On him your tenfold vengeance shed
From Oeneus who derives his birth,
Smite base Ulysses’ perjured head,
Ye fiends who desolate the earth;
Through them with agonizing pain
I mourn my valiant offspring slain;
May Helen too partake their doom,
Who from her bridal mansions fled,
And sought th’ adulterer’s Phrygian bed;
For thou in Troy art to the tomb
By her consigned; and many a state
Bewails its bravest warriors’ fate.
Much while on earth, and since thy murmuring ghost
Was plunged in Orcus’ dreary mansions more,
O offspring of Philammon, didst thou wound
My soul: that arrogance which caused thy ruin,
That contest with Pieria’s choir, gave birth
To this unhappy youth: for having passed
The rapid current, with incautious step
Approaching Strymon’s genial bed, we mounted
Pangæum’s summit, for its golden mines
Distinguished; each melodious instrument
Around us in full concert breathed; our strife
Was there decided with the Thracian minstrel;
That Thamyris who dared blaspheme our art,
We of his eyes deprived. But since I bore
Thee, O my son, through deference for my sisters,
And for my own reputed chastity,
Thee to the watery mansions of thy sire
I sent; and Strymon, to no human care,
But to the nymphs who haunt his limpid founts,
For nurture did consign thee; from those virgins
When, O my dearest son, thou hadst received
The best of educations, thou becam’st
Monarch of Thrace, the first of men. I felt
No boding apprehensions of thy death;
By thee, while marshalled on thy native ground,
Athirst for blood the dauntless squadrons moved.
But thee I cautioned, for I knew thy fate,
That thou to Troy shouldst never go; but thee
Th’ ambassadors of Hector and the Senate,
By oft repeated messages, persuaded
To come to the assistance of thy friends.
Yet think not, O Minerva, thou sole cause
Of my son’s fate, that thou these watchful eyes
Hast ’scaped; Ulysses and the son of Tydeus
Were not the authors of this bloody deed,
Although they gave the wound. We sister Muses
Honour thy city, in thy land we dwell.
Orpheus, the kinsman of this hapless youth
Whom thou hast slain, dark mysteries did unfold;
And by Apollo, and our sister choir,
Thy venerable citizen Musæus
Was taught to soar beyond each warbled strain
Of pristine melody: but in return
For all these favours, bearing in my arms
My son, I utter this funereal dirge;
But I no other minstrel will employ.
CHOR. Falsely the wounded Thracian charioteer
Charged us with a conspiracy to slay him.
HEC. Full well I knew, there needed not a seer
T’ inform me, that he perished by the arts
Of Ithacus. But was it not my duty
When I my country saw by Grecian troops
Besieged, to send forth heralds to my friends,
Requesting them to aid us? I did send,
And Rhesus came, by gratitude constrained,
Illustrious partner of my toils. His death
Lamenting, will I raise a tomb to grace
The corse of my ally, and o’er the flame
Strew tissued vests: for with confederate arms
Dauntless he came, though piteous was his death.
MUSE. They shall not plunge him in the yawning grave,
Such vows will I address to Pluto’s bride,
Daughter of fruitful Ceres, to release
His ghost from the drear shades beneath: she owes
To Orpheus’ friends such honours. But henceforth,
Dead as it were to me, will he no more
Behold the sun, we ne’er must meet again,
Nor shall he see his mother, but shall lie
Concealed beneath the caverns of that land
With silver mines abounding, from a man
Exalted to a god, restored to life,
The priest of Bacchus, and of him who dwells
Beneath Pangeum’s rock, a god adored
By those who haunt his orgies. But ere long
To yonder goddess of the briny waves
Shall I bear doleful tidings: for by fate
It is decreed, her offspring too shall die;
But first our sisterhood, in choral plaints,
Will sing of thee, O Rhesus, and hereafter
Achilles, son of Thetis, shall demand
Our elegiac strains, not she who slew
Thee, hapless youth, Minerva, can redeem him;
Such an inevitable shaft is stored
In Phœbus’ quiver. O ye pangs that rend
A mother’s breast, ye toils the lot of man;
They who behold you in your real light
Will live without a progeny, nor mourn
With hopeless anguish o’er their children’s tomb.
[_Exit the_ MUSE.
CHOR. To bury the deceased with honours due,
Will be his mother’s care: but if, O Hector,
Thou mean’st to execute some great emprise,
’Tis now the time: for morn already dawns.
HEC. Go, and this instant bid our comrades arm,
Harness the steeds: but while ye in these toils
Are busied, ye the signal must await,
Th’ Etrurian trumpet’s clangour; for I trust
I first shall o’er the Grecian host prevail,
Shall storm their ramparts, and then burn their fleet,
And that Hyperion’s orient beams will bring
A day of freedom to Troy’s valiant race.
CHOR. Obey the monarch: clad in glittering mail
Let us go forth, and his behests proclaim
To our associates; for that god who fights
Our battles, haply will bestow success.