The Trojan women of Euripides Part 12

Child of the s.h.i.+eld-bearer, Alas, Hector's child!

Great Earth, the All-mother, Taketh thee unto her With wailing wild!

_Others._ Mother of misery, Give Death his song!

(HEC. Woe!) Aye and bitterly

(HEC. Woe!) We too weep for thee, And the infinite wrong!

[_During these lines_ HECUBA, _kneeling by the body, has been performing a funeral rite, symbolically staunching the dead Child's wounds._

HECUBA.

I make thee whole[45]; I bind thy wounds, O little vanished soul.

This wound and this I heal with linen white: O emptiness of aid!... Yet let the rite Be spoken. This and.... Nay, not I, but he, Thy father far away shall comfort thee!

[_She bows her head to the ground and remains motionless and unseeing._

CHORUS.

Beat, beat thine head: Beat with the wailing chime Of hands lifted in time: Beat and bleed for the dead.

Woe is me for the dead!

HECUBA.

O Women! Ye, mine own....

[_She rises bewildered, as though she had seen a vision_.

LEADER.

Hecuba, speak!

Oh, ere thy bosom break....

HECUBA.

Lo, I have seen the open hand of G.o.d[46]; And in it nothing, nothing, save the rod Of mine affliction, and the eternal hate, Beyond all lands, chosen and lifted great For Troy! Vain, vain were prayer and incense-swell And bulls' blood on the altars!... All is well.

Had He not turned us in His hand, and thrust Our high things low and shook our hills as dust, We had not been this splendour, and our wrong An everlasting music for the song Of earth and heaven!

Go, women: lay our dead In his low sepulchre. He hath his meed Of robing. And, methinks, but little care Toucheth the tomb, if they that moulder there Have rich encerement. 'Tis we, 'tis we, That dream, we living and our vanity!

[_The Women bear out the dead Child upon the s.h.i.+eld, singing, when presently flames of fire and dim forms are seen among the ruins of the City_.

CHORUS.

_Some Women_.

Woe for the mother that bare thee, child, Thread so frail of a hope so high, That Time hath broken: and all men smiled About thy cradle, and, pa.s.sing by, Spoke of thy father's majesty.

Low, low, thou liest!

_Others_.

Ha! Who be these on the crested rock?

Fiery hands in the dusk, and a shock Of torches flung! What lingereth still, O wounded City, of unknown ill, Ere yet thou diest?

TALTHYBIUS (_coming out through the ruined Wall_).

Ye Captains that have charge to wreck this keep Of Priam's City, let your torches sleep No more! Up, fling the fire into her heart!

Then have we done with Ilion, and may part In joy to h.e.l.las from this evil land.

And ye--so hath one word two faces--stand, Daughters of Troy, till on your ruined wall The echo of my master's trumpet call In signal breaks: then, forward to the sea, Where the long s.h.i.+ps lie waiting.

And for thee, O ancient woman most unfortunate, Follow: Odysseus' men be here, and wait To guide thee.... 'Tis to him thou go'st for thrall.

HECUBA.

Ah, me! and is it come, the end of all, The very crest and summit of my days?

I go forth from my land, and all its ways Are filled with fire! Bear me, O aged feet, A little nearer: I must gaze, and greet My poor town ere she fall.

Farewell, farewell!

O thou whose breath was mighty on the swell Of orient winds, my Troy! Even thy name Shall soon be taken from thee. Lo, the flame Hath thee, and we, thy children, pa.s.s away To slavery.... G.o.d! O G.o.d of mercy!... Nay: Why call I on the G.o.ds? They know, they know, My prayers, and would not hear them long ago.

Quick, to the flames! O, in thine agony, My Troy, mine own, take me to die with thee!

[_She springs toward the flames, but is seized and held by the Soldiers._

TALTHYBIUS.

Back! Thou art drunken with thy miseries, Poor woman!--Hold her fast, men, till it please Odysseus that she come. She was his lot Chosen from all and portioned. Lose her not!

[_He goes to watch over the burning of the City. The dusk deepens_.

CHORUS.

_Divers Women_.

Woe, woe, woe!

Thou of the Ages[47], O wherefore fleest thou, Lord of the Phrygian, Father that made us?

'Tis we, thy children; shall no man aid us?

'Tis we, thy children! Seest thou, seest thou?

_Others_.

He seeth, only his heart is pitiless; And the land dies: yea, she, She of the Mighty Cities perisheth citiless!

Troy shall no more be!

_Others_.

Woe, woe, woe!

Ilion s.h.i.+neth afar!

Fire in the deeps thereof, Fire in the heights above, And crested walls of War!

_Others_.

As smoke on the wing of heaven Climbeth and scattereth, Torn of the spear and driven, The land crieth for death: O stormy battlements that red fire hath riven, And the sword's angry breath!