The Trojan women of Euripides | Page 9

laughed amid the laughter of God's light,
Cassandra, what hands and how strange a day Have loosed thy zone!
And thou, Polyxena, Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seed Of
man nor woman now shall help my need. Why raise me any more?
What hope have I To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high In
Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass
away Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call Happy, believe not
ere the last day fall!
* * * * *
CHORUS[28]. [Strophe.
O Muse, be near me now, and make A strange song for Ilion's sake, Till
a tone of tears be about mine ears And out of my lips a music break For
Troy, Troy, and the end of the years: When the wheels of the Greek
above me pressed, And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast; And all
around were the Argive spears A towering Steed of golden rein-- O
gold without, dark steel within!-- Ramped in our gates; and all the
plain Lay silent where the Greeks had been. And a cry broke from all
the folk Gathered above on Ilion's rock: "Up, up, O fear is over now!
To Pallas, who hath saved us living, To Pallas bear this victory-vow!"
Then rose the old man from his room, The merry damsel left her loom,
And each bound death about his brow With minstrelsy and high
thanksgiving!
[Antistrophe.
O, swift were all in Troy that day, And girt them to the portal-way,
Marvelling at that mountain Thing Smooth-carven, where the Argives
lay, And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing: Meet gift for her that spareth
not[29], Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they brought Through the steep
gates her offering: Like some dark ship that climbs the shore On
straining cables, up, where stood Her marble throne, her hallowed

floor, Who lusted for her people's blood.
A very weariness of joy Fell with the evening over Troy: And lutes of
Afric mingled there With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden, With
white feet glancing light as air, Made happy music through the gloom:
And fires on many an inward room All night broad-flashing, flung their
glare On laughing eyes and slumber-laden.
A MAIDEN.
I was among the dancers there To Artemis[30], and glorying sang Her
of the Hills, the Maid most fair, Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rang A
shout out of the dark, and fell Deathlike from street to street, and made
A silence in the citadel: And a child cried, as if afraid, And hid him in
his mother's veil. Then stalked the Slayer from his den, The hand of
Pallas served her well! O blood, blood of Troy was deep About the
streets and altars then: And in the wedded rooms of sleep, Lo, the
desolate dark alone, And headless things, men stumbled on.
And forth, lo, the women go, The crown of War, the crown of Woe, To
bear the children of the foe And weep, weep, for Ilion!
* * * * *
[As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden
with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms.
LEADER.
Lo, yonder on the heapèd crest Of a Greek wain, Andromachê[31], As
one that o'er an unknown sea Tosseth; and on her wave-borne breast
Her loved one clingeth, Hector's child, Astyanax.... O most forlorn Of
women, whither go'st thou, borne 'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and
piled Spoils of the dead, and pageantry Of them that hunted Ilion down?
Aye, richly thy new lord shall crown The mountain shrines of Thessaly!
ANDROMACHE [Strophe I.

Forth to the Greek I go, Driven as a beast is driven.
HEC. Woe, woe!
AND. Nay, mine is woe: Woe to none other given, And the song and the
crown therefor!
HEC. O Zeus!
AND. He hates thee sore!
HEC. Children!
AND. No more, no more To aid thee: their strife is striven!
HECUBA. [Antistrophe I.
Troy, Troy is gone!
AND. Yea, and her treasure parted.
HEC. Gone, gone, mine own Children, the noble-hearted!
AND. Sing sorrow....
HEC. For me, for me!
AND. Sing for the Great City, That falleth, falleth to be A shadow, a
fire departed.
ANDROMACHE.
[Strophe 2.
Come to me, O my lover!
HEC. The dark shroudeth him over, My flesh, woman, not thine, not
thine!

AND. Make of thine arms my cover!
HECUBA.
[Antistrophe 2.
O thou whose wound was deepest, Thou that my children keepest,
Priam, Priam, O age-worn King, Gather me where thou sleepest.
ANDROMACHE (her hands upon her heart).
[Strophe 3.
O here is the deep of desire,
HEC. (How? And is this not woe?)
AND. For a city burned with fire;
HEC. (It beateth, blow on blow.)
AND.