The Trojan women of Euripides Part 11

[_Strophe_ I.

And hast thou turned from the Altar of frankincense, And given to the Greek thy temple of Ilion?

The flame of the cakes of corn, is it gone from hence, The myrrh on the air and the wreathed towers gone?

And Ida, dark Ida, where the wild ivy grows, The glens that run as rivers from the summer-broken snows, And the Rock, is it forgotten, where the first sunbeam glows, The lit house most holy of the Dawn?

EURIPIDES

_Others._

[_Antistrophe I._

The sacrifice is gone and the sound of joy, The dancing under the stars and the night-long prayer: The Golden Images and the Moons of Troy, The twelve Moons and the mighty names they bear: My heart, my heart crieth, O Lord Zeus on high, Were they all to thee as nothing, thou throned in the sky, Throned in the fire-cloud, where a City, near to die, Pa.s.seth in the wind and the flare?

_A Woman._

[_Strophe 2._

Dear one, O husband mine, Thou in the dim dominions Driftest with waterless lips, Unburied; and me the s.h.i.+ps Shall bear o'er the bitter brine, Storm-birds upon angry pinions, Where the towers of the Giants[43] s.h.i.+ne O'er Argos cloudily, And the riders ride by the sea.

_Others._

And children still in the Gate Crowd and cry, A mult.i.tude desolate, Voices that float and wait As the tears run dry: 'Mother, alone on the sh.o.r.e They drive me, far from thee: Lo, the dip of the oar, The black hull on the sea!

Is it the Isle Immortal, Salamis, waits for me?

Is it the Rock that broods Over the sundered floods Of Corinth, the ancient portal Of Pelops' sovranty?'

_A Woman._

[_Antistrophe_ 2.

Out in the waste of foam, Where rideth dark Menelaus, Come to us there, O white And jagged, with wild sea-light And cras.h.i.+ng of oar-blades, come, O thunder of G.o.d, and slay us: While our tears are wet for home, While out in the storm go we, Slaves of our enemy!

_Others._

And, G.o.d, may Helen be there[44], With mirror of gold, Decking her face so fair, Girl-like; and hear, and stare, And turn death-cold: Never, ah, never more The hearth of her home to see, Nor sand of the Spartan sh.o.r.e, Nor tombs where her fathers be, Nor Athena's bronzen Dwelling, Nor the towers of Pitane For her face was a dark desire Upon Greece, and shame like fire, And her dead are welling, welling, From red Simos to the sea!

[TALTHYBIUS, _followed by one or two Soldiers and bearing the child_ ASTYANAX _dead, is seen approaching._

LEADER.

Ah, change on change! Yet each one racks This land with evil manifold; Unhappy wives of Troy, behold, They bear the dead Astyanax, Our prince, whom bitter Greeks this hour Have hurled to death from Ilion's tower.

TALTHYBIUS.

One galley, Hecuba, there lingereth yet, Lapping the wave, to gather the last freight Of Pyrrhus' spoils for Thessaly. The chief Himself long since hath parted, much in grief For Peleus' sake, his grandsire, whom, men say, Acastus, Pelias' son, in war array Hath driven to exile. Loath enough before Was he to linger, and now goes the more In haste, bearing Andromache, his prize.

'Tis she hath charmed these tears into mine eyes, Weeping her fatherland, as o'er the wave She gazed, and speaking words to Hector's grave.

Howbeit, she prayed us that due rites be done For burial of this babe, thine Hector's son, That now from Ilion's tower is fallen and dead.

And, lo! this great bronze-fronted s.h.i.+eld, the dread Of many a Greek, that Hector held in fray, O never in G.o.d's name--so did she pray-- Be this borne forth to hang in Peleus' hall Or that dark bridal chamber, that the wall May hurt her eyes; but here, in Troy o'erthrown, Instead of cedar wood and vaulted stone, Be this her child's last house.... And in thine hands She bade me lay him, to be swathed in bands Of death and garments, such as rest to thee In these thy fallen fortunes; seeing that she Hath gone her ways, and, for her master's haste, May no more fold the babe unto his rest.

Howbeit, so soon as he is garlanded And robed, we will heap earth above his head And lift our sails.... See all be swiftly done, As thou art bidden. I have saved thee one Labour. For as I pa.s.sed Scamander's stream Hard by, I let the waters run on him, And cleansed his wounds.--See, I will go forth now And break the hard earth for his grave: so thou And I will haste together, to set free Our oars at last to beat the homeward sea!

[_He goes out with his Soldiers, leaving the body of the Child in_ HECUBA'S _arms._

HECUBA.

Set the great orb of Hector's s.h.i.+eld to lie Here on the ground. 'Tis bitter that mine eye Should see it.... O ye Argives, was your spear Keen, and your hearts so low and cold, to fear This babe? 'Twas a strange murder for brave men!

For fear this babe some day might raise again His fallen land! Had ye so little pride?

While Hector fought, and thousands at his side, Ye smote us, and we perished; and now, now, When all are dead and Ilion lieth low, Ye dread this innocent! I deem it not Wisdom, that rage of fear that hath no thought....

Ah, what a death hath found thee, little one!

Hadst thou but fallen fighting, hadst thou known Strong youth and love and all the majesty Of G.o.dlike kings, then had we spoken of thee As of one blessed ... could in any wise These days know blessedness. But now thine eyes Have seen, thy lips have tasted, but thy soul No knowledge had nor usage of the whole Rich life that lapt thee round.... Poor little child!

Was it our ancient wall, the circuit piled By loving G.o.ds, so savagely hath rent Thy curls, these little flowers innocent That were thy mother's garden, where she laid Her kisses; here, just where the bone-edge frayed Grins white above--Ah heaven, I will not see!

Ye tender arms, the same dear mould have ye As his; how from the shoulder loose ye drop And weak! And dear proud lips, so full of hope And closed for ever! What false words ye said At daybreak, when he crept into my bed, Called me kind names, and promised: 'Grandmother, When thou art dead, I will cut close my hair And lead out all the captains to ride by Thy tomb.' Why didst thou cheat me so? 'Tis I, Old, homeless, childless, that for thee must shed Cold tears, so young, so miserably dead.

Dear G.o.d, the pattering welcomes of thy feet, The nursing in my lap; and O, the sweet Falling asleep together! All is gone.

How should a poet carve the funeral stone To tell thy story true? 'There lieth here A babe whom the Greeks feared, and in their fear Slew him.' Aye, Greece will bless the tale it tells!

Child, they have left thee beggared of all else In Hector's house; but one thing shalt thou keep, This war-s.h.i.+eld bronzen-barred, wherein to sleep.

Alas, thou guardian true of Hector's fair Left arm, how art thou masterless! And there I see his handgrip printed on thy hold; And deep stains of the precious sweat, that rolled In battle from the brows and beard of him, Drop after drop, are writ about thy rim.

Go, bring them--such poor garments hazardous As these days leave. G.o.d hath not granted us Wherewith to make much pride. But all I can, I give thee, Child of Troy.--O vain is man, Who glorieth in his joy and hath no fears: While to and fro the chances of the years Dance like an idiot in the wind! And none By any strength hath his own fortune won.

[_During these lines several Women are seen approaching with garlands and raiment in their hands_.

LEADER.

Lo these, who bear thee raiment harvested From Ilion's slain, to fold upon the dead.

[_During the following scene_ HECUBA _gradually takes the garments and wraps them about the Child_.

HECUBA.

O not in pride for speeding of the car Beyond thy peers, not for the shaft of war True aimed, as Phrygians use; not any prize Of joy for thee, nor splendour in men's eyes, Thy father's mother lays these offerings About thee, from the many fragrant things That were all thine of old. But now no more.

One woman, loathed of G.o.d, hath broke the door And robbed thy treasure-house, and thy warm breath Made cold, and trod thy people down to death!

CHORUS.

_Some Women_.

Deep in the heart of me I feel thine hand, Mother: and is it he Dead here, our prince to be, And lord of the land?

HECUBA.

Glory of Phrygian raiment, which my thought Kept for thy bridal day with some far-sought Queen of the East, folds thee for evermore.

And thou, grey Mother, Mother-s.h.i.+eld that bore

THE TROJAN WOMEN

A thousand days of glory, thy last crown Is here.... Dear Hector's s.h.i.+eld! Thou shalt lie down Undying with the dead, and lordlier there Than all the gold Odysseus' breast can bear, The evil and the strong!

CHORUS.

_Some Women._