TAL. O Hecuba, full oft, you know, to Troy
I, as their herald, by the Grecian host
Have been despatched; you cannot be a stranger
To me, Talthybius, who to you, and all,
One message bring.
HEC. This, this, my dearest friends,
Is what I long have feared.
TAL. The lots are cast
Already, if your terrors thence arose.
HEC. Alas, to what Thessalian city saidst thou,
Or to the Phthian, or the Theban realm
Shall we be carried?
TAL. To a separate lord
Hath each of you distinctly been assigned.
HEC. To whom, alas, to whom am I allotted?
What Phrygian dames do happier fortunes wait?
TAL. I know; but be distinct in your inquiries,
Nor ask at once a multitude of questions.
HEC. Say who by lot hath gained my wretched daughter
Cassandra?
TAL. Her the royal Agamemnon
His chosen prize hath taken.
HEC. As a slave
To tend his Spartan wife? ah, me!
TAL. No slave,
But concubine.
HEC. What, Phœbus’ votive maid,
To whom the god with golden tresses gave
This privilege, that she should pass her life
In celibacy?
TAL. With the shafts of love
Hath the prophetic nymph transpierced his breast.
HEC. My daughter, cast the sacred keys away,
And rend the garlands thou with pride didst wear.
TAL. Is it not great for captives to ascend
The regal couch?
HEC. But where is she whom late
Ye took away, and whither have ye borne
That daughter?
TAL. Speak you of Polyxena,
Or for whom else would you inquire?
HEC. On whom
Hath chance bestowed her?
TAL. At Achilles’ tomb
It is decreed that she shall minister.
HEC. Wretch that I am! for his sepulchral rites
Have I then borne a priestess? but what law
Is this, what Grecian usage, O my friend?
TAL. Esteem your daughter happy; for with her
All now is well.
HEC. What saidst thou? doth she live?
TAL. ’Tis her peculiar fate to be released
From all affliction.
HEC. But, alas! what fortune
Attends the warlike Hector’s captive wife,
How fares it with the lost Andromache?
TAL. Her to Achilles’ son hath from the band
Of captives chosen.
HEC. As to me who need
For a third foot, the staff which in these hands
I hold, whose head is whitened o’er with age,
To whom am I a slave?
TAL. By lot the king
Of Ithaca Ulysses hath obtained you.
HEC. Alas! alas! let your shorn temples feel
The frequent blow; rend your discoloured cheeks.
Ah me! I am allotted for a slave
To a detestable and treacherous man,
Sworn foe of justice, to that lawless viper,
With double tongue confounding all, ’twixt friends
Exciting bitter hate. Ye Trojan dames,
O shed the sympathizing tear: I sink
Beneath the pressure of relentless fate.
CHOR. Thy doom, O queen, thou know’st: but to what chief,
Hellenian or Achaian, I belong
Inform me.
TAL. Peace! Conduct Cassandra hither
With speed, ye guards, into our general’s hands
When I his captive have delivered up,
That we the rest may portion out. Why gleams
That blazing torch within? would Ilion’s dames
Their chambers fire? what mean they? doomed to leave
This land, and to be borne to Argive shores,
Are they resolved to perish in the flames?
The soul, inspired with an unbounded love
Of freedom, ill sustains such woes. Burst open
The doors, lest, to their honour and the shame
Of Greece, on me the censure fall.
HEC. They kindle
No conflagration, but, with frantic step,
My daughter, lo! Cassandra rushes hither.