CHOR. I to thee,
To thee, O Hecuba, with breathless speed,
Fly from the tents of our imperious lords,
Where I by lot have been assigned, and doomed
To be a slave, driven by the pointed spear
From Troy; by their victorious arms the Greeks
Have made me captive: nothing can I bring,
Thy sorrows to alleviate; but to thee
Laden with heaviest tidings am I come
The herald of affliction. For ’tis said,
Greece in full council hath resolved thy daughter
A victim to Achilles shall be given.
The warrior mounting on his tomb, thou know’st,
Appeared in golden armour, and restrained
The fleet just ready to unfurl its sails,
Exclaiming, “Whither would ye steer your course,
Ye Greeks, and leave no offering on my grave?”
A storm of violent contention rose,
And two opinions in the martial synod
Of Greece went forth; the victim, some maintained,
Ought on the sepulchre to bleed, and some
Such offering disapproved. But Agamemnon,
Who shares the bed of the Prophetic Dame,
Espoused thy interest; while the sons of Theseus,
Branches from the Athenian root, discussed
The question largely in each point of view,
But in the same opinion both concurred,
And said that never should Cassandra’s love
To great Achilles’ valour be preferred:
Equally balanced the debate still hung,
When he, that crafty orator, endued
With sweetest voice, the favourite of the crowd,
Laertes’ son, persuaded all the host,
Not to reject the first of Grecian chiefs,
And yield the preference to a victim slave:
Lest some vindictive ghost, before the throne
Of Proserpine arising, might relate
How Greece, unmindful of her generous sons,
Who nobly perished for their native land,
From Ilion’s fields departed. In a moment
Ulysses will come hither, from thy breast,
And aged arms to drag the tender maid.
But to the temples, to the altars, go,
In suppliant posture clasp Atrides’ knees,
Invoke the gods of heaven and hell beneath,
For either thou wilt by thy prayers avert
Thy daughter’s fate, else must thou at the tomb
Behold the virgin fall distained with gore,
And gushing from her neck a crimson stream.
HEC. Wretch that I am! ah me! what clamorous sounds,
What words, what plaints, what dirges shall I find,
Expressive of the anguish which I feel?
Opprest by miserable old age, bowed down
Under a load of servitude too heavy
To be endured: what sanctuary remains,
What valiant race, what city will protect me?
The hoary Priam is no more, my sons
Are now no more. Or to this path, or that,
Shall I direct my steps? or whither go?
Where shall I find some tutelary god?
Ye Phrygian captives, messengers of ill,
O ye who with unwelcome tidings fraught,
Come hither, ye have ruined me. The orb
Of day shall never rise to fill this breast
With any comfort more. Ye luckless feet,
Bear an infirm old woman to the tent
Of our captivity. Come forth, my daughter,
Come forth and listen to thy mother’voice,
That thou may’st know the rumour I have heard,
In which thy life is interested.