Parerga/The Fall of Troy
< Parerga
THE FALL OF TROY.
FROM THE HECUBA. (905-951.)
Σὺ μὲν, ὦ πατρὶς Ιλιάς,
Τῶν ἀπορθήτων πόλις οὐκέτι λέξει
Τοῖον Ἑλλάνων νέφος ἀμφί σε κρύπτει
Δορὶ δὴ δορὶ πέρσαν. κ.τ.λ.
Τῶν ἀπορθήτων πόλις οὐκέτι λέξει
Τοῖον Ἑλλάνων νέφος ἀμφί σε κρύπτει
Δορὶ δὴ δορὶ πέρσαν. κ.τ.λ.
CHORUS OF CAPTIVE TROJAN WOMEN.
Oh never more, my native Troy,
The lay of high heroic story
Shall tell thy might with patriot's joy,
Thy sons' unconquered glory.
The deadly cloud of Grecian war
Hath closed around thy sinking star;
Beneath the storming spearmen's blow,
All desolate, thou liest low;
Shorn of thy towers' imperial crown,
In dust and ashes stricken down.
Oh! never shall I tread thee more,
My own, my hapless native shore!
The lay of high heroic story
Shall tell thy might with patriot's joy,
Thy sons' unconquered glory.
The deadly cloud of Grecian war
Hath closed around thy sinking star;
Beneath the storming spearmen's blow,
All desolate, thou liest low;
Shorn of thy towers' imperial crown,
In dust and ashes stricken down.
Oh! never shall I tread thee more,
My own, my hapless native shore!
It was the hour of midnight slumbers,
When the Destroyer came;
Hush'd were the lute, the minstrel's numbers,
The choral loud acclaim;
Each weary reveller's torch was dim.
My husband slept, reposing him
From that thanksgiving festival.
His spear was hanging on the wall,
No longer ready for the fray:
For now their fleet had left the bay,
And deem'd we that the leaguering band
Had fled our rescued Trojan land.
When the Destroyer came;
Hush'd were the lute, the minstrel's numbers,
The choral loud acclaim;
Each weary reveller's torch was dim.
My husband slept, reposing him
From that thanksgiving festival.
His spear was hanging on the wall,
No longer ready for the fray:
For now their fleet had left the bay,
And deem'd we that the leaguering band
Had fled our rescued Trojan land.
And I my gather'd locks was banding
Neath the circling fillet prest,
Before the golden mirror standing,
Ere I sought my peaceful rest;
When, lo, a sound of far alarms
Came echoing through our halls:—
It is the clang, the clash of arms!
The foe is in the walls!
And nearer! hark! the cheer, the cry
Of the on-trampling soldiery
Rings through the captured town!—
"On, Sons of Greeks!
"the leaders call;
"Now is the hour that Troy must fall!
"Think of your homes—on, on! to earn
"Victory, spoil, and glad return.
"Now break her bulwarks down!"
Neath the circling fillet prest,
Before the golden mirror standing,
Ere I sought my peaceful rest;
When, lo, a sound of far alarms
Came echoing through our halls:—
It is the clang, the clash of arms!
The foe is in the walls!
And nearer! hark! the cheer, the cry
Of the on-trampling soldiery
Rings through the captured town!—
"On, Sons of Greeks!
"the leaders call;
"Now is the hour that Troy must fall!
"Think of your homes—on, on! to earn
"Victory, spoil, and glad return.
"Now break her bulwarks down!"
Hurriedly folding round my breast,
In Dorian guise, the first-seized vest,
I fled my home, and sought the shrine
Of the Virgin Power Divine,
But there I knelt in vain—
They tore me thence. I saw my lord,
He lay by foreign falchions gored
On his own threshold slain.
And I was hurried o'er the sea
The slayer's spoil. Still upon thee,
My fallen country, looking back,
As clove their ship her homeward track.
I gazed, till blinding tears prevail'd,
And fainting nature's firmness fail'd.
In Dorian guise, the first-seized vest,
I fled my home, and sought the shrine
Of the Virgin Power Divine,
But there I knelt in vain—
They tore me thence. I saw my lord,
He lay by foreign falchions gored
On his own threshold slain.
And I was hurried o'er the sea
The slayer's spoil. Still upon thee,
My fallen country, looking back,
As clove their ship her homeward track.
I gazed, till blinding tears prevail'd,
And fainting nature's firmness fail'd.
Yet cursed I, in my soul's despair,
The sister of the sons of Jove,
And Ida's swain. Ye guilty pair,
Ye fiends to Troy, your sinful love
Hath torn me from my country's walls,
Hath slain her sons, hath sack'd her halls.
Helen, the victims of thy crime
Heap on thy head their malison!
Ye billows, to her native clime
Refuse to bear th' accursed one.
Let her not see again the home
She left in sin and shame to roam.
The sister of the sons of Jove,
And Ida's swain. Ye guilty pair,
Ye fiends to Troy, your sinful love
Hath torn me from my country's walls,
Hath slain her sons, hath sack'd her halls.
Helen, the victims of thy crime
Heap on thy head their malison!
Ye billows, to her native clime
Refuse to bear th' accursed one.
Let her not see again the home
She left in sin and shame to roam.