TAL. O thou who erst wert Hector’s wife, that bravest
Of Phrygians, hate me not; for with reluctance
Will I the general sentence of the Greeks
And Pelops’ progeny, announce.
AND. What means
This evil prelude.
TAL. ’Tis decreed thy son—
How shall I speak it?
AND. To a separate lord
Shall be consigned?
TAL. None of the Grecian chiefs
Shall ever o’er Astyanax bear rule.
AND. Must I leave here, him who alone remains
Of all that erst was dear to me in Troy?
TAL. Alas! I know not in what terms t’ express
The miseries that await thee?
AND. I commend
Such modesty, provided thou canst speak
Aught to afford me comfort.
TAL. They resolve
To slay thy son; thou hear’st my dismal errand.
AND. Ah me! thou hast unfolded to these ears
An evil, greater than my menaced spousals.
TAL. By his harangues to the assembled Greeks,
Ulysses hath prevailed.
AND. Alas! alas!
Immoderate are the sorrows I endure.
TAL. Saying they ought not to train up the son
Of that heroic sire.
AND. May he obtain
O’er his own children triumphs great as these!
TAL. He from the towers of Ilion must be thrown:
But I entreat thee, and thou hence shall seem
More prudent, strive not to withhold thy son,
But bear thy woes with firmness; nor, though weak,
Deem thyself strong; for thou hast no support,
And therefore must consider that thy city
Is overthrown, thy husband is no more,
Thou art reduced to servitude; and we
Are strong enough to combat with one woman:
O therefore brave not this unequal strife,
Stoop not to aught that’s base, nor yet revile,
Nor idly scatter curses on thy foes;
For if thou utter aught that may provoke
The anger of the host, thy son will bleed
Unburied and unwept: but if thou bear
With silence and composure thy misfortunes,
Funereal honours shall adorn his grave,
And Greece to thee her lenity extend.
AND. Thee, O my dearest son, thy foes will slay;
Soon art thou doomed to leave thy wretched mother.
What saves the lives of others, the renown
Of an illustrious sire, to thee will prove
The cause of death: by this paternal fame
Art thou attended in an evil hour.
To me how luckless proved the genial bed,
And those espousals, that to Hector’s house
First brought me, when I trusted I should bear
A son, no victim to the ruthless Greeks,
But an illustrious Asiatic king.
Weep’st thou, my son? dost thou perceive thy woes?
Why cling to me with timid hands? Why seize
My garment? thus beneath its mother’s wings
The callow bird is sheltered. From the tomb,
No Hector brandishing his massive spear
Rushes to saves thee; no intrepid kinsman
Of thy departed father, nor the might
Of Phrygian hosts is here: but from aloof
Borne headlong by a miserable leap,
Shalt thou pour forth thy latest gasp of life
Unpitied. Tender burden in the arms
Of thy fond mother! what ambrosial odours
Breathed from thy lips? I swathed thee to my breast
In vain, I toiled in vain, and wore away
My strength with fruitless labours. Yet embrace
Thy mother once again; around my neck
Entwine thine arms, and give one parting kiss.
Ye Greeks, who studiously invent new modes
Of unexampled cruelty, why slay
This guiltless infant? Helen, O thou daughter
Of Tyndarus, never didst thou spring from Jove,
But I pronounce thee born of many sires,
An evil Genius, Envy, Slaughter, Death,
And every evil that from Earth receives
Its nourishment; nor dare I to assert
That Jove himself begot a pest like thee,
Fatal to Greece and each barbarian chief.
Perdition overtake thee! for those eyes
By their seducing glances have o’erthrown
The Phrygian empire. Bear this child away,
And cast him from the turrets if ye list,
Then banquet on his quivering flesh: the gods
Ordain that I shall perish: nor from him
Can I repel the stroke of death. Conceal
This wretched form from public view, and plunge me
In the ship’s hold; for I have lost my son,
Such the blest prelude to my nuptial rite.
CHOR. Thy myriads, hapless Ilion, did expire
In combat for one woman, to maintain
Paris’ accursed espousals.
AND. Cease, my child,
Fondly to lisp thy wretched mother’s name,
Ascend the height of thy paternal towers,
Whence ’tis by Greece decreed thy parting breath
Shall issue. Take him hence. Aloud proclaim
This deed ye merciless: that wretch alone
Who never knew the blush of virtuous shame,
Your sentence can applaud.
[_Exeunt_ ANDROMACHE _and_ TALTHYBIUS.
HEC. O child, thou son
Of my unhappy Hector, from thy mother
And me thou unexpectedly art torn.
What can I do, what help afford? for thee
I smite this head, this miserable breast;
Thus far my power extends. Alas! thou city,
And, O my grandson! is there yet a curse
Beyond what we have felt? remains there aught
To save us from the yawning gulf of ruin?