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 remains
Of Troy, no more is left; from this high seat
Priam, the arbiter of war, was wont 1095
To view his troops; and in this tower he sat
And, in caressing arms, embraced the son
Of Hector, when that hero put to flight
With fire and sword the trembling, conquered Greeks.
From thence he showed the child its father's deeds. 1100
This 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 host
Come pouring; on the hills some find a place, 1105
Some on the rising cliffs, upon whose top
They stand tiptoe; some climb the pines, and birch,
And laurel, till beneath the gathered crowd
The whole wood trembles; some have found the peaks
Of broken crags; some climb a swaying roof, 1110
Or 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 hand
Leads Priam's grandson; nor with tardy step 1115
Does the young hero mount the lofty wall.
Standing upon the top, with fearless heart
He 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, 1120
Bites harmlessly, and proudly feels himself
A 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, 1125
But while the Ithacan begins the words
Of the prophetic message and the prayers
To the stern gods, he leaps into the midst
Of his and Priam's kingdom, willingly.
Andromache. Was ever such a deed by Colchians done, 1130
Or wandering Scythians, or the lawless race
That dwells beside the Caspian? Never yet
Has children's blood Busiris' altars stained,
Nor Diomedes feasted his fierce steeds
On children's limbs! Who took thy body up, 1135
My son, and bore it to the sepulcher?
Messenger. What would that headlong leap have left? His bones
Lie dashed in pieces by the heavy fall,
His face and noble form, inheritance
From his illustrious father, are with earth 1140
Commingled; broken is his neck; his head
Is dashed in pieces on the cruel stones
So that the brains gush forth; his body lies
Devoid of form.
Andromache. Like Hector, too, in this.
Messenger. When from the wall the boy was headlong cast1145
And the Achaians wept the crime they did,
Then turned these same Achaians to new crimes,
And to Achilles' tomb. With quiet flow
The Rhœtean waters beat the further side,
And opposite the tomb the level plain 1150
Slopes gently upward, and surrounds the place
Like a wide amphitheater; here the strand
Is thronged with lookers-on, who think to end
With this last death their vessels' long delay,
And glad themselves to think the foeman's seed 1155
At last cut off. The fickle, common crowd
Look coldly on; the most part hate the crime.
The Trojans haste with no less eagerness
To their own funeral rites, and, pale with fear,
Behold the final fall of ruined Troy. 1160
As at a marriage, suddenly they bring
The bridal torches; Helen goes before,
Attendant to the bride, with sad head bent.
'So may the daughter of Hermione
Be wed,' the Phrygians pray, 'base Helen find 1165
Again her husband.' Terror seizes both
The awe-struck peoples. With her glance cast down,
Modestly comes the victim; but her cheeks
Glow, and her beauty shines unwontedly;
So shines the light of Phœbus gloriously 1170
Before his setting, when the stars return
And day is darkened by approaching night.
The throng is silenced; all men praise the maid
Who now must die: some praise her lovely form,
Her tender age moves some, and some lament 1175
The fickleness of fortune; every one
Is touched at heart by her courageous soul,
Her scorn of death. She comes, by Pyrrhus led;
All wonder, tremble, pity; when the hill
Is reached, and on his father's grave advanced, 1180
The 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 slow
At slaughter; but at length, with steady hand, 1185
He buries to the hilt the gleaming sword
Within her breast; the life-blood gushes forth
From the deep wound; in death as heretofore
Her soul is strong; with angry thud she falls
As she would make the earth a heavy load 1190
Upon Achilles' breast. Both armies weep;
The Trojans offer only feeble moans;
The victors mourn more freely. So was made
The sacrifice; her blood lay not for long
Upon the soil, nor flowed away; the tomb 1195
Drank 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 aside 1200
The 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 come
To babes and maidens, but thou fleest from me! 1205
Through 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 stood
To Priam!
Messenger. [Talthybius, coming from the Greek camp.
Captive women, seek with speed
The sea; the sails are filled, the vessels move. 1210