IT IS THE QUIET HOUR.
It is the quiet hour, when weary Day
Whispers adieu in his dark Sister’s ear,
And my lone soul is wandering away
To blissful scenes that are no longer near;
And well-known faces seem to smile again,
And voices long unheard sound blithe and gay,
As, when, of yore, a happy, careless train,
We plucked the flowers that grew by life’s young way.
Sweet flowers!—destined to a swift decay!
Bright faces!—that on earth have smiled your last!
Gay voices!—that have ceased to sing the lay
That rose spontaneous in the joyous past!
Memory’s own stars amid my night of pain,
Shine out and tell me “Love is not in vain!”
ESSAYS
IN
TRANSLATION.
HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.
THE PARTING.
(Homer’s Iliad vi. 369-503.)
Thus, having done his duty to his gods
And to his country, Hector sought his home,
Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.
Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.
But her whom his soul loved he found not there,
Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:
For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,
Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp
Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused
Upon the threshold, as he left the house,
And made enquiry of the household maids:
“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,
Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,
To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,
Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”
A trusty servant quickly made response:
“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips
Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—
Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,
Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears,
Has gone Andromache; but she has gone
Unto a lofty tower of Ilion
To watch the contest, for bad tidings came
Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;
And at this moment, like a frenzied one,
She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,
Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”
She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed
Forth from the house, along the very way
That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;
Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,
(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).
But here Andromache of queenly dower,
His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,
Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,
In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,
Came running till she met him in the way.
With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held
An innocent-hearted babe, their only son,
His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,
Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host
Called him Astyanax, the City’s King,
Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.
And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile
That spake his heart more than a thousand words,
And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.
She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,
And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:
“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,
And, seeking glory, thou forgettest him
And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!
Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,
Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.
And, when I miss thee, it were better far
That I were laid beneath the ground: for I
Shall then have none to comfort me, not one,
But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!
No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—
Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,
And razed his fair-built city to the ground.
High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,
Although he slew him, but, with reverence,
Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,
And raised a mound in honour of his name,
Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,
The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.
And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,
Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,
Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,
As, in their native fields, they watched the herds
Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.
Nor did my queenly mother long survive,
For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,
With other spoils, the victor sent her home,
For goodly ransom, only to be slain
By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.
But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,
My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!
Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—
Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make
Thy child an orphan and a widow me!
But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,
Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,
And where the wall is weakest. At that point
Already have the bravest of our foes—
Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,
And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,
Whether incited thither by some voice
Prophetic, or high hope of victory.
So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”
Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,
Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,
My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,
But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs
And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,
I skulked from battle in my country’s need?
Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,
For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,
To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,
To struggle for the honour of my sire
And for my own. Although too well I know
The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,
And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well
Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!
But not the woes of my brave countrymen,
Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,
Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust
’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,
When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end
Thy days of freedom, leading thee away
In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou
May’st tend another’s loom or water draw
From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—
A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.
And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:
‘She was the wife of Hector, who excelled
In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’
And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret
For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.
Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes
From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”