by Homer
And headlong take into her gulf, ev’n quick before mine eyes.
For then my heart, I hope, would cast her load of miseries;
Borne for the plague he hath been born, and bred to the deface
(By great Olympius) of Troy, our sire, and all our race.’
This said, grave Hecuba went home, and sent her maids about
To bid the matrons: she herself descended, and search’d out
(Within a place that breath’d perfumes) the richest robe she had,
Which lay with many rich ones more, most curiously made
By women of Sydonia, which Paris brought from thence,
Sailing the broad sea, when he made that voyage of offence,
In which he brought home Helena. That robe transferr’d so far
(That was the undermost) she took – it glitter’d like a star –
And with it went she to the fane, with many ladies more,
Amongst whom fair-cheek’d Theano unlock’d the folded door,
Chaste Theano, Antenor’s wife, and of Cisseüs’ race,
Sister to Hecuba, both born to that great king of Thrace.
Her th’ Ilians made Minerva’s priest; and her they follow’d all
Up to the temple’s highest tow’r, where on their knees they fall,
Lift up their hands, and fill the fane with ladies’ piteous cries.
Then lovely Theano took the veil, and with it she implies
The great Palladium, praying thus: ‘Goddess of most renown
In all the heav’n of goddesses! Great guardian of our town,
Reverend Minerva! Break the lance of Diomed; cease his grace;
Give him to fall in shameful flight, headlong, and on his face,
Before our ports of Ilion, that instantly we may
Twelve unyok’d oxen of a year in this thy temple slay
To thy sole honour; take their bloods, and banish our offence;
Accept Troy’s zeal, her wives, and save our infants’ innocence.’
She pray’d, but Pallas would not grant. Mean space was Hector come
Where Alexander’s lodgings were, that many a goodly room
Had, built in them by architects, of Troy’s most curious sort –
And where no lodgings but a house, nor no house but a court,
Or had all these contain’d in them; and all within a tow’r,
Next Hector’s lodgings and the king’s. The lov’d of heaven’s chief pow’r
(Hector) here ent’red. In his hand a goodly lance he bore,
Ten cubits long; the brazen head went shining in before,
Help’d with a burnish’d ring of gold. He found his brother then
Amongst the women, yet prepar’d to go amongst the men:
For in their chamber he was set, trimming his arms, his shield,
His curets, and was trying how his crooked bow would yield
To his straight arms. Amongst her maids was set the Argive queen,
Commanding them in choicest works. When Hector’s eye had seen
His brother thus accompanied, and that he could not bear
The very touching of his arms, but where the women were,
And when the time so needed men, right cunningly he chid.
That he might do it bitterly, his cowardice he hid
(That simply made him so retir’d) beneath an anger, feign’d
In him by Hector, for the hate the citizens sustain’d
Against him for the foil he took in their cause, and again,
For all their general foils in his. So Hector seems to plain
Of his wrath to them, for their hate, and not his cowardice,
As that were it that shelt’red him in his effeminacies,
And kept him in that dangerous time from their fit aid in fight;
For which he chid thus: ‘Wretched man! So timeless is thy spite,
That ’tis not honest; and their hate is just, ’gainst which it bends.
War burns about the town for thee; for thee our slaughter’d friends
Besiege Troy with their carcasses, on whose heaps our high walls
Are overlook’d by enemies; the sad sounds of their falls
Without are echo’d with the cries of wives and babes within;
And all for thee: and yet for them thy honour cannot win
Head of thine anger; thou shouldst need no spirit to stir up thine,
But thine should set the rest on fire, and with a rage divine
Chastise impartially the best, that impiously forbears.
Come forth, lest thy fair tow’rs and Troy be burn’d about thine ears.’
Paris acknowledg’d (as before) all just that Hector spake,
Allowing justice, though it were for his injustice sake:
And where his brother put a wrath upon him by his art,
He takes it (for his honour’s sake) as sprung out of his heart,
And rather would have anger seem his fault than cowardice;
And thus he answer’d: ‘Since – with right – you join’d check with advice,
And I hear you, give equal ear: it is not any spleen
Against the town, as you conceive, that makes me so unseen,
But sorrow for it; which to ease, and by discourse digest
Within myself, I live so close. And yet, since men might wrest
My sad retreat, like you, my wife with her advice inclin’d
This my addression to the field, which was mine own free mind,
As well as th’ instance of her words: for though the foil were mine,
Conquest brings forth her wreaths by turns: stay then this haste of thine
But till I arm, and I am made a consort for thee straight;
Or go, I’ll overtake thy haste.’ Helen stood at receipt,
And took up all great Hector’s powers, t’ attend her heavy words;
By which had Paris no reply; this vent her grief affords:
‘Brother (if I may call you so, that had been better born
A dog, than such a horrid dame as all men curse and scorn,
A mischief-maker, a man-plague), O would to god the day
That first gave light to me had been a whirlwind in my way,
And borne me to some desert hill, or hid me in the rage
Of earth’s most far-resounding seas, ere I should thus engage
The dear lives of so many friends: yet since the gods have been
Helpless foreseers of my plagues, they might have likewise seen
That he they put in yoke with me, to bear out their award,
Had been a man of much more spirit; and, or had noblier dar’d
To shield mine honour with this deed, or with his mind had known
Much better the upbraids of men, that so he might have shown
(More like a man) some sense of grief for both my shame and his.
But he is senseless, nor conceives what any manhood is;
Nor now, nor ever after will: and therefore hangs, I fear,
A plague above him. But come near, good brother; rest you here,
Who, of the world of men, stands charg’d with most unrest for me –
Vile wretch – and for my lover’s wrong: on whom a destiny
So bitter is impos’d by Jove, that all succeeding times
Will put – to our unended shames – in all men’s mouths our crimes.’
He answer’d: ‘Helen, do not seek to make me sit with thee:
I must not stay, though well I know thy honour’d love of me.
My mind calls forth to aid our friends, in whom my absence breeds
Longings to see me: for whose sakes, importune thou to deeds
This man by all means, that your care may make his own make hast,
And meet me in the open town, that all may see at last
He minds his lover. I myself will now go home, and see
My household, my dear wife and son, that little hope of me.
For, sister, ’tis without my skill if I shall ever more
Return and see them, or to earth her right in me restore:
The gods may stoop me, by the Greeks.’ This said, he went to see
The virtuous princess, his true wife, white-arm’d Andromache.
She, with her infant son and maid, was climb’d the tow’r, about
The sight of him that sought for her, weeping and crying out.
Hector, not finding her at home, was going forth, retir’d,
Stood in the gate, her woman call’d, and curiously inquir’d
Where she was gone, bad tell him true, if she were gone to see
His sisters, or his brothers’ wives, or whether she should be
At temple with the other dames, t’ implore Minerva’s ruth.
Her woman answer’d: since he ask’d, and urg’d so much the truth,
The truth was she was neither gone to see his brothers’ wives,
His sisters, nor t’ implore the ruth of Pallas on their lives,
But (she advertis’d of the bane Troy suffer’d, and how vast
Conquest had made herself for Greece) like one distraught, made haste
To ample Ilion with her son and nurse; and all the way
Mourn’d, and dissolv’d in tears for him. Then Hector made no stay,
But trod her path, and through the streets, magnificently built,
All the great city past, and came where (seeing how blood was spilt)
Andromache might see him come; who made as he would pass
The ports without saluting her, not knowing where she was.
She, with his sight, made breathless haste to meet him: she, whose grace
Brought him withal so great a dow’r, she that of all the race
Of king Aëtion, only liv’d: Aëtion, whose house stood
Beneath the mountain Placius, environ’d with the wood
Of Theban Hippoplace, being court to the Cilician land.
She ran to Hector, and with her, tender of heart and hand,
Her son, borne in his nurse’s arms: when like a heavenly sign,
Compact of many golden stars, the princely child did shine
Whom Hector call’d Scamandrius, but whom the town did name
Astyanax, because his sire did only prop the same.
Hector, though grief bereft his speech, yet smil’d upon his joy.
Andromache cried out, mix’d hands, and to the strength of Troy
Thus wept forth her affection: ‘O noblest in desire!
Thy mind, inflam’d with others’ good, will set thyself on fire:
Nor pitiest thou thy son, nor wife, who must thy widow be
If now thou issue: all the field will only run on thee.
Better my shoulders underwent the earth, than thy decease;
For then would earth bear joys no more, then comes the black increase
Of griefs (like Greeks on Ilion). Alas! What one survives
To be my refuge? One black day bereft seven brothers’ lives,
By stern Achilles; by his hand my father breath’d his last,
His high-wall’d rich Cilician Thebes sack’d by him, and laid wast:
The royal body yet he left unspoil’d – religion charm’d
That act of spoil – and all in fire he burn’d him complete arm’d,
Built over him a royal tomb, and to the monument
He left of him th’ Oreades (that are the high descent
Of Aegis-bearing Jupiter), another of their own
Did add to it, and set it round with elms, by which is shown
(In theirs) the barrenness of death: yet might it serve beside
To shelter the said monument from all the ruffinous pride
Of storms and tempests, us’d to hurt things of that noble kind.
The short life yet my mother liv’d, he sav’d, and serv’d his mind
With all the riches of the realm; which not enough esteem’d,
He kept her prisoner, whom small time, but much more wealth redeem’d:
And she in sylvan Hyppoplace Cilicia rul’d again,
But soon was over-rul’d by death: Diana’s chaste disdain
Gave her a lance, and took her life. Yet all these gone from me,
Thou amply render’st all; thy life makes still my father be,
My mother, brothers: and besides thou art my husband too,
Most lov’d, most worthy. Pity then, dear love, and do not go;
For thou gone, all these go again: pity our common joy,
Lest – of a father’s patronage, the bulwark of all Troy –
Thou leav’st him a poor widow’s charge. Stay, stay then, in this tow’r,
And call up to the wild fig-tree all thy retired pow’r:
For there the wall is easiest scal’d, and fittest for surprise,
And there th’ Ajaces, Idomen, th’ Atrides, Diomed, thrice
Have both survey’d and made attempt, I know not if induc’d
By some wise augury, or the fact was naturally infus’d
Into their wits, or courages.’ To this, great Hector said:
‘Be well assur’d, wife, all these things in my kind cares are weigh’d.
But what a shame and fear it is, to think how Troy would scorn
(Both in her husbands and her wives, whom long-train’d gowns adorn)
That I should cowardly fly off! The spirit I first did breathe
Did never teach me that; much less, since the contempt of death
Was settled in me, and my mind knew what a worthy was;
Whose office is to lead in fight, and give no danger pass
Without improvement. In this fire must Hector’s trial shine;
Here must his country, father, friends, be in him made divine.
And such a stormy day shall come (in mind and soul I know)
When sacred Troy shall shed her tow’rs, for tears of overthrow,
When Priam, all his birth and pow’r, shall in those tears be drown’d.
But neither Troy’s posterity so much my soul doth wound,
Priam, nor Hecuba herself, nor all my brothers’ woes
(Who though so many, and so good, must all be food for foes)
As thy sad state, when some rude Greek shall lead thee weeping hence,
These free days clouded, and a night of captive violence
Loading thy temples; out of which thine eyes must never see,
But spin the Greek wives webs of task, and their fetch-water be
To Argos, from Messeides, or clear Hyperia’s spring:
Which, howsoever thou abhorr’st, Fate’s such a shrewish thing
She will be mistress; whose curst hands, when they shall crush out cries
From thy oppressions, being beheld by other enemies,
Thus they will nourish thy extremes: “This dame was Hector’s wife,
A man, that at the wars of Troy did breathe the worthiest life
Of all their army.” This again will rub thy fruitful wounds,
To miss the man that to thy bands could give such narrow bounds.
But that day shall not wound mine eyes; the solid heap of night
Shall interpose, and stop mine ears, against thy plaints and plight.’
This said,
he reach’d to take his son: who of his arms afraid,
And then the horse-hair plume, with which he was so overlaid,
Nodded so horribly, he cling’d back to his nurse, and cried.
Laughter affected his great sire, who doff’d and laid aside
His fearful helm, that on the earth cast round about it light;
Then took and kiss’d his loving son, and (balancing his weight
In dancing him) these loving vows to living Jove he us’d,
And all the other bench of gods: ‘O you that have infus’d
Soul to this infant, now set down this blessing on his star.
Let his renown be clear as mine, equal his strength in war;
And make his reign so strong in Troy, that years to come may yield
His facts this fame, when rich in spoils, he leaves the conquer’d field
Sown with his slaughters: these high deeds exceed his father’s worth,
And let this echo’d praise supply the comforts to come forth
Of his kind mother, with my life.’ This said, th’ heroic sire
Gave him his mother; whose fair eyes fresh streams of love’s salt fire
Billow’d on her soft cheeks, to hear the last of Hector’s speech,
In which his vows compris’d the sum of all he did beseech
In her wish’d comfort. So she took into her odorous breast
Her husband’s gift; who, mov’d to see her heart so much oppress’d,
He dried her tears, and thus desir’d: ‘Afflict me not, dear wife,
With these vain griefs. He doth not live that can disjoin my life
And this firm bosom, but my fate; and fate, whose wings can fly?
Noble, ignoble, fate controls: once born, the best must die.
Go home, and set thy huswifery on these extremes of thought,
And drive war from them with thy maids; keep them from doing nought:
These will be nothing; leave the cares of war to men, and me,
In whom of all the Ilian race they take their high’st degree.’
On went his helm; his princess home, half cold with kindly fears,
When every fear turn’d back her looks, and every look shed tears,
To slaught’ring Hector’s house, soon reach’d; her many women there
Wept all to see her. In his life, great Hector’s funerals were –
Never look’d any eye of theirs to see their lord safe home,
Scap’d from the gripes and pow’rs of Greece. And now was Paris come