_Ulysses, Andromache, Astyanax._
_Andromache._ Ulysses, this is he who terrifies
The thousand keels, behold him. Fall, my son,
A suppliant at the feet of this thy lord,
And do him reverence; nor think it base, 735
Since Fortune bids the wretched to submit.
Forget thy royal race, the power of one
Renowned through all the world; Hector forget;
Act the sad captive on thy bended knee,
And imitate thy mother's tears, if yet 740
Thou feelest not thy woes. [_To Ulysses._] Troy saw long since
The weeping of a royal child: the tears
Of youthful Priam turned aside the threats
Of stern Alcides; he, the warrior fierce
Who tamed wild beasts, who from the shattered gates 745
Of shadowy Dis a hidden, upward path
Opened, was conquered by his young foe's tears.
'Take back,' he said, 'the reins of government,
Receive thy father's kingdom, but maintain
Thy scepter with a better faith than he;' 750
So fared the captives of this conqueror;
Study the gentle wrath of Hercules!
Or do the arms alone of Hercules
Seem pleasing to thee? Of as noble race
As Priam's, at thy feet a suppliant lies, 755
And asks of thee his life; let fortune give
To whom she will Troy's kingdom.
_Ulysses._ Indeed the mother's sorrow moves me much!
Our Grecian mothers' sorrow moves me more,
To cause whose bane this child would grow a man. 760
_Andromache._ These ruins of a land to ashes burned
Could he arouse? Or could these hands build Troy?
Troy has no hope, if such is all remains.
We Trojans can no longer cause thee fear.
And has the child his father's spirit? Yes, 765
But broken. Troy destroyed, his father's self
Had lost that courage which great ills o'ercame.
If vengeance is your wish, what worse revenge
Than to this noble neck to fit the yoke?
Make him a slave. Who ever yet denied 770
This bounty to a king?
_Ulysses._ The seer forbids,
'Tis not Ulysses who denies the boon.
_Andromache._ Artificer of fraud, plotter of guile,
Whose warlike valor never felled a foe;
By the deceit and guile of whose false heart 775
E'en Greeks have fallen, dost thou make pretense
Of blameless god or prophet? 'Tis the work
Of thine own heart. Thou, who by night mak'st war,
Now dar'st at last one deed in open day--
A brave boy's death.
_Ulysses._ My valor to the Greeks 780
Is known, and to the Phrygians too well known.
We may not waste the day in idle talk--
Our ships weigh anchor.
_Andromache._ Grant a brief delay,
While I, a mother, for my son perform
The last sad office, satiate my grief, 785
My mother's sorrow, with a last embrace.
_Ulysses._ I would that I might pity! What I may,
Time and delay, I grant thee; let thy tears
Fall freely; weeping ever softens grief.
_Andromache._ O pledge of love, light of a fallen house, 790
Last of the Trojan dead, fear of the Greeks,
Thy mother's empty hope, for whom I prayed--
Fool that I was--that thou mightst have the years
Of Priam, and thy father's warlike soul,
The gods despise my vows; thou ne'er shalt wield
A scepter in the kingly halls of Troy, 796
Mete justice to thy people, nor shalt send
Thy foes beneath thy yoke, nor put to flight
The Greeks, drag Pyrrhus at thy chariot wheels,
Nor ever in thy slender hands bear arms; 800
Nor wilt thou hunt the dwellers in the wood,
Nor on high festival, in Trojan games,
Lead forth the noble band of Trojan youth;
Nor round the altars with swift-moving steps,
That the reëchoing of the twisted horn 805
Makes swifter, honor with accustomed dance
The Phrygian temples. Oh, most bitter death!
_Ulysses._ Great sorrow knows no limit, cease thy moans!
_Andromache._ How narrow is the time we seek for tears!
Grant me a trivial boon: that with these hands 810
His living eyes be bound. My little one,
Thou diest, but feared already by thy foes;
Thy Troy awaits thee; go, in freedom go,
To meet free Trojans.
_Astyanax._ Mother, pity me!
_Andromache._ Why hold thy mother's hands and clasp her neck, 815
And seek in vain a refuge? The young bull,
Thus fearful, seeks his mother when he hears
The roaring of the lion; from her side
By the fierce lion driv'n, the tender prey
Is seized, and crushed, and dragged apart; so thee
Thy foeman snatches from thy mother's breast. 821
Child, take my tears, my kisses, my torn locks,
Go to thy father, bear him these few words
Of my complaint: 'If still thy spirit keeps
Its former cares, if died not on the flames 825
Thy former love, why leave Andromache
To serve the Grecians? Hector, cruel one,
Dost thou lie cold and vanquished in the grave?
Achilles came again.' Take then these locks,
These tears, for these alone I have to give, 830
Since Hector's death, and take thy mother's kiss
To give thy father; leave thy robe for me,
Since it has touched his tomb and his dear dust;
I'll search it well so any ashes lurk
Within its folds.
_Ulysses._ Weep no more, bear him hence;
Too long he stays the sailing of the fleet. 836