_The Body of_ ASTYANAX _borne in upon a Shield_.
TAL. O Hecuba, one ship is left behind
To carry the remainder of the spoils
Which to Achilles’ son have been adjudged,
To Phthia’s coast. For Neoptolemus,
Hearing that recent evils hath befall’n
His grandsire Peleus, and that Pelias’ son
Acastus hath expelled him from his realm,
Already hath departed with such speed
As would admit of no delay: with him
Andromache is gone, for whom I shed
A stream of tears, when from the land she went
Wailing her country, and to Hector’s tomb
Her plaints addressing: the victorious chief
Hath she entreated, to allow the corse
Of your unhappy Hector’s son, who perished
From Ilion’s ramparts thrown, to be interred,
Nor bear this shield, the terror of the Greeks,
With brass refulgent, which his father placed
Before his flank in battle, to the house
Of Peleus; nor to that ill-omened chamber
Where spousals dire on her arrival wait
The mother of the slain; for such an object
Must grieve her to behold: but in the stead
Of cedar and the monumental stone,
Bury the child in this: for she the corse
Hath to your arms consigned, that you may grace it
With many a fragrant garland, and with vests
Such as your present fortunes will afford.
For she has sailed, and through his haste her lord
Prevented her from lodging in the grave
Her son. While thus you his remains adorn
We will mark out the spot, and with our spears
Dig up the ground. Without delay perform
These duties: I one task to you most irksome
Have rendered needless: for I laved the body,
And cleansed the wounds as o’er Scamander’s stream
I passed. But to prepare for the deceased
A tomb, I go, that with united toil
When this we have accomplished, they may steer
Our vessel homeward.
[_Exit_ TALTHYBIUS.
HEC. Place that orbed shield
Of Hector on the ground, a spectacle
Most piteous, and unwelcome to these eyes.
How, O ye Greeks, whose abject souls belie
Your brave achievements, trembling at a child,
Could ye commit this unexampled murder,
Lest at some future time he should rebuild
The walls of Ilion? Ye inhuman cowards!
Our ruin from that fatal hour we date
When Hector with unnumbered heroes fell.
But having sacked our city, and destroyed
Each Phrygian warrior, feared ye such an infant
The dastard I abhor who meanly shrinks
Through groundless panic. O for ever loved,
By what a piteous fate didst thou expire!
Hadst thou, the champion of thy country, died,
In riper years, when married, and endued
With power scarce second to th’ immortal gods,
Thou hadst been blest, if aught on earth deserves
The name of bliss. But thou, my son, beheld’st
And hadst a distant knowledge of these joys,
Which thou didst ne’er experience: for to thee
The treasures which the palaces of Troy
Contained, proved useless. O unhappy youth,
How wert thou hurled from thy paternal walls
Reared by Apollo’s hand; and through those ringlets,
Which oft thy mother smoothed and kissed, the gore
Bursts from thy fractured skull: but let me waive
So horrid a description. O ye hands,
How in your fingers do ye still retain
A pleasing sad remembrance of your sire,
Or why do ye lie motionless before me?
Dear mouth, full many a babbling accent wont
To utter, art thou closed by death? Thy voice
Deceived me erst, when clinging to these garments,
“O mother,” oft didst thou exclaim, “the hair
Shorn from my brows to thee I will devote,
Lead round thy tomb my comrades, and address
Thy hovering ghost in many a plaintive strain.”
Now not to me, alas! dost thou perform
These duteous offices, but I, bowed down
With age, an exile, of my children reft,
Must bury the disfigured corse of thee
A tender infant. These unnumbered kisses,
My cares in nurturing thee, and broken sleep,
Proved fruitless. What inscription can the bard
Place o’er thy sepulchre? “The Greeks who feared
This infant, slew him!” Such an epitaph
Would shame them. As for thee who hast obtained
Nought of thy wealth paternal, yet this shield
In which thou shalt be buried will be thine.
O brazen orb, which erst wert wont to guard
The nervous arm of Hector, thou hast lost
Thy best possessor: in thy concave circle
How is that hero’s shape impressed; it bears
Marks of that sweat which dropped from Hector’s brow,
Wearied with toil, when ’gainst thy edge he leaned
His cheek. Hence carry, to adorn the corse,
Whate’er our present station will afford,
For such the fortunes which Jove grants us now
As splendour suits not: yet accept these gifts
Out of the little I possess. An idiot
Is he, who thinking himself blest, exults
As if his joys were stable: like a man
Smitten with frenzy, changeful fortune bounds
Inconstant in her course, now here, now there,
Nor is there any one who leads a life
Of bliss uninterrupted.
CHOR. All is ready:
For from the spoils yon Phrygian matrons bear
Trappings to grace the dead.
HEC. On thee, my son,
Not as a victor who with rapid steeds
Didst ever reach the goal, or wing the shaft
With surer aim, an exercise revered
By each unwearied Phrygian youth, thy grandame
Places these ornaments which erst were thine:
But now hath Helen, by the gods abhorred,
Stripped thee of all thou didst possess, and caused
Thy murder, and the ruin of our house.
CHOR. Alas! thou hast transpierced my inmost soul,
O thou, whom I expected to have seen
Troy’s mighty ruler.
HEC. But I now enwrap
Thy body with the vest thou shouldst have worn
At Hymen’s festive rites, in wedlock joined
With Asia’s noblest princess. But, O source
Of triumphs numberless, dear shield of Hector,
Accept these laureate wreaths: for though by death
Thou canst not be affected, thou shalt lie
Joined with this corse in death; since thou deserv’st
More honourable treatment, than the arms
Of crafty and malignant Ithacus.
CHOR. Thee, much lamented youth, shall earth receive.
Now groan, thou wretched mother.
HEC. Oh!
CHOR. Commence
Those wailings which are uttered o’er the dead.
HEC. Ah me!
CHOR. Alas! too grievous are thy woes
To be endured.
HEC. These fillets o’er thy wounds
I bind, and exercise the healing art
In name and semblance only, but, alas!
Not in reality. Whate’er remains
Unfinished, ’mid the shades beneath, to thee
With tender care thy father will supply.
CHOR. Smite with thy hand thy miserable head
Till it resound. Alas!
HEC. My dearest comrades.
CHOR. Speak to thy friends; O Hecuba, what plaints
Hast thou to utter?
HEC. Nought but woe for me
Was by the gods reserved; beyond all cities
To them hath Troy been odious. We in vain
Have offered sacrifice. But had not Jove
O’erthrown and plunged us in the shades beneath,
We had remained obscure, we by the Muse
Had ne’er been sung, nor ever furnished themes
To future bards. But for this hapless youth
Go and prepare a grave; for the deceased
Is with funereal wreaths already crowned:
Although these pomps, I deem, are to the dead
Of little consequence; an empty pride
They in the living serve but to display.
CHOR. Thy wretched mother on thy vital thread
Had stretched forth mighty hopes: though styled most happy
From thy illustrious birth, thou by a death
Most horrid didst expire.
HEC. Ha! who are these
Whom I behold, in their victorious hands
Waving those torches o’er the roofs of Troy?
E’en now o’er Ilion some fresh woes impend.