HEC. Wrapt
In smoke.
AND. Return, my husband, O return.
HEC. In clamorous accents thou invok’st my son,
Whom Pluto’s realms detain, unhappy woman.
AND. Thy consort’s tutelary power.
HEC. And thou,
Whose courage long withstood the Grecian host,
Thou aged father of our numerous race,
Lead me, O Priam, to the shades beneath.
AND. Presumptuous are such wishes.
HEC. We endure
These grievous woes.
CHOR. While ruin overwhelms
Our city, for on sorrows have been heaped
Fresh sorrows, through the will of angry Heaven,
Since in an evil hour thy son was snatched
From Pluto, who, determined to avenge
Those execrable nuptials, with the ground
Hath levelled Pergamus’ beleaguered towers.
Near Pallas’ shrine the corses of the slain
Weltering in gore to vultures lie exposed,
And Ilion droops beneath the servile yoke.
Thee, O my wretched country, I with tears
Forsake: e’en now thou view’st the piteous end
Of all thy woes, and my loved native house.
HEC. My children! O my desolated city!
Your mother is bereft of every joy.
CHOR. What shrieks, what plaints resound! what floods of tears
Stream in our houses! but the dead forget
Their sorrows, and for ever cease to weep.
HEC. To those who suffer, what a sweet relief
Do tears afford! the sympathetic Muse
Inspires their plaints.
AND. O mother of that chief,
Whose forceful javelin thinned the ranks of Greece,
Illustrious Hector, seest thou this?
HEC. I see
The gods delight in raising up the low,
And ruining the great.
AND. Hence with my son,
A captive am I hurried; noble birth
Subject to these vicissitudes now sinks
Into degrading slavery.
HEC. Uncontrolled
The power of fate: Cassandra from these arms
But now with brutal violence was torn!
AND. A second Ajax to thy daughter seems
To have appeared. Yet hast thou other griefs.
HEC. All bounds, all numbers they exceed; with ills
Fresh ills as for pre-eminence contend.
AND. Polyxena, thy daughter, at the tomb
Of Peleus’ son hath breathed her last, a gift
To the deceased.
HEC. Wretch that I am, alas!
Too clearly now I understand the riddle
Which in obscurer terms Talthybius uttered.
AND. I saw her bleed, and lighting from this car
Covered her with the decent shroud and wailed
O’er her remains.
HEC. Alas! alas! my child
To bloody altars dragged by impious hands,
Alas! alas! how basely wert thou slain!
AND. Most dreadfully she perished; yet her lot
Who perished is more enviable than mine.
HEC. Far different, O my daughter, is the state
Of them who live, from them who breathe no more:
For the deceased are nothing: but fair hope,
While life remains, can never be extinct.
AND. Thou whom, although I sprung not from thy womb,
I deem a mother, to my cheering words
With patience listen, they will yield delight
To thy afflicted soul. ’Tis the same thing
Ne’er to be born, or die; but better far
To die, than to live wretched: for no sorrow
Affects th’ unconscious tenant of the grave.
But he who once was happy, he who falls
From fortune’s summit down the vale of woe,
With an afflicted spirit wanders o’er
The scenes of past delight. In the cold grave,
Like one who never saw the blessed sun,
Polyxena remembers not her woes.
But I who aimed the dextrous shaft, and gained
An ample portion of renown, have missed
The mark of happiness. In Hector’s house
I acted as behoves each virtuous dame.
First, whether sland’rous tongues assail or spare
The matron’s chastity, an evil name,
Her who remains not at her home, pursues:
Such vain desires I therefore quelled, I stayed
In my own chamber, a domestic life
Preferring, and forbore to introduce
Vain sentimental language, such as gains
Too oft the ear of woman: ’twas enough
For me to yield obedience to the voice
Of virtue, that best monitor. My lord
With placid aspect and a silent tongue
I still received, for I that province knew
In which I ought to rule, and when to yield
Submission to a husband’s will. The fame
This conduct gained me, reached the Grecian camp,
And proved my ruin: for when I became
A captive, Neoptolemus resolved
To take me to his bed, and in the house
Of murderers I to slavery am consigned.
If shaking off my Hector’s loved remembrance
To this new husband I my soul incline,
I shall appear perfidious to the dead;
Or, if I hate Achilles’ son, become
Obnoxious to my lords; though some assert
That one short night can reconcile th’ aversion
Of any woman to the nuptial couch;
I scorn that widow, reft of her first lord,
Who listens to the voice of love, and weds
Another. From her comrade torn, the mare
Sustains the yoke reluctant, though a brute
Dumb and irrational, by nature formed
Subordinate to man: but I in thee
Possessed a husband, O my dearest Hector,
In wisdom, fortune, and illustrious birth,
For me sufficient, great in martial deeds:
A spotless virgin-bride, me from the house
Of my great father, didst thou first receive;
But thou art slain, and I to Greece must sail
A captive, and endure the servile yoke!
Is not the death of that Polyxena,
Whom thou, O Hecuba, bewail’st, an ill
More tolerable than those which I endure?
For hope, who visits every wretch beside,
To me ne’er comes; to me no promised joys
Afford a flattering prospect to deceive
This anxious bosom; for ’tis sweet to think
E’en of ideal bliss.
CHOR. Thou art involved
In the same sufferings, and in plaintive notes
Bewailing thy calamity, inform’st me
What treatment to expect.
HEC. I ne’er did mount
A ship, yet I from pictures and report
These matters know: amidst a moderate storm,
Such as they hope to weather out, the sailors
To save themselves, exert a cheerful toil:
This to the rudder, to the shattered sails
That goes, a third laborious at the pump
Draws off the rising waters; but if vanquished
By the tempestuous ocean’s rage, they yield
To fortune, and consigning to the waves
Their vessel, are at random driven along.
Thus I am mute beneath unnumbered woes,
Nor can this tongue expatiate, for the gods
Such torrents pour as drown my feeble voice!
But, O my daughter, cease to name the fate
Of slaughtered Hector, whom no tears can save.
Pay due attention to thy present lord,
With amorous glances and a fond compliance
Receiving him; act thus, and thou wilt cheer
Our friends, and this my grandson educate
A bulwark to fallen Ilion, that his race
The city may rebuild, and dwell in Troy.
But a fresh topic of discourse ensues.
What servant of the Greeks do I behold
Again draw near, t’ announce some new design?