's 55
Fair altars, cannot stay the savage hand.
Priam, the father of so many kings,
Has found no grave, and in the flames of Troy
No funeral pyre, and yet the wrathful gods
Are not appeased; behold, the lot is cast 60
That gives to Priam's daughters and his sons
A master; and I go to servitude.
This one seeks Hector's wife, this Helenus';
And this Antenor's; nor are wanting those
Who long for thee, Cassandra; me alone 65
They shun, and I alone affright the Greeks.
Why cease your lamentations, captive ones?
Make moan, and smite your breasts, pay funeral rites;
Let fatal Ida, home of your harsh judge,
Reëcho long your sorrowful lament. 70
Scene II
Hecuba, Chorus of Trojan Women.
Chorus. You bid those weep who are not new to grief;
Our lamentations have not ceased to rise
From that day when the Phrygian stranger sought
Grecian Amyclæ; and the sacred pine
Of Mother Cybele, through Grecian seas 75
A pathway cut. Ten times the winter snows
Have whitened Ida—Ida stripped of trees
To furnish Trojan dead with funeral pyres—
Ten times the trembling reaper has gone forth
To cut the bearded grain from Ilium's fields, 80
Since any day has seen us free from tears.
New sorrows ask new mourning, lift thy hand
And beat upon thy breast: thy followers, queen,
Are not inept at weeping.
Hecuba. Faithful ones,
Companions of my grief, unbind your hair; 85
About your shoulders let it flow defiled
With Troy's hot ashes; come with breast exposed,
Carelessly loosened robes, and naked limbs;
Why veil your modest bosoms, captive ones?
Gird up your flowing tunics, free your hands 90
For fierce and frequent beating of your breasts.
So I am satisfied, I recognize
My Trojan followers; again I hear
Their wonted lamentations. Weep indeed;
We weep for Hector. 95
Chorus. We unbind our hair,
So often torn in wild laments, and strew
Troy's glowing ashes on our heads; permit
Our loosened robe to drop from shoulders bare;
Our naked bosoms now invite our blows.
O sorrow, show thy power; let Rhœta's shores 100
Give back the blows, nor from her hollow hills
Faint Echo sound the closing words alone,
But let her voice repeat each bitter groan,
And earth and ocean hear. With cruel blows
Smite, smite, nor be content with faint laments: 105
We weep for Hector.
Hecuba. For thee our hands have torn our naked arms
And bleeding shoulders; Hector, 'tis for thee
We beat our brows and lacerate our breasts;
The wounds inflicted in thy funeral rites 110
Still gape and flow with blood. Thou, Hector, wast
The pillar of thy land, her fates' delay,
The prop of wearied Phrygians, and the wall
Of Troy; by thee supported, firm she stood,
Ten years upheld. With thee thy country fell, 115
Her day of doom and Hector's were the same.
Weep now for Priam, smite for him your breasts;
Hector has tears enough.
Chorus. Pilot of Phrygia, twice a captive made,
Receive our tears, receive our wild laments. 120
Whilst thou wast king, Troy suffered many woes;
Twice by Greek weapons were her walls assailed;
Twice were they made a target for the darts
Of Hercules; and when that kingly band,
Hecuba's offspring, had been offered up, 125
With thee, their sire, the funeral rites were stayed;
An offering to great Jove, thy headless trunk
Lies on Sigea's plain.
Hecuba. Women of Troy,
For others shed your tears; not Priam's death
I weep; say rather all, thrice happy he! 130
Free he descended to the land of shades,
Nor will he ever bear on conquered neck
The Grecian yoke; nor the Atrides see;
Nor look on shrewd Ulysses; nor, a slave,
Carry the trophies on his neck to grace 135
A Grecian triumph; feel his sceptered hands
Bound at his back; nor add a further pomp
To proud Mycene, forced in golden chains
To follow Agamemnon's royal car.
Chorus. Thrice happy Priam! as a king he went 140
Into the land of spirits; wanders now
Through the safe shadows of Elysian Fields,
In happiness among the peaceful shades,
And seeks for Hector. Happy Priam say!
Thrice happy he, who, dying in the fight, 145
Bears with him to destruction all his land.