Troades: Act IV

Helen [aside]: Whatever wedlock, bred of evil fate,Is full of joyless omens, blood and tears,Is worthy Helen's baleful auspices.And now must I still further harm inflictUpon the prostrate Trojans: 'tis my partTo feign Polyxena, the royal maid,Is bid to be our Grecian Pyrrhus' wife,And deck her in the garb of Grecian brides.So by my artful words shall she be snared,And by my craft shall Paris' sister fall.But let her be deceived; 'tis better so;To die without the shrinking fear of deathIs joy indeed. But why dost thou delayThy bidden task? If aught of sin there be,'Tis his who doth command thee to the deed.O maiden, born of Priam's noble stock,The gods begin to look upon thy houseIn kinder mood, and even now prepareTo grant thee happy marriage; such a mateAs neither Troy herself in all her powerNor royal Priam could have found for thee.For lo, the flower of the Pelasgian lords,Whose sway Thessalia's far-extending plainsAcknowledge, seeks thy hand in lawful wedlock.Great Tethys waits to claim thee for her own,And Thetis, whose majestic deityDoth rule the swelling sea, and all the nymphsWho dwell within its depths. As Pyrrhus' brideThou shalt be called the child of Peleus old,And Nereus the divine.Then change the garbOf thy captivity for festal robes,And straight forget that thou wast e'er a slave.Thy wild, disheveled locks confine; permitThat I, with skilful hands, adorn thy head.This chance, mayhap, shall place thee on a throneMore lofty far than ever Priam saw.The captive's lot full oft a blessing proves.

Andromache: This was the one thing lacking to our woes--That they should bid us smile when we would weep.See there! Our city lies in smouldering heaps;A fitting time to talk of marriages!But who would dare refuse? When Helen bids,Who would not hasten to the wedding rites?Thou common curse of Greeks and Trojans too,Thou fatal scourge, thou wasting pestilence,Dost thou behold where buried heroes lie?And dost thou see these poor unburied bonesThat everywhere lie whitening on the plain?This desolation hath thy marriage wrought.For thee the blood of Asia flowed; for theeDid Europe's heroes bleed, whilst thou, well pleased,Didst look abroad upon the warring kings,Who perished in thy cause, thou faithless jade!There! get thee gone! prepare thy marriages!What need of torches for the solemn rites?What need of fire? Troy's self shall furnish forthThe ruddy flames to light her latest bride.Then come, my sisters, come and celebrateLord Pyrrhus' nuptial day in fitting wise:With groans and wailing let the scene resound.

Helen: Though mighty grief is ne'er by reason swayed,And oft the very comrades of its woe,Unreasoning, hates; yet can I bear to standAnd plead my cause before a hostile judge,For I have suffered heavier ills than these.Behold, Andromache doth Hector mourn,And Hecuba her Priam; each may claimThe public sympathy; but HelenaAlone must weep for Paris secretly.Is slavery's yoke so heavy and so hardTo bear? This grievous yoke have I endured,Ten years a captive. Doth your Ilium lieIn dust, your gods o'erthrown? I know 'tis hardTo lose one's native land, but harder stillTo fear the land that gave you birth. Your woesAre lightened by community of grief;But friend and foe are foes alike to me.Long since, the fated lot has hung in doubtThat sorts you to your lords; but I alone,Without the hand of fate am claimed at once.Think you that I have been the cause of war,And Troy's great overthrow? Believe it trueIf in a Spartan vessel I approachedYour land; but if, sped on by Phrygian oars,I came a helpless prey; if to the judgeOf beauty's rival claims I fell the prizeBy conquering Venus' gift, then pity me,The plaything of the fates. An angry judgeFull soon my cause shall have--my Grecian lord.Then leave to him the question of my guilt,And judge me not.But now forget thy woesA little space, Andromache, and bidThis royal maid--but as I think on herMy tears unbidden flow.

Andromache [in scorn]: Now great indeedMust be the evil when our Helen weeps!But dry thy tears, and tell what IthacusIs plotting now, what latest deed of shame?Must this poor maid be hurled from Ida's heights,Or from the top of Ilium's citadel?Must she be flung into the cruel seaThat roars beneath this lofty precipice,Which our Sigeum's rugged crag uprears?Come, tell what thou dost hide with mimic grief.In all our ills there's none so great as this,That any princess of our royal houseShould wed with Pyrrhus. Speak thy dark intent;What further suffering remains to bear?To compensate our woes, this grace impart,That we may know the worst that can befall.Behold us ready for the stroke of fate.

Helen: Alas! I would 'twere mine to break the bondsWhich bind me to this life I hate; to dieBy Pyrrhus' cruel hand upon the tombOf great Achilles, and to share thy fate,O poor Polyxena. For even now,The ghost doth bid that thou be sacrificed,And that thy blood be spilt upon his tomb;That thus thy parting soul may mate with his,Within the borders of Elysium.

Andromache [observing the joy with which Polyxena receives thesetidings]: Behold, her soul leaps up with mighty joyAt thought of death; she seeks the festal robesWherewith to deck her for the bridal rites,And yields her golden locks to Helen's hands.Who late accounted wedlock worse than death,Now hails her death with more than bridal joy.But see, her mother stands amazed with woe,Her spirit staggers 'neath the stroke of fate.Arise, O wretched queen, stand firm in soul,And gird thy fainting spirit up.Behold,By what a slender thread her feeble lifeIs held to earth. How slight the barrier nowThat doth remove our Hecuba from joy.But no, she breathes, alas! she lives again,For from the wretched, death is first to flee.

Hecuba [reviving]: Still dost thou live, Achilles,for our bane?Dost still prolong the bitter strife? O Paris,Thine arrow should have dealt a deadlier wound.For see, the very ashes and the tombOf that insatiate chieftain still do thirstFor Trojan blood. But lately did a throngOf happy children press me round; and I,With fond endearment and the sweet caressThat mother love would shower upon them all,Was oft forespent. But now this child aloneIs left, my comrade, comfort of my woes,For whom to pray, in whom to rest my soul.Hers are the only lips still left to meTo call me mother. Poor, unhappy soul,Why dost thou cling so stubbornly to life?Oh speed thee out, and grant me death at last,The only boon I seek. Behold, I weep;And from my cheeks, o'erwhelmed with sympathy,A sudden rain of grieving tears descends.

Andromache: We, Hecuba, Oh, we should most be mourned,Whom soon the fleet shall scatter o'er the sea;While she shall rest beneath the soil she loves.

Helen: Still more wouldst thou begrudge thy sister's lot,If thou didst know thine own.

Andromache: Remains there stillSome punishment that I must undergo?Helen: The whirling urn hath given you each her lord.

Andromache: To whom hath fate allotted me a slave?Proclaim the chief whom I must call my lord.

Helen: To Pyrrhus hast thou fallen by the lot.

Andromache: O happy maid, Cassandra, blest of heaven,For by thy madness art thou held exemptFrom fate that makes us chattels to the Greeks.

Helen: Not so, for even now the Grecian kingDoth hold her as his prize.

Hecuba [to Polyxena]: Rejoice, my child.How gladly would thy sisters change their lotFor thy death-dooming marriage.Tell me now,Does any Greek lay claim to Hecuba?

Helen: The Ithacan, though much against his will,Hath gained by lot a short-lived prize in thee.

Hecuba: What cruel, ruthless providence hath givenA royal slave to serve unkingly men?What hostile god divides our captive band?What heartless arbiter of destinySo carelessly allots our future lords,That Hector's mother is assigned to himWho hath by favor gained th' accursed armsWhich laid my Hector low? And must I thenObey the Ithacan? Now conquered quite,Alas, and doubly captive do I seem,And sore beset by all my woes at once.Now must I blush, not for my slavery,But for my master's sake. Yet Ithaca,That barren land by savage seas beset,Shall not receive my bones.Then up, Ulysses,And lead thy captive home. I'll not refuseTo follow thee as lord; for well I knowThat my untoward fates shall follow me.No gentle winds shall fill thy homeward sails,But stormy blasts shall rage; destructive wars,And fires, and Priam's evil fates and mine,Shall haunt thee everywhere. But even now,While yet those ills delay, hast thou receivedSome punishment. For I usurped thy lot,And stole thy chance to win a fairer prize.But see, with hurried step and lowering brow,Stern Pyrrhus comes.Why dost thou hesitate?Come pierce my vitals with thy impious sword,And join the parents of Achilles' bride.Make haste, thou murderer of agéd men,My blood befits thee too.Away with her;Defile the face of heaven with murder's stain,Defile the shades.--But why make prayer to you?I'll rather pray the sea whose savage rageBefits these bloody rites; the selfsame doom,Which for my ship I pray and prophesy,May that befall the thousand ships of Greece,And so may evil fate engulf them all.

Chorus: 'Tis sweet for one in grief to knowThat he but feels a common woe;And lighter falls the stroke of careWhich all with equal sorrow bear;For selfish and malign is human griefWhich in the tears of others finds relief.

Remove all men to fortune born,And none will think himself forlorn;Remove rich acres spreading wide,With grazing herds on every side:Straight will the poor man's drooping soul revive,For none are poor if all in common thrive.

The mariner his fate bewails,Who in a lonely vessel sails,And, losing all his scanty store,With life alone attains the shore;But with a stouter heart the gale he braves,That sinks a thousand ships beneath the waves.

When Phrixus fled in days of oldUpon the ram with fleece of gold,His sister Helle with him faredAnd all his exiled wanderings shared;But when she fell and left him quite alone,Then nothing could for Helle's loss atone.

Not so they wept, that fabled pair,Deucalion and Pyrrha fair,When 'midst the boundless sea they stoodThe sole survivors of the flood;For though their lot was hard and desolate,They shared their sorrow--'twas a common fate.

Too soon our grieving companyShall scatter on the rolling sea,Where swelling sails and bending oarsShall speed us on to distant shores.Oh, then how hard shall be our wretched plight,When far away our country lies,And round us heaving billows rise,And lofty Ida's summit sinks from sight.

Then mother shall her child embrace,And point with straining eyes the placeWhere Ilium's smouldering ruins lie,Far off beneath the eastern sky:"See there, my child, our Trojan ashes glow,Where wreathing smoke in murky cloudsThe distant, dim horizon shrouds;And by that sign alone our land we know."