The Trojan women of Euripides | Page 9

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 heap��d crest Of a Greek wain, Andromach��[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. God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago:
Who sold for his evil love Troy and the towers thereof: Therefore the dead men lie Naked, beneath the eye Of Pallas, and vultures croak And flap for joy: So Love hath laid his yoke On the neck of Troy!
HECUBA.
[Antistrophe 3.
O mine own land, my home,
AND. (I weep for thee, left forlorn,)
HEC. See'st thou what end is come?
AND. (And the house where my babes were born.)
HEC. A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn:
Even as the sound of a song[32] Left by the way, but long Remembered, a tune of tears Falling where no man hears, In the old house, as rain, For things loved of yore: But the dead hath lost his pain And weeps no more.
LEADER.
How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress, And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.
ANDROMACHE[33].
Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?
HECUBA.
I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.
ANDROMACHE.
I and my babe are driven among the droves Of plundered cattle. O, when fortune moves So swift, the high heart like a slave beats low.
HECUBA.
'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but now Have taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain.
ANDROMACHE.
Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again? But other evil yet is at thy gate.
HECUBA.
Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weight My evils are! Doom raceth against doom.
ANDROMACHE.
Polyxena across Achilles' tomb Lies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead.
HECUBA.
My sorrow!... 'Tis but what Talthybius said: So plain a riddle, and I read it not.
ANDROMACHE.
I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot; And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat My breast for her.
HECUBA (to herself).
O the foul sin of it! The