{"collection":"Classics","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/cla/eurip/troj_w.htm","path":"cla/eurip/troj_w.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/cla/eurip/troj_w.htm","text":"The Trojan Women\nBy Euripides\n----------------------------------------------------------------------\nDramatis Personae\nPoseidon\nAthena\nHecuba\nChorus of Captive Trojan Women\nTalthybius\nCassandra\nAndromache\nMenelaus\n----------------------------------------------------------------------\nBefore Agamemnon's Tent in the Camp near Troy. HECUBA asleep. Enter\nPOSEIDON.\n----------------------------------------------------------------------\nPOSEIDON Lo! From the depths of salt Aegean floods I, Poseidon,\ncome, where choirs of Nereids trip in the mazes of the graceful dance;\nfor since the day that Phoebus and myself with measurement exact set\ntowers of stone about this land of Troy and ringed it round, never\nfrom my heart hath passed away a kindly feeling for my Phrygian town,\nwhich now is smouldering and o'erthrown, a prey to Argive prowess.\nFor, from his home beneath Parnassus, Phocian Epeus, aided by the\ncraft of Pallas, framed a horse to bear within its womb an armed host,\nand sent it within the battlements, fraught with death; whence in\ndays to come men shall tell of \"the wooden horse,\" with its hidden\nload of warriors. Groves forsaken stand and temples of the gods run\ndown with blood, and at the altar's very base, before the god who\nwatched his home, lies Priam dead. While to Achaean ships great store\nof gold and Phrygian spoils are being conveyed, and they who came\nagainst this town, those sons Of Hellas, only wait a favouring breeze\nto follow in their wake, that after ten long years they may with joy\nbehold their wives and children. Vanquished by Hera, Argive goddess,\nand by Athena, who helped to ruin Phrygia, I am leaving Ilium, that\nfamous town, and the altars that I love; for when drear desolation\nseizes on a town, the worship of the gods decays and tends to lose\nrespect. Scamander's banks re-echo long and loud the screams of captive\nmaids, as they by lot receive their masters. Arcadia taketh some,\nand some the folk of Thessaly; others are assigned to Theseus' sons,\nthe Athenian chiefs. And such of the Trojan dames as are not portioned\nout, are in these tents, set apart for the leaders of the host; and\nwith them Spartan Helen, daughter of Tyndarus, justly counted among\nthe captives. And wouldst thou see that queen of misery, Hecuba, thou\ncanst; for there she lies before the gates, weeping many a bitter\ntear for many a tribulation; for at Achilles' tomb-though she knows\nnot this-her daughter Polyxena has died most piteously; likewise is\nPriam dead, and her children too; Cassandra, whom the king Apollo\nleft to be a virgin, frenzied maid, hath Agamemnon, in contempt of\nthe god's ordinance and of piety, forced to a dishonoured wedlock.\nFarewell, O city prosperous once! farewell, ye ramparts of hewn stone!\nhad not Pallas, daughter of Zeus, decreed thy ruin, thou wert standing\nfirmly still. (Enter ATHENA.)\nATHENA May I address the mighty god whom Heaven reveres and who to\nmy own sire is very nigh in blood, laying aside our former enmity?\nPOSEIDON Thou mayst; for o'er the soul the ties of kin exert no feeble\nspell, great queen Athena.\nATHENA For thy forgiving mood my thanks! Somewhat have I to impart\naffecting both thyself and me, O king.\nPOSEIDON Bringst thou fresh tidings from some god, from Zeus, or\nfrom some lesser power?\nATHENA From none of these; but on behalf of Troy, whose soil we tread,\nam I come to seek thy mighty aid, to make it one with mine.\nPOSEIDON What! hast thou laid thy former hate aside to take compassion\non the town now that it is burnt to ashes?\nATHENA First go back to the former point; wilt thou make common cause\nwith me in the scheme I purpose?\nPOSEIDON Ay surely; but I would fain learn thy wishes, whether thou\nart come to help Achaens or Phrygians.\nATHENA I wish to give my former foes, the Trojans, joy, and on the\nAchaean host impose a return that they will rue.\nPOSEIDON Why leap'st thou thus from mood to mood? Thy love and hate\nboth go too far, on whomsoever centred.\nATHENA Dost not know the insult done to me and to the shrine I love?\nPOSEIDON Surely, in the hour that Aias tore Cassandra thence.\nATHENA Yea, and the Achaeans did naught, said naught to him.\nPOSEIDON And yet 'twas by thy mighty aid they sacked Ilium.\nATHENA For which cause I would join with thee to work their bane.\nPOSEIDON My powers are ready at thy will. What is thy intent?\nATHENA A returning fraught with woe will I impose on them.\nPOSEIDON While yet they stay on shore, or as they cross the briny\ndeep?\nATHENA When they have set sail from Ilium for their homes. On them\nwill Zeus also send his rain and fearful hail, and inky tempests from\nthe sky; yea, and he promises to grant me his levin-bolts to hurl\non the Achaeans and fire their ships. And do thou, for thy part, make\nthe Aegean strait to roar with mighty billows and whirlpools, and\nfill Euboea's hollow bay with corpses, that Achaeans may learn henceforth\nto reverence my temples and regard all other deities.\nPOSEIDON So shall it be, for the boon thou cravest needs but few\nwords. I will vex the broad Aegean sea; and the beach of Myconus and\nthe reefs round Delos, Scyros and Lemnos too, and the cliffs of Caphareus\nshall be strown with many a corpse. Mount thou to Olympus, and taking\nfrom thy father's hand his lightning bolts, keep careful watch against\nthe hour when Argos' host lets slip its cables. A fool is he who sacks\nthe towns of men, with shrines and tombs, the dead man's hallowed\nhome, for at the last he makes a desert round himself, and dies. Exeunt.\nHECUBA (Awakening) Lift thy head, unhappy lady, from the ground;\nthy neck upraise; this is Troy no more, no longer am I queen in Ilium.\nThough fortune change, endure thy lot; sail with the stream, and follow\nfortune's tack, steer not thy barque of life against the tide, since\nchance must guide thy course. Ah me! ah me! What else but tears is\nnow my hapless lot, whose country, children, husband, all are lost?\nAh! the high-blown pride of ancestors! how cabined now how brought\nto nothing after all What woe must I suppress, or what declare? What\nplaintive dirge shall I awake? Ah, woe is me! the anguish I suffer\nlying here stretched upon this pallet hard! O my head, my temples,\nmy side! Ah! could I but turn over, and he now on this, now on that,\nto rest my back and spine, while ceaselessly my tearful wail ascends.\nFore 'en this is music to the wretched, to chant their cheerless dirge\nof sorrow.\nYe swift-prowed ships, rowed to sacred Ilium o'er the deep dark sea,\npast the fair havens of Hellas, to the flute's ill-omened music and\nthe dulcet voice of pipes, even to the bays of Troyland (alack the\nday!), wherein ye tied your hawsers, twisted handiwork from Egypt,\nin quest of that hateful wife of Menelaus, who brought disgrace on\nCastor, and on Eurotas foul reproach; murderess she of Priam, sire\nof fifty children, the cause why I, the hapless Hecuba, have wrecked\nmy life upon this troublous strand. Oh that I should sit here o'er\nagainst the tent of Agamemnon Forth from my home to slavery they hale\nmy aged frame, while from my head in piteous wise the hair is shorn\nfor grief. Ah! hapless wives of those mail-clad sons of Troy! Ah!\npoor maidens, luckless brides, come weep, for Ilium is now but a ruin;\nand I, like some mother-bird that o're her fledglings screams, will\nbegin the strain; how different from that song I sang to the gods\nin days long past, as I leaned on Priam's staff, and beat with my\nfoot in Phrygian time to lead the dance! (Enter CHORUS OF CAPTIVE\nTROJAN WOMEN.)\nSEMI-CHORUS O Hecuba why these cries, these piercing shrieks? What\nmean thy words? For I heard thy piteous wail echo through the building,\nand a pang terror shoots through each captive Trojan's breast, as\npent within these walls they mourn their slavish lot.\nHECUBA My child, e'en now the hands of Argive rowers are busy at\ntheir ships.\nSEMI-CHORUS Ah, woe is me! what is their intent? Will they really\nbear me hence in sorrow from my country in their fleet?\nHECUBA I know not, though I guess our doom.\nSEMI-CHORUS O misery! woe to us Trojan dames, soon to hear the order\ngiven, \"Come forth from the house; the Argives are preparing to return.\"\nHECUBA Oh! do not bid the wild Cassandra leave her chamber, the frantic\nprophetess, for Argives to insult, nor to my griefs add yet another.\nWoe to thee, ill-fated Troy, thy sun is set; and woe to thy unhappy\nchildren, quick and dead alike, who are leaving thee behind!\nSEMI-CHORUS II With trembling step, alas! I leave this tent of Agamemnon\nto learn of thee, my royal mistress, whether the Argives have resolved\nto take my wretched life, whether the sailors at the prow are making\nready to ply their oars.\nHECUBA My child, a fearful dread seized on my wakeful heart and sent\nme hither.\nSEMI-CHORUS II Hath a herald from the Danai already come? To whom\nam I, poor captive, given as a slave?\nHECUBA Thou art not far from being allotted now.\nSEMI-CHORUS II Woe worth the day! What Argive or Phthiotian chief\nwill bear me far from Troy, alas! unto his home, or haply to some\nisland fastness?\nHECUBA Ah me! ah me! Whose slave shall I become in my old age? in\nwhat far clime? a poor old drone, the wretched copy of a corpse, set\nto keep the gate or tend their children, I who once held royal rank\nin Troy.\nCHORUS Woe, woe is thee! What piteous dirge wilt thou devise to mourn\nthe outrage done thee? No more through Ida's looms shall I-ply the\nshuttle to and fro. I look my last and latest on my children's bodies;\nhenceforth shall I endure surpassing misery; it may be as the unwilling\nbride of some Hellene (perish the night and fortune that brings me\nto this!); it may be as a wretched slave I from Peirene's sacred fount\nshall draw their store of water.\nOh be it ours to come to Theseus' famous realm, a land of joy! Never,\nnever let me see Eurotas' swirling tide, hateful home of Helen, there\nto meet and be the slave of Menelaus, whose hand laid Troyland waste!\nYon holy land by Peneus fed, nestling in all its beauty at Olympus'\nfoot, is said, so have I heard, to be a very granary of wealth and\nteeming fruitage; next to the sacred soil of Theseus, I could wish\nto reach that land. They tell me too Hephaestus' home, beneath the\nshadow of Aetna, fronting Phoenicia, the mother of Sicilian hills,\nis famous for the crowns it gives to worth. Or may I find a home on\nthat shore which lieth very nigh Ionia's sea, a land by Crathis watered,\nlovely stream, that dyes the hair an auburn tint, feeding with its\nholy waves and making glad therewith the home of heroes good and true.\nBut mark! a herald from the host of Danai, with store of fresh proclamations,\ncomes hasting hither. What is his errand? what saith he? List, for\nwe are slaves to Dorian lords henceforth. (Enter TALTHYBIUS.)\nTALTHYBIUS Hecuba, thou knowest me from my many journeys to and fro\nas herald 'twixt the Achaean host and Troy; no stranger I to thee,\nlady, even aforetime, I Talthybius, now sent with a fresh message.\nHECUBA Ah, kind friends, 'tis come! what I so long have dreaded.\nTALTHYBIUS The lot has decided your fates already, if that was what\nyou feared.\nHECUBA Ah me! What city didst thou say, Thessalian, Phthian, or Cadmean?\nTALTHYBIUS Each warrior took his prize in turn; ye were not all at\nonce assigned.\nHECUBA To whom hath the lot assigned us severally? Which of us Trojan\ndames doth a happy fortune await?\nTALTHYBIUS I know, but ask thy questions separately, not all at once.\nHECUBA Then tell me, whose prize is my daughter, hapless Cassandra?\nTALTHYBIUS King Agamemnon hath chosen her out for himself.\nHECUBA To be the slave-girl of his Spartan wife? Ah me!\nTALTHYBIUS Nay, to share with him his stealthy love.\nHECUBA What! Phoebus' virgin-priestess, to whom the god with golden\nlocks granted the boon of maidenhood?\nTALTHYBIUS The dart of love hath pierced his heart, love for the\nfrenzied maid.\nHECUBA Daughter, cast from thee the sacred keys, and from thy body\ntear the holy wreaths that drape thee in their folds.\nTALTHYBIUS Why! is it not an honour high that she should win our\nmonarch's love?\nHECUBA What have ye done to her whom late ye took from me-my child?\nTALTHYBIUS Dost mean Polyxena, or whom dost thou inquire about?\nHECUBA To whom hath the lot assigned her?\nTALTHYBIUS To minister at Achilles' tomb hath been appointed her.\nHECUBA Woe is me! I the mother of a dead man's slave! What custom,\nwhat ordinance is this amongst Hellenes, good sir?\nTALTHYBIUS Count thy daughter happy: 'tis well with her.\nHECUBA What wild words are these? say, is she still alive?\nTALTHYBIUS Her fate is one that sets her free from trouble.\nHECUBA And what of mail-clad Hector's wife, sad Andromache? declare\nher fate.\nTALTHYBIUS She too was a chosen prize; Achilles' son did take her.\nHECUBA As for me whose hair is white with age, who need to hold a\nstaff to be to me a third foot, whose servant am I to be?\nTALTHYBIUS Odysseus, king of Ithaca, hath taken thee to be his slave.\nHECUBA O God! Now smite the close-shorn head! tear your cheeks with\nyour nails. God help me! I have fallen as a slave to a treacherous\nfoe I hate, a monster of lawlessness, one that by his double tongue\nhath turned against us all that once was friendly in his camp, changing\nthis for that and that for this again. Oh weep for me, ye Trojan dames!\nUndone! undone and lost! ah woel a victim to a most unhappy lot!\nCHORUS Thy fate, royal mistress, now thou knowest; but for me, what\nHellene or Achaean is master of my destiny?\nTALTHYBIUS Ho, servants! haste and bring Cassandra forth to me here,\nthat I may place her our captain's hands, and then conduct to the\nrest of the chiefs the captives each hath had assigned. Ha what is\nthe blaze of torches there within? What do these Trojan dames? Are\nthey firing the chambers, because they must leave this land and be\ncarried away to Argos? Are they setting themselves aflame in their\nlonging for death? Of a truth the free bear their troubles in cases\nlike this with a stiff neck. Ho, there! open! lest their deed, which\nsuits them well but finds small favour with the Achaeans, bring blame\non me.\nHECUBA 'Tis not that they are setting aught ablaze, but my child\nCassandra, frenzied maid, comes rushing wildly hither. (Enter CASSANDRA\ncarrying torches)\nCASSANDRA Bring the light, uplift and show its flame! I am doing\nthe god's service, see! I making his shrine to glow with tapers bright.\nO Hymen, king of marriage! blest is the bridegroom; blest am I also,\nthe maiden soon to wed a princely lord in Argos. Hail Hymen, king\nof marriage! Since thou, my mother, art ever busied with tears and\nlamentations in thy mourning for my father's death and for our country\ndear, I at my own nuptials am making this torch to blaze and show\nits light, in thy honour, O Hymen, king of marriage! Grant thy light\ntoo, Hecate, at the maiden's wedding, as the custom is. Nimbly lift\nthe foot aloft, lead on the dance, with cries of joy, as if to greet\nmy father's happy fate. To dance I hold a sacred duty; come, Phoebus,\nlead the way, for 'tis in thy temple mid thy bay-trees that I minister.\nHail Hymen, god of marriage! Hymen, hail! Come, mother mine, and join\nthe dance, link thy steps with me, and circle in the gladsome measure,\nnow here, now there. Salute the bride on her wedding-day with hymns\nand cries of joy. Come, ye maids of Phrygia in raiment fair, sing\nmy marriage with the husband fate ordains that I should wed.\nCHORUS Hold the frantic maiden, royal mistress mine, lest with nimble\nfoot she rush to the Argive army.\nHECUBA Thou god of fire,'tis thine to light the bridal torch for\nmen, but piteous is the flame thou kindlest here, beyond my blackest\nbodings. Ah, my child! how little did I ever dream that such would\nbe thy marriage, a captive, and of Argos tool Give up the torch to\nme; thou dost not bear its blaze aright in thy wild frantic course,\nnor have thy afflictions left thee in thy sober senses, but still\nart thou as frantic as before. Take in those torches, Trojan friends,\nand for her wedding madrigals weep your tears instead.\nCASSANDRA O mother, crown my head with victor's wreaths; rejoice\nin my royal match; lead me to my lord; nay, if thou find me loth at\nall, thrust me there by force; for if Loxias be indeed a prophet,\nAgamemnon, that famous king of the Achaeans, will find in me a bride\nmore fraught with woe to him than Helen. For I will slay him and lay\nwaste his home to avenge my father's and my bretheren's death. But\nof the deed itself I will not speak; nor will I tell of that axe which\nshall sever my neck and the necks of others, or of the conflict ending\nin a mother's death, which my marriage shall cause, nor of the overthrow\nof Atreus' house; but I, for all my frenzy, will so far rise above\nmy frantic fit, that I will prove this city happier far than those\nAchaeans, who for the sake of one woman and one man's love of her\nhave lost a countless host in seeking Helen. Their captain too, whom\nmen call wise, hath lost for what he hated most what most he prized,\nyielding to his brother for a woman's sake-and she a willing prize\nwhom no man forced-the joy he had of his own children in his home.\nFor from the day that they did land upon Scamander's strand, their\ndoom began, not for loss of stolen frontier nor yet for fatherland\nwith frowning towers; whomso Ares slew, those never saw their babes\nagain, nor were they shrouded for the tomb by hand of wife, but in\na foreign land they lie. At home the case was still the same; wives\nwere dying widows, parents were left childless in their homes, having\nreared their sons for others, and none is left to make libations of\nblood upon the ground before their tombs. Truly to such praise as\nthis their host can make an ample claim. Tis better to pass their\nshame in silence by, nor be mine the Muse to tell that evil tale.\nBut the Trojans were dying, first for their fatherland, fairest fame\nto win; whomso the sword laid low, all these found friends to bear\ntheir bodies home and were laid to rest in the bosom of their native\nland, their funeral rites all duly paid by duteous hands. And all\nsuch Phrygians as escaped the warrior's death lived ever day by day\nwith wife and children by them-joys the Achaeans had left behind.\nAs for Hector and his griefs, prithee hear how stands the case; he\nis dead and gone, but still his fame remains as bravest of the brave,\nand this was a result of the Achaeans' coming; for had they remained\nat home, his worth would have gone unnoticed. So too with Paris, he\nmarried the daughter of Zeus, whereas, had he never done so, the alliance\nhe made in his family would have been forgotten. Whoso is wise should\nfly from making war; but if he be brought to this pass, a noble death\nwill crown his city with glory, a coward's end with shame. Wherefore,\nmother mine, thou shouldst not pity thy country or my spousal, for\nthis my marriage will destroy those whom thou and I most hate.\nCHORUS How sweetly at thy own sad lot thou smilest, chanting a strain,\nwhich, spite of thee, may prove thee wrong!\nTALTHYBIUS Had not Apollo turned thy wits astray, thou shouldst not\nfor nothing have sent my chiefs with such ominous predictions forth\non their way. But, after all, these lofty minds, reputed wise, are\nnothing better than those that are held as naught. For that mighty\nking of all Hellas, own son of Atreus, has yielded to a passion for\nthis mad maiden of all others; though I am poor enough, yet would\nI ne'er have chosen such a wife as this. As for thee, since thy senses\nare not whole, I give thy taunts 'gainst Argos and thy praise of Troy\nto the winds to carry away. Follow me now to the ships to grace the\nwedding of our chief. And thou too follow, whensoe'er the son of Laertes\ndemands thy presence, for thou wilt serve a mistress most discreet,\nas all declare who came to Ilium.\nCASSANDRA A clever fellow this menial! Why is it heralds hold the\nname they do? All men unite in hating with one common hate the servants\nwho attend on kings or governments. Thou sayest my mother shall come\nto the halls of Odysseus; where then be Apollo's words, so clear to\nme in their interpretation, which declare that here she shall die?\nWhat else remains, I will not taunt her with. Little knows he, the\nluckless wight, the sufferings that await him; or how these ills I\nand my Phrygians endure shall one day seem to him precious as gold.\nFor beyond the ten long years spent at Troy he shall drag out other\nten and then come to his country all alone, by the route where fell\nCharybdis lurks in a narrow channel 'twixt the rocks; past Cyclops\nthe savage shepherd, and Ligurian Circe that turneth men to swine;\nshipwrecked oft upon the salt sea-wave; fain to eat the lotus, and\nthe sacred cattle of the sun, whose flesh shall utter in the days\nto come a human voice, fraught with misery to Odysseus. But to briefly\nend this history, he shall descend alive to Hades, and, though he\n'scape the waters' flood, yet shall he find a thousand troubles in\nhis home when he arrives. Enough why do I recount the troubles of\nOdysseus? Lead on, that I forthwith may wed my husband for his home\nin Hades' halls. Base thou art, and basely shalt thou be buried, in\nthe dead of night when day is done, thou captain of that host of Danai,\nwho thinkest so proudly of thy fortune! Yea, and my corpse cast forth\nin nakedness shall the rocky chasm with its flood of wintry waters\ngive to wild beasts to make their meal upon, hard by my husband's\ntomb, me the handmaid of Apollo. Farewell, ye garlands of that god\nmost dear to me! farewell, ye mystic symbols! I here resign your feasts,\nmy joy in days gone by. Go, I tear ye from my body, that, while yet\nmine honour is intact, I may give them to the rushing winds to waft\nto thee, my prince of prophecy I Where is yon general's ship? Whither\nmust I go to take my place thereon? Lose no further time in watching\nfor a favouring breeze to fill thy sails, doomed as thou art to carry\nfrom this land one of the three avenging spirits. Fare thee well,\nmother mine! dry thy tears, O country dear! yet a little while, my\nbrothers sleeping in the tomb and my own father true, and ye shall\nwelcome me; yet shall victory crown my advent 'mongst the dead, when\nI have overthrown the home of our destroyers, the house of the sons\nof Atreus. (Exeunt TALTHYBIUS and CASSANDRA)\nCHORUS Ye guardians of the grey-haired Hecuba, see how your mistress\nis sinking speechless to the ground! Take hold of her! will ye let\nher fall, ye worthless slaves? lift up again, from where it lies,\nher silvered head.\nHECUBA Leave me lying where I fell, my maidens unwelcome service\ngrows not welcome ever-my sufferings now, my troubles past, afflictions\nyet to come, all claim this lowly posture. Gods of heaven! small help\nI find in calling such allies, yet is there something in the form\nof invoking heaven, whenso we fall on evil days. First will I descant\nupon my former blessings; so shall I inspire the greater pity for\nmy present woes. Born to royal estate and wedded to a royal lord,\nI was the mother of a race of gallant sons; no mere ciphers they,\nbut Phrygia's chiefest pride, children such as no Trojan or Hellenic\nor barbarian mother ever had to boast. All these have I seen slain\nby the spear of Hellas, and at their tombs have I shorn off my hair;\nwith these my eyes I saw their sire, my Priam, butchered on his own\nhearth, and my city captured, nor did others bring this bitter news\nto me. The maidens I brought up to see chosen for some marriage high,\nfor strangers have I reared them, and seen them snatched away. Nevermore\ncan I hope to be seen by them, nor shall my eyes behold them ever\nin the days to come. And last, to crown my misery, shall I be brought\nto Hellas, a slave in my old age. And there the tasks that least befit\nthe evening of my life will they impose on me, to watch their gates\nand keep the keys, me Hector's mother, or bake their bread, and on\nthe ground instead of my royal bed lay down my shrunken limbs, with\ntattered rags about my wasted frame. a shameful garb for those who\nonce were prosperous. Ah, woe is me! and this is what I bear and am\nto bear for one weak woman's wooing! O my daughter, O Cassandra! whom\ngods have summoned to their frenzied train, how cruel the lot that\nends thy virgin days! And thou, Polyxena! my child of sorrow, where,\noh! where art thou? None of all the many sons and daughters have I\nborn comes to aid a wretched mother. Why then raise me up? What hope\nis left us? Guide me, who erst trod so daintily the streets of Troy,\nbut now am but a slave, to a bed upon the ground, nigh some rocky\nridge, that thence I may cast me down and perish, after I have wasted\nmy body with weeping. Of all the prosperous crowd, count none a happy\nman before he die.\nCHORUS Sing me, Muse, a tale of Troy, a funeral dirge in strains\nunheard as yet, with tears the while; for now will I uplift for Troy\na piteous chant, telling how I met my doom and fell a wretched captive\nto the Argives by reason of a four-footed beast that moved on wheels,\nin the hour that Achaea's sons left at our gates that horse, loud\nrumbling on its way, with its trappings of gold and its freight of\nwarriors; and our folk cried out as they stood upon the rocky citadel,\n\"Up now ye whose toil is o'er, and drag this sacred image to the shrine\nof the Zeus-born maiden, goddess of our Ilium!\" Forth from his house\ncame every youth and every grey-head too; and with songs of joy they\ntook the fatal snare within. Then hastened all the race of Phrygia\nto the gates, to make the goddess a present of an Argive band ambushed\nin the polished mountain-pine, Dardania's ruin, a welcome gift to\nbe to her, the virgin queen of deathless steeds; and with nooses of\ncord they dragged it, as it had been a ship's dark hull, to the stone-built\nfane of the goddess Pallas, and set it on that floor so soon to drink\nour country's blood. But, as they laboured and made merry, came on\nthe pitchy night; loud the Libyan flute was sounding, and Phrygian\nsongs awoke, while maidens beat the ground with airy foot, uplifting\ntheir gladsome song; and in the halls a blaze of torchlight shed its\nflickering shadows on sleeping eyes. In that hour around the house\nwas I singing as I danced to that maiden of the hills, the child of\nZeus; when lo! there rang along the town a cry of death which filled\nthe homes of Troy, and little babes in terror clung about their mothers'\nskirts, as forth from their ambush came the warrior-band, the handiwork\nof maiden Pallas. Anon the altars ran with Phrygian blood, and desolation\nreigned o'er every bed where young men lay beheaded, a glorious crown\nfor Hellas won, ay, for her, the nurse of youth, but for our Phrygian\nfatherland a bitter grief. Look, Hecuba! dost see Andromache advancing\nhither on a foreign car? and with her, clasped to her throbbing breast,\nis her dear Astyanax, Hector's child. (Enter ANDROMACHE.)\nHECUBA Whither art thou borne, unhappy wife, mounted on that car,\nside by side with Hector's brazen arms and Phrygian spoils of war,\nwith which Achilles' son will deck the shrines of Phthia on his return\nfrom Troy?\nANDROMACHE My Achaean masters drag me hence.\nHECUBA Woe is thee!\nANDROMACHE Why dost thou in note of woe utter the dirge that is mine?\nHECUBA Ah me!\nANDROMACHE For these sorrows.\nHECUBA O Zeus!\nANDROMACHE And for this calamity.\nHECUBA O my children!\nANDROMACHE Our day is past.\nHECUBA Joy is fled, and Troy o'erthrown.\nANDROMACHE Woe is me!\nHECUBA Dead too all my gallant sons!\nANDROMACHE Alack and well-a-day!\nHECUBA Ah me for my-\nANDROMACHE Misery!\nHECUBA Piteous the fate-\nANDROMACHE Of our city,\nHECUBA Smouldering in the smoke.\nANDROMACHE Come, my husband, come to me!\nHECUBA Ah hapless wife! thou callest on my son who lieth in the tomb.\nANDROMACHE Thy wife's defender, come!\nHECUBA Do thou, who erst didst make the Achaeans grieve, eldest of\nthe sons I bare to Priam in the days gone by, take me to thy rest\nin Hades' halls!\nANDROMACHE Bitter are these regrets, unhappy mother, bitter these\nwoes to bear; our city ruined, and sorrow evermore to sorrow added,\nthrough the will of angry heaven, since the day that son' of thine\nescaped his doom, he that for a bride accursed brought destruction\non the Trojan citadel. There lie the gory corpses of the slain by\nthe shrine of Pallas for vultures to carry off; and Troy is come to\nslavery's yoke.\nHECUBA O my country, O unhappy land, I weep for thee now left behind;\nnow dost thou behold thy piteous end; and thee, my house, I weep,\nwherein I suffered travail. O my children! reft of her city as your\nmother is, she now is losing you. Oh, what mourning and what sorrow!\noh, what endless streams of tears in our houses! The dead alone forget\ntheir griefs and never shed a tear.\nCHORUS What sweet relief to sufferers 'tis to weep, to mourn, lament,\nand chant the dirge that tells of grief!\nANDROMACHE Dost thou see this, mother of that Hector, who once laid\nlow in battle many a son of Argos?\nHECUBA I see that it is heaven's way to exalt what men accounted\nnaught, and ruin what they most esteemed.\nANDROMACHE Hence with my child as booty am I borne; the noble are\nto slavery brought-a bitter, bitter change.\nHECUBA This is necessity's grim law; it was but now Cassandra was\ntorn with brutal violence from my arms.\nANDROMACHE Alas, alas! it seems a second Aias hath appeared to wrong\nthy daughter; but there be other ills for thee.\nHECUBA Ay, beyond all count or measure are my sorrows; evil vies\nwith evil in the struggle to be first.\nANDROMACHE Thy daughter Polyxena is dead, slain at Achilles' tomb,\nan offering to his lifeless corpse.\nHECUBA O woe is me! This is that riddle Talthybius long since told\nme, a truth obscurely uttered.\nANDROMACHE I saw her with mine eyes; so I alighted from the chariot,\nand covered her corpse with a mantle, and smote upon my breast.\nHECUBA Alas! my child, for thy unhallowed sacrifice! and yet again,\nah me! for this thy shameful death!\nANDROMACHE Her death was even as it was, and yet that death of hers\nwas after all a happier fate than this my life.\nHECUBA Death and life are not the same, my child; the one is annihilation,\nthe other keeps a place for hope.\nANDROMACHE Hear, O mother of children give ear to what I urge so\nwell, that I may cheer my drooping spirit. 'Tis all one, I say, ne'er\nto have been born and to be dead, and better far is death than life\nwith misery. For the dead feel no sorrow any more and know no grief;\nbut he who has known prosperity and has fallen on evil days feels\nhis spirit straying from the scene of former joys. Now that child\nof thine is dead as though she ne'er had seen the light, and little\nshe recks of her calamity; whereas I, who aimed at a fair repute,\nthough I won a higher lot than most, yet missed my lick in life. For\nall that stamps the wife a woman chaste, I strove to do in Hector's\nhome. In the first place, whether there is a slur upon a woman, or\nwhether there is not, the very fact of her not staying at home brings\nin its train an evil name; therefore I gave up any wish to do so,\nand abode ever within my house, nor would I admit the clever gossip\nwomen love, but conscious of a heart that told an honest tale I was\ncontent therewith. And ever would I keep a silent tongue and modest\neye before my lord; and well I knew where I might rule my lord, and\nwhere 'twas best to yield to him; the fame whereof hath reached the\nAchaean host, and proved my ruin; for when I was taken captive, Achilles'\nson would have me as his wife, and I must serve in the house of murderers.\nAnd if I set aside my love for Hector, and ope my heart to this new\nlord, I shall appear a traitress to the dead, while, if I hate him,\nI shall incur my master's displeasure. And yet they say a single night\nremoves a woman's dislike for her husband; nay, I do hate the woman\nwho, when she hath lost her former lord, transfers her love by marrying\nanother. Not e'en the horse, if from his fellow torn, will cheerfully\ndraw the yoke; and yet the brutes have neither speech nor sense to\nhelp them, and are by nature man's inferiors. O Hector mine! in thee\nI found a husband amply dowered with wisdom, noble birth and fortune,\na brave man and a mighty; whilst thou didst take me from my father's\nhouse a spotless bride, thyself the first to make this maiden wife.\nBut now death hath claimed thee, and I to Hellas am soon to sail,\na captive doomed to wear the yoke of slavery. Hath not then the dead\nPolyxena, for whom thou wailest, less evil to bear than I? I have\nnot so much as hope, the last resource of every human heart, nor do\nI beguile myself with dreams of future bliss, the very thought whereof\nis sweet.\nCHORUS Thou art in the self-same plight as I; thy lamentations for\nthyself remind me of my own sad case.\nHECUBA I never yet have set foot on a ship's deck, though I have\nseen such things in pictures and know of them from hearsay. Now sailors,\nif there come a storm of moderate force, are all eagerness to save\nthemselves by toil; one at the tiller stands, another sets himself\nto work the sheets, a third meantime is baling out the ship; but if\ntempestuous waves arise to overwhelm them, they yield to fortune and\ncommit themselves to the driving billows. Even so I, by reason of\nmy countless troubles, am dumb and forbear to say a word; for Heaven\nwith its surge of misery is too strong for me. Cease, Oh cease, my\ndarling child, to speak of Hector's fate; no tears of thine can save\nhim; honour thy present lord, offering thy sweet nature as the bait\nto win him. If thou do this, thou wilt cheer thy friends as well as\nthyself, and thou shalt rear my Hector's child to lend stout aid to\nIlium, that so thy children in the after-time may build her up again,\nand our city yet be stablished. But lo! our talk must take a different\nturn; who is this Achaean menial I see coming hither, sent to tell\nus of some new design? (Enter TALTHYBIUS.)\nTALTHYBIUS Oh hate me not, thou that erst wert Hector's wife, the\nbravest of the Phrygians! for my tongue would fain not tell that which\nthe Danai and sons of Pelops both command.\nANDROMACHE What is it? Thy prelude bodeth evil news.\nTALTHYBIUS 'Tis decreed thy son is-how can I tell my news?\nANDROMACHE Surely not to have a different master from me?\nTALTHYBIUS None of all Achaea's chiefs shall ever lord it over him.\nANDROMACHE Is it their will to leave him here, a remnant yet of Phrygia's\nrace?\nTALTHYBIUS I know no words to break the sorrow lightly to thee.\nANDROMACHE I thank thee for thy consideration, unless indeed thou\nhast good news to tell.\nTALTHYBIUS They mean to slay thy son; there is my hateful message\nto thee.\nANDROMACHE O God! this is worse tidings than my forced marriage.\nTALTHYBIUS So spake Odysseus to the assembled Hellenes, and his word\nprevails.\nANDROMACHE Oh once again ah me there is no measure in the woes I\nbear.\nTALTHYBIUS He said they should not rear so brave a father's son.\nANDROMACHE May such counsels yet prevail about children of his!\nTALTHYBIUS From Troy's battlements he must be thrown. Let it be even\nso, and thou wilt show more wisdom; cling not to him, but bear thy\nsorrows with heroic heart, nor in thy weakness deem that thou art\nstrong. For nowhere hast thou any help; consider this thou must; thy\nhusband and thy city are no more, so thou art in our power, and I\nalone am match enough for one weak woman; wherefore I would not see\nthee bent on strife, or any course to bring thee shame or hate, nor\nwould I hear thee rashly curse the Achaeans. For if thou say aught\nwhereat the host grow wroth, this child will find no burial nor pity\neither. But if thou hold thy peace and with composure take thy fate,\nthou wilt not leave his corpse unburied, and thyself wilt find more\nfavour with the Achaeans.\nANDROMACHE My child! my own sweet babe and priceless treasure! thy\ndeath the foe demands, and thou must leave thy wretched mother. That\nwhich saves the lives of others, proves thy destruction, even thy\nsire's nobility; to thee thy father's valiancy has proved no boon.\nO the woeful wedding rites, that brought me erst to Hector's home,\nhoping to be the mother of a son that should rule o'er Asia's fruitful\nfields instead of serving as a victim to the sons of Danaus! Dost\nweep, my babe? dost know thy hapless fate? Why clutch me with thy\nhands and to my garment cling, nestling like a tender chick beneath\nmy wing? Hector will not rise again and come gripping his famous spear\nto bring thee salvation; no kinsman of thy sire appears, nor might\nof Phrygian hosts; one awful headlong leap from the dizzy height and\nthou wilt dash out thy life with none to pity thee Oh to clasp thy\ntender limbs, a mother's fondest joy! Oh to breathe thy fragrant breath!\nIn vain it seems these breasts did suckle thee, wrapped in thy swaddling-clothes;\nall for naught I used to toil and wore myself away! Kiss thy mother\nnow for the last time, nestle to her that bare thee, twine thy arms\nabout my neck and join thy lips to mine! O ye Hellenes, cunning to\ndevise new forms of cruelty, why slay this child who never wronged\nany? Thou daughter of Tyndarus, thou art no child of Zeus, but sprung,\nI trow, of many a sire, first of some evil demon, next of Envy, then\nof Murder and of Death, and every horror that the earth begets. That\nZeus was never sire of thine I boldly do assert, bane as thou hast\nbeen to many a Hellene and barbarian too. Destruction catch thee!\nThose fair eyes of thine have brought a shameful ruin on the fields\nof glorious Troy. Take the babe and bear him hence, hurl him down\nif so ye list, then feast upon his flesh! 'Tis heaven's high will\nwe perish, and I cannot ward the deadly stroke from my child. Hide\nme and my misery; cast me into the ship's hold; for 'tis to a fair\nwedding I am going, now that I have lost my child!\nCHORUS Unhappy Troy! thy thousands thou hast lost for one woman's\nsake and her accursed wooing.\nTALTHYBIUS Come, child, leave fond embracing of thy woful mother,\nand mount the high coronal of thy ancestral towers, there to draw\nthy parting breath, as is ordained. Take him hence. His should the\nduty be to do such herald's work, whose heart knows no pity and who\nloveth ruthlessness more than my soul doth. (Exeunt ANDROMACHE and\nTALTHYBIUS with ASTYANAX.)\nHECUBA O child, son of my hapless boy, an unjust fate robs me and\nthy mother of thy life. How is it with me? What can I do for thee,\nmy luckless babe? for thee I smite upon my head and beat my breast,\nmy only gift; for that alone is in my power. Woe for my city! woe\nfor thee! Is not our cup full? What is wanting now to our utter and\nimmediate ruin?\nCHORUS O Telamon, King of Salamis, the feeding ground of bees, who\nhast thy home in a sea-girt isle that lieth nigh the holy hills where\nfirst Athena made the grey olive-branch to appear, a crown for heavenly\nheads and a glory unto happy Athens, thou didst come in knightly brotherhood\nwith that great archer, Alcemena's son, to sack our city Ilium, in\ndays gone by, on thy advent from Hellas, what time he led the chosen\nflower of Hellas, vexed for the steeds denied him, and at the fair\nstream of Simois he stayed his sea-borne ship and fastened cables\nto the stern, and forth therefrom he took the bow his hand could deftly\nshoot, to be the doom of Laomedon; and with the ruddy breath of fire\nhe wasted the masonry squared by Phoebus' line and chisel, and sacked\nthe land of Troy; so twice in two attacks hath the bloodstained spear\ndestroyed Dardania's walls.\nIn vain, it seems, thou Phrygian boy, pacing with dainty step amid\nthy golden chalices, dost thou fill high the cup of Zeus, a service\npassing fair; seeing that the land of thy birth is being consumed\nby fire. The shore re-echoes to our cries; and, as a bird bewails\nits young, so we bewail our husbands or our children, or our grey-haired\nmothers. The dew-fed springs where thou didst bathe, the course where\nthou didst train, are now no more; but thou beside the throne of Zeus\nart sitting with a calm, sweet smile upon thy fair young face, while\nthe spear of Hellas lays the land of Priam waste. Ah! Love, Love,\nwho once didst seek these Dardan halls, deep-seated in the hearts\nof heavenly gods, how high didst thou make Troy to tower in those\ndays, allying her with deities! But I will cease to urge reproaches\nagainst Zeus; for white-winged dawn, whose light to man is dear, turned\na baleful eye upon our land and watched the ruin of our citadel, though\nshe had within her bridal bower a husband from this land, whom on\na day a car of gold and spangled stars caught up and carried thither,\ngreat source of hope to his native country; but all the love the gods\nonce had for Troy is passed away. (Enter MENELAUS.)\nMENELAUS Hail! thou radiant orb by whose fair light I now shall capture\nher that was my wife, e'en Helen; for I am that Menelaus, who hath\ntoiled so hard, I and Achaea's host. To Troy I came, not so much as\nmen suppose to take this woman, but to punish him who from my house\nstole my wife, traitor to my hospitality. But he, by heaven's will,\nhath paid the penalty, ruined, and his country too, by the spear of\nHellas. And I am come to bear that Spartan woman hence-wife I have\nno mind to call her, though she once was mine; for now she is but\none among the other Trojan dames who share these tents as captives.\nFor they-the very men who toiled to take her with the spear-have granted\nher to me to slay, or, if I will, to spare and carry back with me\nto Argos. Now my purpose is not to put her to death in Troy, but to\ncarry her to Hellas in my seaborne ship, and then surrender her to\ndeath, a recompense to all whose friends were slain in Ilium. Ho!\nmy trusty men, enter the tent, and drag her out to me by her hair\nwith many a murder foul; and when a favouring breeze shall blow, to\nHellas will we convey her.\nHECUBA O thou that dost support the earth and restest thereupon,\nwhosoe'er thou art, a riddle past our ken! be thou Zeus, or natural\nnecessity, or man's intellect, to thee I pray; for, though thou treadest\no'er a noiseless path, all thy dealings with mankind are by justice\nguided.\nMENELAUS How now? Strange the prayer thou offerest unto heaven!\nHECUBA I thank thee, Menelaus, if thou wilt slay that wife of thine.\nYet shun the sight of her, lest she smite thee with regret. For she\nensnares the eyes of men, o'erthrows their towns, and burns their\nhouses, so potent are her witcheries! Well I know her; so dost thou\nand those her victims too. (Enter HELEN.)\nHELEN Menelaus! this prelude well may fill me with alarm; for I am\nhaled with violence by thy servants' hands and brought before these\ntents. Still, though I am well-nigh sure thou hatest me, yet would\nI fain inquire what thou and Hellas have decided about my life.\nMENELAUS To judge thy case required no great exactness; the host\nwith one consent-that host whom thou didst wrong-handed thee over\nto me to die.\nHELEN May I answer this decision, proving that my death, if to die\nI am, will be unjust?\nMENELAUS I came not to argue, but to slay thee.\nHECUBA Hear her, Menelaus; let her not die for want of that, and\nlet me answer her again, for thou knowest naught of her villainies\nin Troy; and the whole case, if thus summed up, will insure her death\nagainst all chance of an escape.\nMENELAUS This boon needs leisure; still, if she wishes to speak,\nthe leave is given. Yet will I grant her this because of thy words,\nthat she may hear them, and not for her own sake.\nHELEN Perhaps thou wilt not answer me, from counting me a foe, whether\nmy words seem good or ill. Yet will I put my charges and thine over\nagainst each other, and then reply to the accusations I suppose thou\nwilt advance against me. First, then, she was the author of these\ntroubles by giving birth to Paris; next, old Priam ruined Troy and\nme, because he did not slay his babe Alexander, baleful semblance\nof a fire-brand, long ago. Hear what followed. This Paris was to judge\nthe claims of three rival goddesses; so Pallas offered him command\nof all the Phrygians, and the destruction of Hellas; Hera promised\nhe should spread his dominion over Asia, and the utmost bounds of\nEurope, if he would decide for her; but Cypris spoke in rapture of\nmy loveliness, and promised him this boon, if she should have the\npreference o'er those twain for beauty; now mark the inference I deduce\nfrom this; Cypris won the day o'er them, and thus far hath my marriage\nproved of benefit to Hellas, that ye are not subject to barbarian\nrule, neither vanquished in the strife, nor yet by tyrants crushed.\nWhat Hellas gained, was ruin to me, a victim for my beauty sold, and\nnow am I reproached for that which should have set a crown upon my\nhead. But thou wilt say I am silent on the real matter at issue, how\nit was I started forth and left thy house by stealth. With no mean\ngoddess at his side he came, my evil genius, call him Alexander or\nParis, as thou wilt; and him didst thou, thrice guilty wretch, leave\nbehind thee in thy house, and sail away from Sparta to the land of\nCrete. Enough of this! For all that followed I must question my own\nheart, not thee; what frantic thought led me to follow the stranger\nfrom thy house, traitress to my country and my home? Punish the goddess,\nshow thyself more mighty e'en than Zeus, who, though he lords it o'er\nthe other gods, is yet her slave; wherefore I may well be pardoned.\nStill, from hence thou mightest draw a specious argument against me;\nwhen Paris died, and Earth concealed his corpse, I should have left\nhis house and sought the Argive fleet, since my marriage was no longer\nin the hands of gods. That was what I fain had done; yea, and the\nwarders on the towers and watchmen on the walls can bear me witness,\nfor oft they found me seeking to let myself down stealthily by cords\nfrom the battlements; but there was that new husband, Deiphobus, that\ncarried me off by force to be his wife against the will of Troy. How\nthen, my lord, could I be justly put to death by thee, with any show\nof right, seeing that he wedded me against my will, and those my other\nnatural gifts have served a bitter slavery, instead of leading on\nto triumph? If 'tis thy will indeed to master gods, that very wish\ndisplays thy folly.\nCHORUS O my royal mistress, defend thy children's and thy country.'s\ncause, bringing to naught her persuasive arguments, for she pleads\nwell in spite of all her villainy; 'tis monstrous this!\nHECUBA First will I take up the cause of those goddesses, and prove\nhow she perverts the truth. For I can ne'er believe that Hera or the\nmaiden Pallas would have been guilty of such folly, as to sell, the\none, her Argos to barbarians, or that Pallas e'er would make her Athens\nsubject to the Phrygians, coming as they did in mere wanton sport\nto Ida to contest the palm of beauty. For why should goddess Hera\nset her heart so much on such a prize? Was it to win a nobler lord\nthan Zeus? or was Athena bent on finding 'mongst the gods a husband,\nshe who in her dislike of marriage won from her sire the boon of remaining\nunwed? Seek not to impute folly to the goddesses, in the attempt to\ngloze o'er thy own sin; never wilt thou persuade the wise. Next thou\nhast said-what well may make men jeer-that Cypris came with my son\nto the house of Menelaus. Could she not have stayed quietly in heaven\nand brought thee and Amyclae to boot to Ilium? Nay! my son was passing\nfair, and when thou sawest him thy fancy straight became thy Cypris;\nfor every sensual act that men commit, they lay upon this goddess,\nand rightly does her name of Aphrodite begin the word for \"senselessness\";\nso when thou didst catch sight of him in gorgeous foreign garb, ablaze\nwith gold, thy senses utterly forsook thee. Yea, for in Argos thou\nhadst moved in simple state, but, once free of Sparta, 'twas thy fond\nhope to deluge by thy lavish outlay Phrygia's town, that flowed with\ngold; nor was the palace of Menelaus rich enough for thy luxury to\nriot in. Ha! my son carried thee off by force, so thou savest; what\nSpartan saw this? what cry for help didst thou ever raise, though\nCastor was still alive, a vigorous youth, and his brother also, not\nyet amid the stars? Then when thou wert come to Troy, and the Argives\nwere on thy track, and the mortal combat was begun, whenever tidings\ncame to thee of Menelaus' prowess, him wouldst thou praise, to grieve\nmy son, because he had so powerful a rival in his love; but if so\nthe Trojans prospered, Menelaus was nothing to thee. Thy eye was fixed\non Fortune, and by such practice wert thou careful to follow in her\nsteps, careless of virtue's cause. And then, in spite of all, thou\ndost assert that thou didst try to let thyself down from the towers\nby stealth with twisted cords, as if loth to stay? Pray then, wert\nthou ever found fastening the noose about thy neck, or whetting the\nknife, as noble wife would have done in regret for her former husband?\nAnd yet full oft I advised thee saying, \"Get thee gone, daughter,\nand let my sons take other brides; I will help thee to steal away,\nand convey thee to the Achaean fleet; oh end the strife 'twixt us\nand Hellas!\" But this was bitter in thy ears. For thou wert wantoning\nin Alexander's house, fain to have obeisance done thee by barbarians.\nYes, 'twas a proud time for thee; and now after all this thou hast\nbedizened thyself, and come forth and hast dared to appear under the\nsame sky as thy husband, revolting wretchl Better hadst thou come\nin tattered raiment, cowering humbly in terror, with hair shorn short,\nif for thy past sins thy feeling were one of shame rather than effrontery.\nO Menelaus, hear the conclusion of my argument; crown Hellas by slaying\nher as she deserves, and establish this law for all others of her\nsex, e'en death to every traitress to her husband.\nCHORUS Avenge thee, Menelaus, on thy wife, as is worthy of thy home\nand ancestors, clear thyself from the reproach of effeminacy at the\nlips of Hellas, and let thy foes see thy spirit.\nMENELAUS Thy thoughts with mine do coincide, that she, without constraint,\nleft my palace, and sought a stranger's love, and now Cypris is introduced\nfor mere bluster. Away to those who shall stone thee, and by thy speedy\ndeath requite the weary toils of the Achaeans, that thou mayst learn\nnot to bring shame on me!\nHELEN Oh, by thy knees, I implore thee, impute not that heaven-sent\naffliction to me, nor slay me; pardon, I entreat!\nHECUBA Be not false to thy allies, whose death this woman caused;\non their behalf, and for my children's sake, I sue to thee.\nMENELAUS Peace, reverend dame; to her I pay no heed. Lo! I bid my\nservants take her hence, aboard the ship, wherein she is to sail.\nHECUBA Oh never let her set foot within the same ship as thee.\nMENELAUS How now? is she heavier than of yore?\nHECUBA Who loveth once, must love alway.\nMENELAUS Why, that depends how those we love are minded. But thy\nwish shall be granted; she shall not set foot upon the same ship with\nme; for thy advice is surely sound; and when she comes to Argos she\nshall die a shameful death as is her due, and impress the need of\nchastity on all her sex; no easy task; yet shall her fate strike their\nfoolish hearts with terror, e'en though they be more lost to shame\nthan she. (Exit MENELAUS, dragging HELEN with him.)\nCHORUS So then thou hast delivered into Achaea's hand, O Zeus, thy\nshrine in Ilium and thy fragrant altar, the offerings of burnt sacrifice\nwith smoke of myrrh to heaven uprising, and holy Pergamos, and glens\nof Ida tangled with ivy's growth, where rills of melting snow pour\ndown their flood, a holy sunlit land that bounds the world and takes\nthe god's first rays! Gone are thy sacrifices! gone the dancer's cheerful\nshout! gone the vigils of the gods as night closed in! Thy images\nof carven gold are now no more; and Phrygia's holy festivals, twelve\ntimes a year, at each full moon, are ended now. 'Tis this that filleth\nme with anxious thought whether thou, O king, seated on the sky, thy\nheavenly throne, carest at all that my city is destroyed, a prey to\nthe furious fiery blast. Ah! my husband, fondly loved, thou art a\nwandering spectre; unwashed, unburied lies thy corpse, while o'er\nthe sea the ship sped by wings will carry me to Argos, land of steeds,\nwhere stand Cyclopian walls of stone upreared to heaven. There in\nthe gate the children gather, hanging round their mothers' necks,\nand weep their piteous lamentation, \"O mother, woe is me! torn from\nthy sight Achaeans bear me away from thee to their dark ship to row\nme o'er the deep to sacred Salamis or to the hill' on the Isthmus,\nthat o'erlooks two seas, the key to the gates of Pelops.\" Oh may the\nblazing thunderbolt, hurled in might from its holy home, smite the\nbarque of Menelaus full amidships as it is crossing the Aegean main,\nsince he is carrying me away in bitter sorrow from the shores of Ilium\nto be a slave in Hellas, while the daughter of Zeus still keeps her\ngolden mirrors, delight-of maidens' hearts. Never may he reach his\nhome in Laconia or his father's hearth and home, nor come to the town\nof Pitane or the temple of the goddess' with the gates of bronze,\nhaving taken as his captive her whose marriage brought disgrace on\nHellas through its length and breadth and woful anguish on the streams\nof Simois! Ah me! ah me! new troubles on my country fall, to take\nthe place of those that still are fresh! Behold, ye hapless wives\nof Troy, the corpse of Astyanax! whom the Danai have cruelly slain\nby hurling him from the battlements. (Enter TALTHYBIUS and attendants,\nbearing the corpse of ASTYANAX on HECTOR's shield.)\nTALTHYBIUS Hecuba, one ship alone delays its plashing oars, and it\nis soon to sail to the shores of Phthia freighted with the remnant\nof the spoils of Achilles' son; for Neoptolemus is already out at\nsea, having heard that new calamities have befallen Peleus, for Acastus,\nson of Pelias, hath banished him the realm. Wherefore he is gone,\ntoo quick to indulge in any delay, and with him goes Andromache, who\ndrew many a tear from me what time she started hence, wailing her\ncountry and crying her farewell to Hector's tomb. And she craved her\nmaster leave to bury this poor dead child of Hector who breathed his\nlast when from the turrets hurled, entreating too that he would not\ncarry this shield, the terror of the Achaeans-this shield with plates\nof brass wherewith his father would gird himself-to the home of Peleus\nor to the same bridal bower whither she, herself the mother of this\ncorpse, would be led, a bitter sight to her, but let her bury the\nchild therein instead of in a coffin of cedar or a tomb of stone,\nand to thy hands commit the corpse that thou mayst deck it with robes\nand garlands as best thou canst with thy present means; for she is\nfar away and her master's haste prevented her from burying the child\nherself. So we, when thou the corpse hast decked, will heap the earth\nabove and set thereon a spear; but do thou with thy best speed perform\nthy allotted task; one toil however have I already spared thee, for\nI crossed Scamander's stream and bathed the corpse and cleansed its\nwounds. But now will I go to dig a grave for him, that our united\nefforts shortening our task may speed our ship towards home. (Exit\nTALTHYBIUS.)\nHECUBA Place the shield upon the ground, Hector's shield so deftly\nrounded, a piteous sight, a bitter grief for me to see. O ye Achaeans,\nmore reason have ye to boast of your prowess than your wisdom I Why\nhave ye in terror of this child been guilty of murder never matched\nbefore? Did ye fear that some day he would rear again the fallen walls\nof Troy? it seems then ye were nothing after all, when, though Hector's\nfortunes in the war were prosperous and he had ten thousand other\narms to back him, we still were daily overmatched; and yet, now that\nour city is taken and every Phrygian slain, ye fear a tender babe\nlike this! Out upon his fear! say I, who fears, but never yet hath\nreasoned out the cause. Ah! my beloved, thine is a piteous death indeed!\nHadst thou died for thy city, when thou hadst tasted of the sweets\nof manhood, of marriage, and of godlike power o'er others, then wert\nthou blest, if aught herein is blest. But now after one glimpse, one\ndream thereof thou knowest them no more, my child, and hast no joy\nof them, though heir to all. Ah, poor babe! how sadly have thy own\nfather's walls, those towers that Loxias reared, shorn from thy head\nthe locks thy mother fondled, and so oft caressed, from which through\nfractured bones the face of murder grins-briefly to dismiss my shocking\ntheme. O hands, how sweet the likeness ye retain of his father, and\nyet ye lie limp in your sockets before me! Dear mouth, so often full\nof words of pride, death hath closed thee, and thou hast not kept\nthe promise thou didst make, when nestling in my robe, \"Ah, mother\nmine, many a lock of my hair will I cut off for thee, and to thy tomb\nwill lead my troops of friends, taking a fond farewell of thee.\" But\nnow 'tis not thy hand that buries me, but I, on whom is come old age\nwith loss of home and children, am burying thee, a tender child untimely\nslain. Ah me! those kisses numberless, the nurture that I gave to\nthee, those sleepless nights-they all are lost! What shall the bard\ninscribe-upon thy tomb about thee? \"Argives once for fear of him slew\nthis child!\" Foul shame should that inscription be to Hellas. O child,\nthough thou hast no part in all thy father's wealth, yet shalt thou\nhave his brazen shield wherein to find a tomb. Ah! shield that didst\nkeep safe the comely arm of Hector, now hast thou lost thy valiant\nkeeper! How fair upon thy handle lies his imprint, and on the rim,\nthat circles round the targe, are marks of sweat, that trickled oft\nfrom Hector's brow as he pressed it 'gainst his beard in battle's\nstress. Come, bring forth, from such store as we have, adornment for\nthe hapless dead, for fortune gives no chance now for offerings fair;\nyet of such as I possess, shalt thou receive these gifts. Foolish\nmortal he! who thinks his luck secure and so rejoices; for fortune,\nlike a madman in her moods, springs towards this man, then towards\nthat; and none ever experiences the same unchanging luck.\nCHORUS Lo! all is ready and they are bringing at thy bidding from\nthe spoils of Troy garniture to put upon the dead.\nHECUBA Ah! my child, 'tis not as victor o'er thy comrades with horse\nor bow-customs Troy esteems, without pursuing them to excess-that\nHector's mother decks thee now with ornaments from the store that\nonce was thine, though now hath Helen, whom the gods abhor, reft thee\nof thine own, yea, and robbed thee of thy life and caused thy house\nto perish root and branch.\nCHORUS Woe! thrice woe! my heart is touched, and thou the cause,\nmy mighty prince in days now passed!\nHECUBA About thy body now I swathe this Phrygian robe of honour,\nwhich should have clad thee on thy marriage-day, wedded to the noblest\nof Asia's daughters. Thou too, dear shield of Hector, victorious parent\nof countless triumphs past, accept thy crown, for though thou share\nthe dead child's tomb, death cannot touch thee; for thou dost merit\nhonours far beyond those arms' that the crafty knave Odysseus won.\nCHORUS Alas! ah me! thee, O child, shall earth take to her breast,\na cause for bitter weeping. Mourn, thou mother!\nHECUBA Ah me!\nCHORUS Wail for the dead.\nHECUBA Woe is me!\nCHORUS Alas! for thy unending sorrow!\nHECUBA Thy wounds in part will I bind up with bandages, a wretched\nleech in name alone, without reality; but for the rest, thy sire must\nlook to that amongst the dead.\nCHORUS Smite, oh smite upon thy head with frequent blow of hand.\nWoe is me!\nHECUBA My kind, good friends!\nCHORUS Speak out, good the word that was on thy lips.\nHECUBA It seems the only things that heaven concerns itself about\nare my troubles and Troy hateful in their eyes above all other cities.\nIn vain did we sacrifice to them. Had not the god caught us in his\ngrip and plunged us headlong 'neath the earth, we should have been\nunheard of, nor ever sung in Muses' songs, furnishing to bards of\nafter-days a subject for their minstrelsy. Go, bury now in his poor\ntomb the dead, wreathed all duly as befits a corpse. And yet I deem\nit makes but little difference to the dead, although they get a gorgeous\nfuneral; for this is but a cause of idle pride to the living.\nThe corpse is carried off to burial\nCHORUS Alas! for thy unhappy mother, who o'er thy corpse hath closed\nthe high hopes of her life! Born of a noble stock, counted most happy\nin thy lot, ah! what a tragic death is thine! Ha! who are those I\nsee on yonder pinnacles darting to and fro with flaming torches in\ntheir hands? Some new calamity will soon on Troy alight. (Enter TALTHYBIUS\nabove. Soldiers are seen on the battlements of Troy, torch in hand.)\nTALTHYBIUS Ye captains, whose allotted task it is to fire this town\nof Priam, to you I speak. No longer keep the firebrand idle in your\nhands, but launch the flame, that when we have destroyed the city\nof Ilium we may set forth in gladness on our homeward voyage from\nTroy. And you, ye sons of Troy-to let my orders take at once a double\nform-start for the Achaean ships for your departure hence, soon as\never the leaders of the host blow loud and clear upon the trumpet.\nAnd thou, unhappy grey haired dame, follow; for yonder come servants\nfrom Odysseus to fetch thee, for to him thou art assigned by lot to\nbe a slave far from thy country.\nHECUBA Ah, woe is me! This surely is the last, the utmost limit this,\nof all my sorrows; forth from my land I go; my city is ablaze with\nflame. Yet, thou aged foot, make one painful struggle to hasten, that\nI may say a farewell to this wretched town. O Troy, that erst hadst\nsuch a grand career amongst barbarian towns, soon wilt thou be reft\nof that splendid name. Lo! they are burning thee, and leading us e'en\nnow from our land to slavery. Great gods! Yet why call on the gods?\nThey did not hearken e'en aforetime to our call. Come, let us rush\ninto the flames, for to die with my country in its blazing ruin were\na noble death for me.\nTALTHYBIUS Thy sorrows drive thee frantic, poor lady. Go, lead her\nhence, make no delay, for ye must deliver her into the hand of Odysseus,\nconveying to him his prize.\nHECUBA O son of Cronos, prince of Phrygia, father of our race, dost\nthou behold our sufferings now, unworthy of the stock of Dardanus?\nCHORUS He sees them, but our mighty city is a city no more, and Troy's\nday is done.\nHECUBA Woe! thrice woe upon me! Ilium is ablaze; the homes of Pergamos\nand its towering walls are now one sheet of flame.\nCHORUS As the smoke soars on wings to heaven, so sinks our city to\nthe 'ground before the spear. With furious haste both fire and foeman's\nspear devour each house.\nHECUBA Hearken, my children, hear your mother's voice.\nCHORUS Thou art calling on the dead with voice of lamentation.\nHECUBA Yea, as I stretch my aged limbs upon the ground, and beat\nupon the earth with both my hands.\nCHORUS I follow thee and kneel, invoking from the nether world my\nhapless husband.\nHECUBA I am being dragged and hurried away.\nCHORUS O the sorrow of that cry!\nHECUBA From my own dear country, to dwell beneath a master's roof.\nWoe is me! O Priam, Priam, unburied, left without a friend, naught\ndost thou know of my cruel fate.\nCHORUS No, for o'er his eyes black death hath drawn his pall-a holy\nman by sinners slain!\nHECUBA Woe for the temples of the gods! Woe for our dear city!\nCHORUS Woe!\nHECUBA Murderous flame and foeman's spear are now your lot.\nCHORUS Soon will ye tumble to your own loved soil, and be forgotten.\nHECUBA And the dust, mounting to heaven on wings like smoke, will\nrob me of the sight of my home.\nCHORUS The name of my country will pass into obscurity; all is scattered\nfar and wide, and hapless Troy has ceased to be.\nHECUBA Did ye hear that and know its purport?\nCHORUS Aye, 'twas the crash of the citadel.\nHECUBA The shock will whelm our city utterly. O woe is me! trembling,\nquaking limbs, support my footsteps! away! to face the day that begins\nthy slavery.\nCHORUS Woe for our unhappy town! And yet to the Achaean fleet advance.\nHECUBA Woe for thee, O land that nursed my little babes!\nCHORUS Ah! woe! (Exeunt OMNES.)\nTHE END","title":"The Trojan Women, By Euripides","type":"page"}