Tragedies of Euripides (Way)/The Daughters of Troy

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When Troy was taken by the Greeks, the princesses of the House of Priam were apportioned by lot to the several chiefs of the host. But Polyxena they doomed to be sacrificed on Achilles' tomb, and Astyanax, the son of Hector and Andromachê, they hurled from a high tower. And herein is told how all this befell; and beside there is naught else save the lamentations of these Daughters of Troy, till the city is set aflame, and the captives are driven down to the sea.

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I come, Poseidon I, from briny depths
Of the Aegean Sea, where Nereids dance
In lovely-woven pacings of their feet.
For, since the day when round this Trojan land
Phœbus and I by line and plummet reared 5
Her towers of stone, from mine heart ne'er hath fled
Old lovingkindness for the Phrygians' city,
Smoke-shrouded now and wasted and brought low
By Argos' spear. For that Parnassian wright,
Phokian Epeius, by device of Pallas 10
Fashioned the horse whose womb was fraught with arms,
And sent within yon towers its ruin-load,
Whence of men yet unborn shall it be named
The Wooden Horse, enfolder of ambushed spears.
Forsaken are the groves: the shrines of Gods 15
With blood are dripping: on the altar-steps
Of City-warder Zeus lies Priam dead.
Measureless gold and Phrygian spoils pass down
Unto the ships Achaian. They but wait
​A breeze fair-following, that in this tenth year 20
Children and wives with joy they may behold,
These Hellene men which marched against yon town.
I, overborne by Hera, Argos' Queen,
And by Athena, leagued for Phrygia's fall,
Ilium the glorious and mine altars leave. 25
For when grim desolation hath seized a town,
Blighted are worship and honour of the Gods.
With wails of captives multitudinous,
Marked for their lords by lot, Skamander moans:
Some have Arcadians won, Thessalians some, 30
Some fall to Athens' chieftains, Theseus' sons.
And all Troy's daughters not by lot assigned
Are 'neath these tents, for captains of the host
Set by: with these the Spartan, Tyndareus' child,
Helen, accounted captive righteously. 35
But, the utter-wretched if one craves to see,
There lieth Hecuba before the gates,
Down-raining many a tear for many woes,—
Yet knows not that her child Polyxena
Hath on Achilles' grave died piteously. 40
Priam, her sons, are gone: Kassandra—whom
Apollo left free virgin frenzy-driven,—
Shall Agamemnon force, his leman-slave,
Flouting the God's decree and righteousness.
O city prosperous once, O hewn-stone towers, 45
Farewell to you! Had Pallas, Zeus's child,
Not ruined thee, firm-stablished wert thou yet!

Enter Athena.

Is it vouchsafed to bid the old feud truce,
​And speak unto my father's nearest kin,
The mighty lord, honoured amongst the Gods? 50

It is: for ties of kindred, Queen Athena,
Draw hearts with strong-constraining cords of love.

'Tis well, King—thy relenting. Lo, the words
I cast between us touch both thee and me.

Ha! bringest thou some message from the Gods?— 55
A word from Zeus, or from some Heavenly One?

Nay, for Troy's sake, upon whose soil we tread,
I seek thy might, to win it mine ally.

So?—hast thou cast out thine old enmity,
To pity her, now that she is burnt with fire? 60

Nay—my petition first—wilt join with me?
Wilt thou consent in that I fain would do?

Yea verily: yet I fain would know thy will.
Com'st thou to help Achaian men or Phrygian?

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Mine erstwhile foes the Trojans would I cheer, 65
And deal Achaia's host grim home-return.

Yet why from mood to mood thus leapest thou,
In random sort bestowing hate and love?

Know'st not how I was outraged, and my shrine?

I know—when Aias dragged Kassandra thence. 70

Unpunished of the Achaians—unrebuked!

Yea, though by thy might these laid Ilium low.

Therefore with thine help would I work their scathe.

Mine help awaits thy will. What wouldst thou do?

Deal them a home-return of evil speed. 75

Ere they leave Troy, or on the briny sea?

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When homeward-bound they sail for Ilium.
Then Zeus shall send down rain unutterable,
And hail, and from the welkin night of storm;
And to me promiseth his levin-flame 80
To smite the Achaians and burn their ships with fire.
But thou—the Aegean sea-pass make thou roar
With surge and whirlpits of the ravening brine,
And thou with corpses choke Eubœa's gulf;
That Greeks may learn henceforth to reverence 85
My temples, and to fear all Gods beside.

This shall be: thy boon needs not many words.
The wide Aegean sea will I turmoil;
The shores of Mykonus, the Delian reefs,
Skyros, and Lemnos, the Kapherean cliffs 90
With many dead men's corpses shall be strewn.
Pass thou to Olympus; from thy father's hands
Receive the levin-bolts, and watch the hour
When Argos' host shall cast the hawsers loose.
Fool, that in sack of towns lays temples waste,^[1] 95
And tombs, the sanctuaries of the dead!
He, sowing desolation, reaps destruction.

Hecuba awaking, raises herself on her arm.

(Str. 1)
Uplift thou thine head, O fortune-accurst; from the earth upraise thy neck bowed low.
​This ruin is not thy Troy, nor the lords are we now of Troy, and the fate-winds blow 100
Not as of old; thou must bear it, must drift with the stream, as the tides of Fortune flow.
Breast not with thy prow the surges of life, who on waves of disaster, alas! art tost.
What remaineth to me but the misery-moan, whose country, whose children, whose husband, are lost?
O proud-swelling sail of a kingly line reefed now!—how a thing but of nought thou wast!
(Ant. 1)
What shall I speak?—what leave unsaid?—woe's me for the couch of the evil-starred! 110
Lo, how I lie unrestfully stretched on the bed of calamity pitiless hard!
Alas for mine head, for my throbbing brows, for mine heart in its aching prison barred!
I yearn to rock me and sway—as a bark whose bulwarks roll in the trough of the sea—
To my keening, the while I wail my chant of sorrow and weeping unceasingly,
The ruin-song never linked with the dance, the jangled music of misery. 120

Rises to her feet and advances to front of stage.

Enter from the tents Half-Chorus of captive Trojan women.

(Str. 3)
Why call'st thou, Hecuba?—why dost thou cry?
What mean thy words? The tents were filled
​With this lament thou wailest woefully,
And fear through all hearts thrilled

Of Troy's sad daughters, who for thraldom wail,
In yon pavilions while we bide.

Child, child, the Argive hands with oar and sail 160
Are busy by the tide.

Ah me! what mean they? Will they straightway bear us
From fatherland far oversea?

I know not: I but bode the curse drawn near us,
The doom of misery.

Woe!—we shall hear the summons, O ye daughters
Of Troy, from these pavilions come:
The Argives launch their keels upon the waters,
The sails are spread for home!"

Alas! let none call forth the frenzy-driven
Kassandra, bacchant-prophetess, 170
For Argive lust to shame, lest there be given
Distress to my distress!

Troy, Troy, unhappy! down through depths of ruin
Thou sinkest!—ah, unhappy they,
​Thy lost!—thy living pass to their undoing,
Thy dead have passed away.

Enter Second Half-Chorus.

(Ant. 3)
Ah me! from Agamemnon's tents in dread
I come, to hearken, queen, to thee,
Lest haply now the Argive doom be said,—
A doom of death for me;

Or haply at the galley-sterns the sweeps, 180
Run out, are swinging through the brine.

Child, I have come, since ne'er for terror sleeps
This haunted heart of mine.

How?—hath a Danaan herald hither wending
Spoken our doom? Whose thrall am wretched I
Ordained?

Ah me! what lord of Argos' folk shall lead me
Hence, or what chief of Phthia-land?
What island-prince to misery shall speed me
Far from the Trojan strand?

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Woe! On what spot of earth shall I, eld-stricken, 190
Be thrall, a drone within the hive.
Weak as the corpse that breath no more shall quicken,
Ghost of the once-alive,

To keep with palsied hand a master's portal,
To nurse the babes of some proud foe?—
I, who was crowned with honours half-immortal
In Troy—ah, long ago!

(Str. 4)
Woe is thee!—with what wailings wilt thou lament thy doom
Of outrage-shame?
As I pace to and fro shall my shuttle thread no loom
In Troy again! 200

On the corpses of sons must I look my last—my last,
Whom worse ills wait,
To be thrall to the couch of a Greek—ah, ruin blast
That night—that fate!—

Or the water to draw from Peirênê's hallowed spring
With bondmaid's hand:—
Yet oh might I come unto where was Theseus king.
That heaven-blest land!—

But not to the swirls of Eurotas, not the bower 210
Of my worst foe,
Even Helen—oh not into Menelaus' power
Who brought Troy low!
​(Ant. 4)
But the land of Peneius, Olympus' footstool fair,
The hallowed vale—
I have heard of the store of its wealth; earth's increase there
Doth never fail.

It is there I would be, if on Theseus' sacred shore
No home waits me.
And the land of the Fire-god, that looks from Etna o'er 220
Phœnicia's sea,

Even Sicily, mother of hills,—her fame I hear,
Her prowess-pride:—
Or content could I dwell in the land that coucheth near
Ionia's tide.

Which is watered of Krathis, the lovely stream that stains
Dark hair bright gold,
Of whose fountains most holy her hero-nursing plains
Win wealth untold.

Lo, from the Danaan war-host, laden 230
With tidings, unto us draws nigh
A herald speeding hastily.
What hest brings he?—henceforth bondmaiden
Of Dorian land am I!

Enter Talthybius.

On many journeyings, Hecuba, to and fro 235
I have passed, thou knowest, 'twixt the host and Troy;
​Wherefore I come aforetime known to thee,
Talthybius, with new tidings for thine ear.

Your lots are cast—if this thing was your fear

Ye have fallen each to her lord, not altogether.

I know:—but ask of each, not all as one.

King Agamemnon's chosen prize is she. 250

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Nay, but his concubine in secret love.

The maid inspired smote him with shafts of love.

How? is a king's couch not high honour for her? 260

And the child that ye tore from mine arms so late—

Polyxena?—or whose lot wouldst thou ask?

Unto whom hath the lot's doom yoked her fate?

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She is made ministrant to Achilles' tomb.

Count thy child happy. It is well with her.

Doth she yet see light?—did thy word so sound?

She hath found her fate—deliverance from troubles. 270

Achilles' son hath won her, chosen for him.

Thee Ithaca's king Odysseus won, his thrall.

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Alas and alas! now smite on thy close-shorn head;
Now with thy rending nails be thy cheeks furrowed red! 280
Woe's me, whom the doom of the lots hath led
To be thrall to a foul wretch treacherous-hearted,
To the lawless monster, the foe of the right,
Whose double-tongued juggling, whose cursed sleight
Putteth light for darkness, and darkness for light,
By whose whisperings veriest friends are parted!—
Wail for me, daughters of Troy! I am ended
In utter calamity.
O wretch, who by doom of the lot have descended 290
To abysses of misery!

Thy fate thou knowest, queen: but of my lot
What Hellene, what Achaian, hath control?

Away!—Kassandra hither must ye bring
With all speed, thralls, that to the war-king's hand 295
Delivering her, I may thereafter lead
Unto the rest the captive dames assigned.
Ha!—therewithin what torch-glare leapeth high?
Fire they their lair?—or what, yon dames of Troy?
As looking to be haled from this land forth 300
To Argos, do they burn themselves with fire,
Being fain to die? In sooth the free-born soul
In such strait chafeth fiercely against ills.
Ho! open, lest a deed beseeming these,
But to Achaians hateful, bring me blame. 305

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Now nay, they fire no tent. My Maenad child
Kassandra cometh rushing hitherward.

Enter Kassandra carrying burning torches.

(Str.)
Up with the torch!—give it me—let me render
Worship to Phœbus!—lo, lo how I fling
Wide through his temple the flash of its splendour:— 310
Hymen! O Marriage-god, Hymen my king!
Happy the bridegroom who waiteth to meet me;
Happy am I for the couch that shall greet me;
Royal espousals to Argos I bring:—
Bridal-king, Hymen, thy glory I sing.

Mother, thou lingerest long at thy weeping,
Aye makest moan for my sire who hath died,
Mourn'st our dear country with sorrow unsleeping:
Therefore myself for mine own marriage-tide
Kindle the firebrands, a glory outstreaming, 320
Toss up the torches, a radiance far-gleaming:—
Hymen, to thee is their brightness upleaping;
Hekatê, flash thou thy star-glitter wide,
After thy wont when a maid is a bride.
(Ant.)
Float, flying feet of the dancers, forth-leading
Revel of bridals: ring, bacchanal strain,
Ring in thanksgiving for fortune exceeding
Happy, that fell to my father to gain.
Holy the dance is, my duty, my glory:
Lead thou it, Phœbus; midst bay-trees before thee
Aye have I ministered, there in thy fane:— 330
Marriage-king, Hymen!—sing loud the refrain.

​Up, mother, join thou the revel:—with paces
Woven with mine through the sweet measure flee;
Hitherward, thitherward, thrid the dance-mazes:
Sing ever "Marriage-king!—Hymen!" sing ye.
Bliss ever chime through the notes of your singing,
Hail ye the bride with glad voices outringing.
Daughters of Phrygia, arrayed like the Graces,
Hymn ye my bridal, the bridegroom for me
Destined by fate's everlasting decree. 340

Queen, wilt thou not restrain this Maenad maid,
Lest with light step she trip to Argos' host?

Fire-god, in spousal-rites thou light'st the torch;
But O, a piteous flame thou kindlest now,
Far from mine high hopes, far!—ah me, my child, 345
How little of such marriage dreamed I ever
For thee,—a captive, thrall of Argos' spear!
Give me the torch, it fits not that thou bear it
In Maenad frenzy. Thy misfortunes, child,
Healed not thy mind, but thou remain'st possessed. 350
Daughters of Troy, bear in the torches: give
Tears in exchange for these her marriage-hymns.

Mother, with wreaths of triumph crown mine head.
Rejoice thou o'er my marriage with a king.
Escort me to him: if thou find me loth, 355
With violence thrust me: for, if Loxias lives,
Deadlier than Helen's shall my spousals be
​To Agamemnon, Achaia's glorious king.
Death shall I deal him, havoc of his home,
Avenging so my brethren and my sire:— 360
No more of that; I will not sing the axe
That on my neck, and others' necks, shall fall,—
The mother-murdering strife, my spousal's fruit,
Nor of the overthrow of Atreus' house.
But I will prove this city happier 365
Than yon Achaians,—yea, possessed am I,
Yet herein stand of bacchant ravings clear,—
Who for one woman, for one wanton's sake,
In quest of Helen wasted lives untold.
And this wise chief—for that he hated most 370
He hath lost what most he loved, home-joys of children
To his brother for a woman's sake resigned,—
And she a willing prey, no kidnapped victim!
And, when these came unto Skamander's banks.
Fast died they, not for marches foeman-harried, 375
Nor home-land stately-towered. Whom Ares slew
Saw not their children, nor by hands of wives
In robes were shrouded: but in a strange land
They lie. And in their homes the like befell:
Wives widowed died, sires linger in lone halls 380
Without sons, whom for nought they nurtured; none
Remains to spill earth's blood-gift at their tombs.
Sooth, well the host hath earned such praise as this!
Best left untold the deeds of shame—not mine
Be voice of song to chant that evil tale! 385
But, for the Trojans, first,—renown most fair,—
For fatherland they died. Whom Ares slew,
By friends their corpses to their homes were borne,
And in the home-land earth's arms cradled them
​Compassed with duteous hands' observances. 390
And whatso Phrygians not in battle died
Ever with wife and children day by day
Dwelt, joys whereof the Achaians tasted none.
For Hector's woeful fate—hear thou the truth:
He proved himself a hero ere he died; 395
And this the Achaians' coming brought to pass:
Had they in Greece stayed, none had seen his prowess.
And Paris wedded Zeus' child: had he not,
His halls had hailed affiance unrenowned.
Sooth, he were best shun war, whoso is wise: 400
If war must be, his country's crown of pride
Is death heroic, craven death her shame.
Then make not moan, O mother, for thy land,
Nor for my couch ; for my most bitter foes
And thine shall I destroy by mine espousals. 405

Had Phœbus not with frenzy thrilled thy soul,
Thou with such bodings shouldst not unchastised
Speed from thy land my lords, the battle-chiefs. 410
Lo, how these lofty ones, wise in repute,
Are no whit better than the nothing-worth!
For this most mighty king of allied Hellas,
This Atreus' son, hath stooped him 'neath love's yoke
For yon mad girl, of all maids! Poor am I, 415
Yet would I ne'er have gotten me her couch.
Now, seeing thou hast not unshattered wit,
Thy mocks at Argos and thy praise of Phrygia
I fling to the winds to scatter. Follow me
Unto the ships, our captain's goodly bride! 420
But thou, (to Hecuba) whenso Laertes' seed desires
​To take thee, follow. A virtuous woman's thrall^[3]
Shalt thou be, as say all that came to Troy.

Keen-witted varlet this! Why such repute
Have heralds, common loathing of mankind, 425
Menials that wait on despots and on cities?
Say'st thou my mother to Odysseus' halls
Shall come? Where be Apollo's bodings then,
Which say—to me no mystery—that she
Shall here die?—other shame I will not speak.^[4] 430
Wretch!—he knows not what sufferings wait for him,
Such, that my woes and Phrygia's yet shall seem
As gold to him. Ten years to these past ten
Accomplished, shall he reach his land—alone;
Shall see where in the rock-gorge fell Charybdis 435
Hath made her lair,—where mountain-haunting Cyclops
Ravins,—see her that turneth men to swine,
Ligurian Circe,—shipwreck in salt seas,—
The lotus-cravings, the Sun's sacred kine,
Whose dead flesh with a human voice shall moan 440
A dire voice for Odysseus. To make end,
He shall see Hades living, 'scape the sea,
Yet, when he winneth home, find ills untold.
Yet—Odysseus' troubles, wherefore should I loose their javelin-flight?
On, that I may haste to wed my bridegroom, Hades' spousal-plight. 445
Vile one, vile shall be thy burial, darkling, not in light of day,
​Thou that dream'st of high achievement, chief of Danaus' sons' array.
Yea, and me, flung out a naked corse, the mountain's chasm-rift
Foaming with the wintry floods, shall give to beasts, a ravin-gift,
Hard beside my bridegroom's grave—Apollo's priestess-handmaid, me! 450
Garlands of the God most dear unto me, mystic bravery,
Farewell: I have left the temple-feasts, my joy in days o'erpast:
Hence, in rendings from my body, that, while yet my blood is chaste,
I may give them to the blasts to waft to thee, O Prophet-lord!
Where is Agamemnon's galley?—whither go to pass aboard? 455
Loiter not from eager watching for the breeze to fill the sail:
One of the Avengers Three is this that thou from Troy shalt hale.
Fare-thee-well, my mother, weep not;—fatherland, beloved name;—
Ye beneath the sod, my brethren;—father, of whose loins I came;—
'Tis not long ere ye shall greet me: I unto my dead shall come 460
Triumph-crowned from havoc of the Atreid house that wrought our doom.

Grey Hecuba's attendants, mark ye not
Your mistress sinking speechless to the earth?
​Will ye not help her, heartless ones, but leave
Her grey hairs prostrate? Bear ye up her frame. 465

Leave me—false kindness were unkindness, girls,—
So fallen to lie. Well may I sink 'neath all
I suffer, and have suffered, and shall suffer.
O Gods!—to sorry helpers I appeal;
Yet to invoke the Gods hath some fair show 470
When child of man on evil fortune lights.
Fain am I first to chant mine olden bliss;
So shall I wake more ruth for these my woes.
1 was a princess, wedded to a king,
And mother I became of princely sons, 475
Nor ciphers these, but Phrygia's mightiest chiefs:
Trojan nor Greek dame, nor barbarian,
Might ever boast her mother of such as these.
Yet these I saw by Hellene spears laid low,
And shore these tresses at my dead sons' graves. 480
Their father Priam—not from other lips
I heard and wept his doom, but these mine eyes
Beheld him butchered on the altar-stone,
Troy sacked, the maiden daughters I had nursed
For pride of princely spousals without peer, 485
Torn from mine arms—for others reared I them!
No hope have I of being seen of them,
No, nor of seeing them for evermore.
And last, the topstone of my misery,
Old, and a slave, to Hellas shall I come; 490
And what tasks for mine eld are most unmeet,
To these will they appoint me, to keep keys,
A portress,—me, who gave to Hector birth!—
Or knead their bread, and couch upon the ground
​The wasted form that knew a royal bed, 495
With tattered rags to clothe my shrunken frame,
Vesture unmeet for those once throned in bliss.
O wretched I!—for one wife's bridal's sake
What have I borne?—what am I yet to bear?
O child, Kassandra, bacchant-fellow of Gods, 500
Mid what disaster ends thy virgin state!
And thou, my poor Polyxena, where art thou?
Nor son nor daughter, none remains to help
The wretched mother, of all born to her.
Wherefore then raise me up?—by what hopes cheered? 505
Guide me,—who once in Troy trod delicately,
Who am a slave now,—to some earth-strown bed,
Some rocky brow, to weep mine heart away,
And hurl me then to death. Of all that prosper
Account ye no man happy ere he die. 510

(Str. 1)
O Song-goddess, chant in mine ear
The doom of mine Ilium: sing
Thy strange notes broken with sob and tear
That o'er sepulchres sigh where our dear dead lie:
For now through my lips outwailing clear
Troy's ruin-dirge shall ring,—
How the Argives' four-foot wain^[5]
Brought me ruin with spear and with chain,
When clashed to the sky that armoury^[6]
That they left at our gates for our bane— 520
That gold-decked thing!

​And afar from the rock's sheer crest
A shout did the Troy-folk fling—
"Come, ye that from troubles have now found rest,
And the sacred image bring
To the Ilian Maid^[7] Zeus bare!"
Who then of the youths but was there?
What hoary head but from home forth sped,
With songs that ruin-snare
Encompassing? 530
(Ant. 1)
Swift streamed they all to the gate,
The children of Dardanus' line,
With the Argives' gift to propitiate
The Maid supreme of the deathless team^[8]:
And to Phrygia's curse, to the ambushed fate
That was pent in the mountain-pine,
The coils of the flax have they tied.
Like a dark ship on did it glide
To the marble-gleam of the fane, with the stream
Of our fatherland's blood to be dyed,
Even Pallas' shrine. 540

Now over their toil and their glee
Spread black night's wings divine;
But the flute still pealeth merrily,
Still wreathe the dancers and twine
The fairy-footed maze;
And the jubilant chant they raise;
​And the homes glow red with the splendours shed
From the torches, with lurid blaze
O'er the sleepers that shine. 550
(Epode)
In that hour to the Mountain Maiden,
Unto Artemis, Zeus's Daughter,
Around mine halls was I singing
In the dance: but a fierce shout murder-laden
Thrilled with foreboding of slaughter
Pergamus' homes, and scared babes flying
Round the skirts of their mothers theirhands were flinging
At that awful outcrying.

Then burst forth War from the place of his hiding, 560
From the lair that Pallas had framed forth-springing;
Troy's altar-pavements with slaughter were streaming.
To her couches a ghastly guest came gliding—
A spectre of headless men, Desolation—
To the foster-mother of warriors bringing,
Unto Hellas, a coronal triumph-gleaming,
And a crown of grief to the Phrygian nation.

Lo Andromachê, Queen, draweth nigh on
A wain of the foe borne high;
On her breast rocked, Hector's scion, 570
Dear Astyanax, doth lie.

Woe!

Why dost thou chant my paean of misery?

Alas!—

For our burden of woe,—

O Zeus!—

For the anguish we know! 580

Ah children!

No more are we!

​

Ah wretch!

Woe's me for the hero-sons that I bore!

Woe!—

For griefs on mine head that fall!

Ah the pity of Ilium's wall—

With the smoke-pall shrouded o'er!

(Str. 3)
Come to me, husband, now!—

Thy wife's defender thou!

​

Sore are our yearnings, sharp anguish is come on us, O sorrow-stricken: 590
Ruined our city is; cloud over cloud do our miseries thicken,
Sent by the hate of the Gods, since thy son was from Hades delivered,^[9]
He for whose bridal accurst were the bulwarks of Ilium shivered.
Pallas the Goddess is left amid corpses blood-boultered that crowd her,^[10]
Spoil for the vultures, and Troy 'neath the yoke-band of thraldom hath bowed her.

Fatherland, hapless, I weep thee, who now, of our faces forlorn,
Seest the pitiful end, and mine home where my children were born.
Children, bereft of my city am I, and from me are ye going—
How wild is our wailing, our woe how deep!— 600
Tears upon tears are flowing, flowing,
Mid our desolate homes:—the dead only, unknowing
Of sorrow, forgetteth to weep.

​

How sweet unto afflicted souls are tears,
Lamentings, and the chant with sorrow fraught! 605

Mother of hero Hector, whose spear slew
In days past many an Argive, seest thou this?

I see the Gods' work, who exalt on high
That which was naught, and bring the proud names low.

I with my child a spoil am haled; high birth 610
Hath come to bondage—ah the change, the change!

Mighty is Fate:—from mine arms too but now
By violence torn Kassandra passed away.

Alas and alas!
Meseems a second Aias^[11] for thy child
Hath risen. Yet hast thou more afflictions still,— 615

Measure nor numbering whereof I know;
For ill to rival ill comes evermore.

​

Slain at Achilles' tomb, Polyxena
Thy child is dead, a gift to a lifeless corpse.

O wretched I!—The riddle this that erst 620
Talthybius spake, not clearly—oh, too clear!

Myself beheld: I lighted from this car,
Veiled with my robes the corse, and smote my breast.

Woe's me, my child, for thine unhallowed slaughter!
Woe yet again! How foully hast thou died! 625

She hath died—as she hath died: yet by a fate
More blest than mine, who yet live, hath she died.

Not one, my child, with sight of day is death;
For this is naught, in that is space for hope.

Mother, O mother, a fairer, truer word
Hear, that I may with solace touch thine heart:— 630
To have been unborn I count as one with death;
But better death than life in bitterness.
No pain feels death, which hath no sense of ills:
But who hath prospered, and hath fallen on woe,
​Forlorn of soul strays far from olden bliss. 635
Thy child, as though she ne'er had looked on light,
Is dead, and nothing knoweth of her ills.
But I, who drew my bow at fair repute,
Won overmeasure, yet fair fortune missed.
All virtuous fame that women e'er have found, 640
This was my quest, my gain, 'neath Hector's roof.
First—be the woman smirched with other stain,
Or be she not—this very thing shall bring
Ill fame, if one abide not in the home:
So banished I such craving, kept the house: 645
Within my bowers I suffered not to come
The tinsel-talk of women, lived content
To be in virtue schooled by mine own heart;
With silent tongue, with quiet eye, still met
My lord; knew in what matters I should rule, 650
And where 'twas meet to yield him victory:
Whereof the fame to the Achaian host
Reached,—for my ruin; for, when I was ta'en,
Achilles' son would have me for his wife;
And I shall serve within his murderers' halls. 655
If from mine heart I thrust my love, mine Hector,
And to this new lord ope the doors thereof,
I shall be traitress to the dead: but if
I loathe this prince, shall win my masters' hate.
And yet one night, say they, unknits the knot 660
Of woman's hate of any husband's couch!
I scorn the wife who flings her sometime lord
Away, and on a new couch loves another!
Not even the steed, from her stall-mate disyoked,
Will with a willing spirit draw the yoke; 665
Yet speech nor understanding in the brute
Is found, whose nature lags behind the man.
​Thou, O mine Hector, wast my fitting mate
In birth and wisdom, mighty in wealth and valour.
Stainless from my sire's halls thou tookest me, 670
And first didst yoke with thine my maiden couch.
Now hast thou perished: sea-borne I shall be,
Spear-won, to Hellas, unto thraldom's yoke.
Hath not the doom then of Polyxena,
Whom thou lamentest, lesser ills than mine? 675
With me not even is hope, which lingers last
With all; nor with far vision of good I cheat
Mine heart, though sweet thereof the day-dream were.

Even as mine is thy calamity:
Thy wail doth teach me all my depth of woes. 680

Though never yet I stepped aboard a ship,
From pictures seen and hearsay know I this,
That, if there lie a storm not passing great
On mariners, for deliverance all bestir them:
This standeth by the helm, that by the sail; 685
That baleth ship: but if the sea's full flood
In turmoil overwhelm them, cowed by fate
To the waves' driving they commit themselves.
So I withal, though many a woe is mine,
Am dumb, and I refrain my lips from speech, 690
For the Gods' misery-surge o'ermastereth me.
But, dear my daughter, let be Hector's fate,
Seeing no tears of thine shall ransom him;
But honour him that is to-day thy lord,
Tendering the sweet lure of thy winsomeness. 695
​If this thou do, thy friends shall share thy joy,
And this my son's son shalt thou rear to man,
To Troy a mighty aid, that children born
Of thee hereafter may in days to come
Build her, and yet again our city rise. 700
But—for a new fate followeth on the old—
What servant of the Achaians see I stride
Hitherward, herald of their new resolve?

Enter Talthybius.

O wife of Hector, Phrygia's mightiest once,
Abhor me not: sore loth shall I announce 705
The Danaans' hest, the word of Pelops' sons.

What now?—with what ill preface dost begin!

This child, have they decreed—how can I say it?

Not—that he shall not have one lord with me?

None of Achaians e'er shall be his lord. 710

How?—here, a Phrygian remnant, shall he bide?

I know not gently how to break sad tidings!

​

Thanks for thy shrinking, save thou bring glad tidings.

Thy son must die—since thou must hear the horror.

Ah me!—a worse ill this than thraldom's couch! 715

Odysseus' speech to assembled Greeks prevailed—

O God! O God! what measureless ill is mine!

Warning them not to rear a hero's son.

May like rede dooming sons of his prevail!

He must be hurled from battlements of Troy. 720
Then let this be, so wiser shalt thou show,
Nor cling to him, but queenlike bear thy pain,
Nor, being strengthless, dream that thou art strong.
For nowhere hast thou help: needs must thou mark—
City and lord are gone; thou art held in thrall; 725
For battle with one woman strong are we.
Wherefore I would not see thee set on strife,
Nor doing aught should breed thee shame or spite,
​Nor on the Achaians hurling malisons.
For, if to wrath thy words shall rouse the host, 730
This child shall find no burial, no, nor ruth.
Nay, hold thy peace, and meekly bow to fate;
So not unburied shalt thou leave his corse,
And kindlier the Achaians shalt thou find.

O darling child, O prized above all price, 735
Thou must leave thy poor mother, die by foes!
Thy father's heroism ruineth thee,
Which unto others was deliverance.
Ill-timed thy father's prowess was for thee!
O bridal mine and union evil-starred, 740
Whereby I came, time was, to Hector's hall,
Not as to bear a babe for Greeks to slay,
Nay, but a king for Asia's fruitful land!
Child, dost thou weep?—dost comprehend thy doom?
Why with thine hands clutch, clinging to my robe, 745
Like fledgling fleeing to nestle 'neath my wings?
No Hector, glorious spear in grip, shall rise
From earth, and bringing thee deliverance come,
No kinsman of thy sire, no might of Phrygians;
But, falling from on high with horrible plunge, 750
Unpitied shalt thou dash away thy breath.
O tender nursling, sweet to mother, sweet!
O balmy breath!—in vain and all in vain
This breast in swaddling-bands hath nurtured thee.
Vainly I travailed and was spent with toils! 755
Now, and no more for ever, kiss thy mother,
Fling thee on her that bare thee, twine thine arms
About my waist, and lay thy lips to mine.
O Greeks who have found out cruelties un-Greek,
​Why slay this child who is guiltless wholly of wrong? 760
Tyndareus' daughter—no Zeus' daughter thou!
Nay, but of many sires I name thee born:
Child of the Haunting Curse, of Envy child,
Of Murder, Death, of all earth-nurtured plagues!
Thee never Zeus begat, I dare avouch, 765
A curse to many a Greek, barbarians many!
Now ruin seize thee, who by thy bright eyes
Foully hast wasted Phrygia's glorious plains!
Take him—bear hence, and hurl, if hurl ye will;—
Then on his flesh feast! For we perish now 770
By the Gods' doom, and cannot shield one child
From death. O hide this wretched body of mine,
Yea, cast into a ship. To a bridal fair
Have I attained—I, who have lost my son!

O hapless Troy, who hast lost unnumbered sons 775
All for one woman's sake, for one loathed couch!

​

O child, O son of mine ill-starred son,
Unrighteously reft thy life is gone
From thy mother and me! What life shall I live?
What do for thee, hapless one? All we can give
Are smitings of heads, and on breasts blows rained:
These only be ours! Woe's me for our town 790
And for thee! What scathe is of us unattained?
What lack we to hold us from fell destruction's nethermost hell—
From the swift plunge down?

Enter Menelaus with attendants.

Hail, thou fair-shining splendour of yon sun, 860
Whereby I shall make capture of my wife
​Helen,—for I am he that travailed sore,
I Menelaus, and the Achaian host.
Nor so much came I, as men deem, to Troy
For her, but to avenge me on the man 865
Who from mine halls stole—traitor guest!—my wife.
He by heaven's help hath paid the penalty,
He and his land, by Hellene spear laid low.
I come to hale the Spartan,—loth am I
To name her wife, who in days past was mine;— 870
For in these mansions of captivity
Numbered she is with others, Trojan dames.
For they, by travail of the spear who won,
Gave her to me, to slay, or, an I would,
To slay not, but to take to Argos back. 875
And I was minded to reprieve from doom
Helen in Troy, but with keel-speeding oar
To bear to Greece, to yield her there to death,
Avenging all my friends in Ilium slain.
On, march to the pavilions, henchmen mine; 880
Bring her, and by her murder-reeking hair
Hale forth to me: then, soon as favouring winds
Shall blow, to Hellas will we speed her on.

O Earth's Upbearer, thou whose throne is Earth,
Whoe'er thou be, O past our finding out, 885
Zeus, be thou Nature's Law, or mind of man,
To thee I pray; for, treading soundless paths,
In justice dost thou guide all mortal things!

How now?—what strange prayer this unto the Gods?

​

Thanks, Menelaus, if thou slay thy wife! 890
Yet shun to look, lest she enthrall thee yet.
She snareth men's eyes, she destroyeth towns,
She burneth homes, such her enchantments are.
I and thou know her—all who have suffered know.

Enter Helen, haled forth by attendants.

O Menelaus, terror-fraught to me 895
This prelude is; for by thy servants' hands
Forth of these tents with violence am I haled.
But, though well-nigh I know me abhorred of thee,
Fain would I ask what the decision is,
Touching my life, of thee and of the Greeks. 900

No nicely-balanced vote—with one accord
Thee the host gave to me, the wronged, to slay.

May I then plead in answer hereunto,
That, if I die, unjustly I shall die?

Not for debate, for slaying am I come. 905

Hear her, that lacking not this boon she die,
Menelaus; and to me vouchsafe to plead
​Against her. Of her evil work in Troy
Nought know'st thou: thus arrayed shall all the tale
Doom her to death beyond all hope to 'scape. 910

This asks delay: yet, if she fain would speak,
Let her. For thy words' sake I grant her this,
But not for her sake, let her be assured.

Perchance, or speak I well, or speak I ill,
Thou wilt not answer, counting me a foe. 915
Yet, as I deem—wouldst thou implead me now—
Thou wouldst accuse, so will I meet thy pleas,
Confronting accusations, thine and mine.
First, she brought forth the source of all these ills,
Who brought forth Paris: then, both Troy and me 920
The old king ruined, slaying not the babe
Alexander, baleful semblance of a torch.^[13]
Thereafter, how befell the sequel, hear:—
Judge he became of those three Goddesses.
This guerdon Pallas offered unto him— 925
"Troy's hosts to vanquish Hellas shalt thou lead."
Lordship o'er Asia, and o'er Europe's bounds,
If Paris judged her fairest, Hera proffered.
Kypris, with rapturous praising of my beauty,
Cried, "Thine she shall be if I stand preferred 930
As Fairest." Mark what followeth therefrom:—
Kypris prevails: this boon my bridal brought
To Greece—ye are not to foreign foes enthralled,
​Nor battle-crushed, nor 'neath a despot bowed.
But I by Hellas' good-hap was undone, 935
Sold for my beauty; and I am reproached
For that for which^[14] I should have earned a crown!
But, thou wilt say, I shun the issue still—
For what cause I by stealth forsook thine home.
He came, with no mean Goddess at his side; 940
He came, mine evil genius,—be his name
Paris or Alexander, which thou wilt,—
Whom, wittol thou, thou leftest in thine halls,
Sailing from Sparta to the Cretan land!
Not thee, but mine own heart, I question next— 945
What impulse stirred me from thine halls to follow
That guest, forsaking fatherland and home.
Punish the Goddess; be thou mightier
Than Zeus, who ruleth all the Gods beside,
Yet is her slave!—so, pardon is my due. 950
But,—since thou mightest here find specious plea,—
When Alexander dead to Hades passed,
I, of whose couch the Gods were careless now,
Ought from his halls to have fled to the Argive ships.
Even this did I essay: my witnesses 955
Gate-warders are, and watchmen of the walls,
Who found me ofttimes from the battlements
By cords to earth down-climbing privily.
Yea, my new lord—yon corpse Deiphobus,—
Kept in the Phrygians' despite his bride. 960
How then, O husband, should I justly die
By thine hand, since by force he wedded me,
And my hfe there no victor's triumph was,^[15]
​But bitter thrall? If thou wouldst overbear
Gods, this thy wish is folly unto thee. 965

Stand up for children and for country, Queen!
Shatter her specious pleading; for her words
Ring fair—a wanton's words; foul shame is this.

First, champion will I be of Goddesses,
And will convict her of a slanderous tongue. 970
Never, I ween, would Hera, or the Maid,
Pallas, have stooped unto such folly's depth,
That Hera would to aliens Argos sell,
Or Pallas bow 'neath Phrygians Athens' neck.
For sport they came and mirth in beauty's strife 975
To Ida. Why should Goddess Hera yearn
So hotly for the prize of loveliness?
That she might win a mightier lord than Zeus?
Or sought Athena mid the Gods a spouse,
Who of her sire, for hate of marriage, craved 980
Maidenhood?—Charge not Goddesses with folly,
To gloze thy sin: thou cozenest not the wise.
And Kypris, say'st thou—who but laughs to hear?—
Came with my son to Menelaus' halls!
How, could she not in peace have stayed in heaven, 985
And thee—Amyklæ too—to Ilium brought?
My son in goodlihead had never peer:
Thou sawest, and thine heart became thy Kypris!
All folly is to men their Aphroditê:
Sensual—senseless—consonant they ring! 990
Him in barbaric bravery sawest thou
Gold-glittering, and thy senses were distraught.
​For with scant state in Argos didst thou dwell;
But, Sparta left afar, the Phrygians' town
Thou hopedst, till^[16] with gold it flowed, to flood 995
With torrent waste: Menelaus' halls sufficed
Not thee for all thine insolence of pomp.
And my son, say'st thou, haled thee hence by force!
What son of Sparta heard? What rescue-cry
Didst thou upraise, though Kastor, yet a youth, 1000
Lived, and his brother, starward rapt not yet?
And when to Troy thou cam'st, and on thy track
The Argives, and the strife of raining spears,
If tidings of his prowess came to thee,
Menelaus wouldst thou praise, to vex my son 1005
Who in his love such mighty rival had:
But, if the Trojans prospered, naught was he.
Still watching fortune's flight, 'twas aye thy wont
To follow her—not virtue's path for thee!
And thou with cords wouldst steal thy liberty, 1010
From the towers climbing, as one loth to stay!
Where wast thou found with noose about thy neck,
Or whetting steel, as a true-hearted wife
Had done for yearning for her spouse of old?
Yet many a time and oft I counselled thee:— 1015
"Daughter, go forth from Troy: my sons shall wed
New brides; and thee to the Achaian ships
Will I send secretly: so stay the war
'Twixt Greece and us." But this was gall to thee.
For thou didst flaunt in Alexander's halls, 1020
Didst covet Asia's reverent courtesies—
Proud state for thee!—And yet hast thou come forth
Costly arrayed, looked on the selfsame sky
​As thy wronged spouse. O wanton all-abhorred,
Who oughtest, abject, and with garments rent, 1025
Quaking with fear, with shaven head to have come,
Having regard to modesty, above
Bold shamelessness, for thy transgressions past!
Menelaus,—so to sum mine argument,—
Crown Greece, by slaying as beseemeth thee 1030
Yon woman: so ordain to all her sisters
This law—the traitress to her lord shall die.

Prince, worthily of thy fathers and thine house
Punish her: show thee unto foes unflinching.
So spurn the gibe of Greece that calls thee woman. 1035

Herein is thy conclusion one with mine,
That willingly she went forth from mine halls
For a strange couch; and Kypris for vain show
Fills out her plea. Thou, to the stoners hence:
The Achaians' long toils in an hour requite 1040
Dying: so learn to put me not to shame.

Oh, by thy knees, impute not unto me
Heaven's visitation! Slay me not, but pardon!

Thine allies whom she slew betray not thou:
For them I pray thee, and their children's sake. 1045

Enough, grey queen: I give no heed to her;
​But bid mine henchmen to the galley sterns
Lead her, wherein her voyaging shall be.

Oh not the same deck let her tread with thee!

How, should she sink it—heavier than of old? 1050

Lover is none but loveth evermore.

Nay, love but lives while lives the loved one's faith.
Yet as thou wilt it shall be: on one ship
With me she shall not step: thou counsellest well.
And, when she wins to Argos, in foul sort 1055
The foul shall die, as meet is, and shall teach
All women chastity:—not easy this;
Yet her destruction shall with terror smite
Their folly, viler though they be than she.

(Str. 1)
So then thy temple in Troy fair-gleaming, 1060
And thine altar of incense heavenward steaming
Hast thou rendered up to our foes Achaean,
O Zeus, and the flame of our sacrificing,
And the holy burg with its myrrh-smoke rising,
And the ivy-mantled glens Idaean
Overstreamed with the wan snow riverward-rushing,
​And the haunted bowers of the World's Wall,^[17] flushing
With the first shafts flashed through the empyrean!
(Ant. 1)
Thine altars are cold; and the blithesome calling
Of the dancers is hushed; nor at twilight's falling
To the nightlong vigils of Gods cometh waking.
They are vanished, thy carven images golden,
And the twelve moon-feasts of the Phrygians holden.
Dost thou care, O King, I muse, heart-aching,—
Thou who sittest on high in the far blue heaven
Enthroned,—that my city to ruin is given,
That the bands of her strength is the fire-blast breaking? 1080
(Str. 2)
O my belovèd, O husband mine,
Thou art dead, and unburied thou wanderest yonder,
Unwashen!—but me shall the keel thro' the brine
Waft, onward sped by its pinions of pine,
To the horse-land Argos, where that stone wonder
The Cyclop walls cleave the clouds asunder.
And our babes at the gates, in a long, long line,
Cling to their mothers with wail and with weeping that cannot avail— 1090
"O mother," they moan, "alone, alone, woe's me! the Achaeans hale
Me from thy sight—from thine—
To the dark ship, soon o'er the surge to be riding,
To Salamis gliding,
To the hallowed strand,
​Or the Isthmian hill 'twixt the two seas swelling,
Where the gates of the dwelling
Of Pelops stand!"
(Ant. 2)
Oh that, when, far o'er the mid-sea sped, 1100
Menelaus' galley is onward sailing,
On the midst of her oars might the thunderbolt dread
Crash down, the Aegean's wildfire red,
Since from Ilium me with weeping and wailing
Unto thraldom in Hellas hence is he haling:
And lo, Zeus' daughter, like maid unwed,^[18]
Hath joy of her mirrors of gold, and her state as of right doth she hold!
Nevermore may he come to Laconia, home of his sires: be his hearth aye cold! 1110
Never Pitanê's streets may he tread,
Nor the Goddess's temple brazen-gated,
With the evil-fated
For his prize, who for shame
Unto all wide Hellas's sons and daughters,
And for woe to the waters
Of Simoïs, came!

Woe's me, woe's me!
Afflictions new, ere the old be past,
On our land are falling! Behold and see,
Ye wives of the Trojans, horror-aghast, 1120
Dead Astyanax, by the Danaans cast
From the towers, slain pitilessly.

​

One galley's oars yet linger, Hecuba,
Ready to waft unto the Phthian shores
The remnant of Achilles' scion's spoils. 1125
But Neoptolemus' self hath sailed, who heard
Tidings of wrong to Peleus, how the seed
Of Pelias, even Akastus, exiles him.
Wherefore, too hasty to vouchsafe delay,
He went, Andromachê with him, who hath drawn 1130
At her departing many a tear from me,
Wailing her country, crying her farewell
To Hector's tomb. And she besought the prince
To grant his corpse a grave who from the walls
Hurled down, thine Hector's child, gave up the ghost. 1135
And the Achaians' dread, this brass-lapped shield,
Wherewith his father fenced his body round,
She prayed him not to Peleus' hearth to bear,
Nor to Andromachê's new bridal bower,
A grief to see for her that bare the dead; 1140
But, in the stead of cedar chest or stone,
In this to entomb her child, and to thine arms
To give, to shroud the corpse with robes, and crown
With wreaths, as best thou canst of these thy means,
Since she hath gone, and since her master's haste 1145
Withheld herself from burying her child.
I therefore, when thou hast arrayed the corpse,
Will heap his mound, and set thereon a spear.
Thou then with speed perform the task assigned.
Sooth, I have lightened of one toil thine hands; 1150
For, as I passed o'er yon Skamander's streams,
​I bathed the corpse, and cleansed the wounds thereof.
Now will I go, and dig for him a grave,
That, shortened so, thy work and mine withal,
To one end wrought, may homeward speed the oar. 1155

Set Hector's shield fair-rounded on the earth,
A woeful sight unsweet for me to see.
O ye who more in spears than wisdom boast,
Fearing this child, Achaians, why have ye wrought
Murder unheard-of?—lest he raise again 1160
Our fallen Troy? So then ye were but naught
When, even while Hector triumphed with the spear,
And countless hands struck with him, still we perished;
But now, Troy taken, all the Phrygians slain,
Ye dread this little child! Out on the fear 1165
Which feareth, having never reasoned why!
Ah darling, what ill death is come on thee!
Hadst thou for Troy been slain, when thou hadst known
Youth, wedlock's bliss, and godlike sovereignty,
Blest wert thou—if herein may aught be blest. 1170
But now—one glimpse, one fancy's grasp, O child,
Then, all unknown, untasted, that was thine!^[19]
​Poor child, how sadly thine ancestral walls,
Bulwark of Loxias,^[20] from thine head have shorn
The curls that oft thy mother softly smoothed 1175
And kissed, wherefrom through shattered bones forth grins
Murder—a ghastliness I cannot speak!
O hands, how sweet the likeness to your sire
Ye keep!—limp in your sockets, lo, ye lie.
Dear lips, that babbled many a child-boast once, 1180
Ye are dead!—'Twas false, when, bounding to my robes,
"Mother," thou saidst, "full many a curl I'll shear
For thee, and troops of friends unto thy tomb
Will lead, to cry the loving last farewell."
Not I of thee, but thou, the young, of me,— 1185
Old, homeless, childless,—wretched corpse, art buried.
Ah me, the kisses, and my nursing-cares,
Thy love-watched slumbers,^[21]—gone! What word, ah what,
Shall bard inscribe of thee upon thy tomb?
"This child the Argives murdered in time past 1190
Through fear"—the inscription shall be Hellas' shame!
Yet thou, of thy sire's wealth though nought thou hast,
Shalt in thy burial have his brazen targe.
Ah shield that keptest Hector's goodly arm
Safe, thine heroic warder hast thou lost! 1195
How dear his imprint on thine handle lies!
Dear stains of sweat upon thy shapely rim,
Which oft mid battle's toil would Hector drip
​Down from his brow, as to his beard he pressed thee!
Come, bring ye adorning for the hapless corse 1200
Of that ye have: our fortune gives no place
For rich array: mine all shalt thou receive.
A fool is he, who, in prosperity
Secure, rejoices: fortune, in her moods,
Even as a madman, hither now, now thither, 1205
Leaps, and none prospers ever without change.

Lo, ready to thine hand, from spoils of Troy,
They bring adornings on the dead to lay.

Child, not for victory with steeds or bow
Over thy fellows,—customs which thy folk 1210
Honour, yet not unto excess pursue,—
The mother of thy sire adorneth thee
With gauds from wealth once thine, now reft from thee
By Helen god-accurst: she hath slain withal
Thy life, and brought to ruin all thine house. 1215

Alas and alas! Mine heart dost thou wring, dost thou wring
Who in days overpast wert our city's mighty king!

In that wherein thou shouldst have clad thy form
For marriage, wedding Asia's loveliest,
Splendour of Phrygian robes, I swathe thee now. 1220
And thou, who wast the glorious mother once
​Of countless triumphs, Hector's shield beloved,
Receive thy wreath: thou with the dead shalt die
Undying, worthy of honour, far beyond
The arms Odysseus, crafty villain, won. 1225

O misery!

Wail the keen for the dead!

Ah me, ah me! 1230

Ah griefs whose remembrance shall ne'er be fled!

Some of thy wounds with linen bands I bind,
A sorry leech, in name but not in deed;
Some shall thy father tend amongst the dead.

Smite thou, O smite with thine hand! 1235
Rain blows of thine hand on thine head—alas!

O daughters beloved of my land—

​

Speak the word through thy lips that is panting to pass.

For nought the Gods took thought, save woes to me 1240
And Troy, above all cities loathed of them.
In vain we sacrificed! Yet, had not God
O'erthrown us so, and whelmed beneath the earth,^[22]
We had faded fameless, never had been hymned
In lays, nor given song-themes to the after-time. 1245
Pass on, lay ye in a wretched tomb the corpse;
For now it hath the garlands, dues of death.
Yet little profit have the dead, I trow,
That gain magnificence of obsequies.
'Tis but the living friends' vaingloriousness. 1250

Enter Talthybius above, with soldiers bearing torches.

Captains, to whom the charge is given to fire 1260
This city of Priam, idle in your hands
Keep ye the flame no more: thrust in the torch,
That, having low in dust laid Ilium's towers,
We may with gladness homeward speed from Troy.
Ye—twofold aspect this one hest shall bear— 1265
Children of Troy, forth, soon as loud and clear
The chieftains of the host the trumpet sound,
To yon Greek ships, for voyage from the land.
And thou, O grey-haired dame most evil-starred,
Follow. These from Odysseus come for thee; 1270
For the lot sends thee forth the land, his slave.

Ah wretched I!—the uttermost is this,
The deepest depth of all my miseries;
I leave my land; my city is aflame!
O aged foot, sore-striving press thou on 1275
That I may bid mine hapless town farewell.
O Troy, midst burgs barbaric erst so proud,
Soon of thy glorious name shalt thou be spoiled.
They fire thee, and they hale us forth the land,
Thralls! O ye Gods!—why call I on the Gods? 1280
For called on heretofore they hearkened not.
Come, rush we on her pyre, for gloriously
So with my blazing country should I die.

​

Hapless, distraught art thou of thine afflictions!
Hence hale her—spare not. To Odysseus' hand 1285
Her must ye give, and lead to him his prize.

(Str. 1)
Woe is me! ah for the woes that be mine!
Kronion, O Phrygian Lord, our begetter, our father,
Dost thou see how calamity's tempests around us gather,
Unmerited doom of Dardanus' line? 1290

(Ant. 1)
Woe is me, woe, and a threefold woe!
Ilios is blazing, the ramparts of Pergamus crashing
Down, with the homes of our city, mid flames far-flashing
Over their ruins, a furnace-glow!
With its wide-winged blackness the heaven's face covering,
O'er our spear-stricken land is the smoke-cloud hovering. 1300
(Mesode.)
In madness of ruin-rush earthward they reel,
Our halls, 'neath the fire and the foemen's steel.

(Str. 2)
Hear, children, O hearken your mother's crying!

​

To the dead dost thou wail—can they hear thine entreating?

I am haled—I am borne—

Sorrow rings in thy cry! 1310

From my land unto mansions of slavery.
O hapless I!
O Priam, O Priam, slain without tomb,
Without friend, nought, nought dost thou know of my doom!

For the blackness of death hath shrouded the eyne
Of the righteous by hand of the impious slain.

​

O fanes of the Gods, dear city mine!

Woe!—wail the refrain!

(Ant. 2)
The death-flame, the spear, in your midst have dominion,—

Swift-falling to earth your memorial shall vanish,—

Did ye mark—did ye hear?

Crashed Pergamus^[25] down!

​

O land—of my children the nursing-land!

Woe!—wail the refrain!