Part 16

CHOR. As that illustrious stem Whence thou deriv’st thy birth, and as thy rank Demand, on thy adulterous wife inflict Just punishment, and purge this foul reproach, This instance of a woman’s lust, from Greece: So shall thy very enemies perceive Thou art magnanimous.

MEN. Your thoughts concur With mine, that she a willing fugitive My palace left and sought a foreign bed; But speaks of Venus merely to disguise Her infamy!—Away! thou shalt be stoned, And in one instant for the tedious woes Of Greece make full atonement; I will teach thee That thou didst shame me in an evil hour.

HEL. I by those knees entreat you, O forbear To slay me, that distraction sent by Heaven To me imputing: but forgive me.

HEC. Wrong not Thy partners in the war, whom she hath slain; In theirs, and in my children’s cause, I sue.

MEN. Desist, thou hoary matron: her entreaties Move not this steadfast bosom. O my followers Attend her, I command you, to the ships Which shall convey her hence.

HEC. Let her not enter Thy ship.

MEN. Is she grown heavier than before?

HEC. He never loved who doth not always love, Howe’er the inclinations of the dame He loves may fluctuate.

MEN. All shall be performed According to thy wish; she shall not enter My bark: for thou hast uttered wholesome counsels: But soon as she in Argos’ lands, with shame, As she deserves, shall she be slain, and warn All women to be chaste. No easy task: Yet shall her ruin startle every child Of folly, though more vicious still than Helen.

CHORUS.

ODE.

I. 1.

E’en thus by too severe a doom, To Greece, O Jove, hast thou betrayed Our shrines, our altars, dropping rich perfume, The lambent flame that round the victims played, Myrrh’s odorous smoke that mounts the skies, Yon holy citadel, with Ida’s grove Around whose oaks the clasping ivy plies, Where rivulets meandering rove Cold and translucent from the drifted snows; On that high ridge with orient blaze The sun first scatters his enlivening rays, And with celestial flame th’ ecstatic priestess glows.

I. 2.

Each sacrifice, each pious rite, Hence vanished, with th’ harmonious choirs Whose accents soothed the languid ear of night, While to the gods we waked our sounding lyres; Their golden images no more Twelve times each year, on that revolving eve When shines the full-orbed moon, do we adore. Harassed by anxious fears, I grieve, Oft thinking whether thou, O Jove, wilt deign To listen to our piteous moan, High as thou sitt’st on thy celestial throne; For Troy, by fire consumed, lies level with the plain.

II. 1.

Thou, O my husband, roam’st a flitting shade, To thee are all funereal rites denied, To thee no lustral drops supplied: But I by the swift bark shall be conveyed Where Argos’ cloud-capped fortress stands, Erected by the Cyclops’ skilful hands. Before our doors assembling children groan, And oft repeat with clamorous moan A mother’s name. Alone shall I be borne Far from thy sight, by the victorious host Of Greece, and leaving Ilion’s coast, O’er ocean’s azure billows sail forlorn, Either to Salamis, that sacred land, Or where the Isthmian summit o’er two seas A wide extended prospect doth command, Seated in Pelops’ straits where Greece the prize decrees.

II. 2.

Its arduous voyage more than half complete, In the Ægean deep, and near the land, May the red lightning by Jove’s hand Winged from the skies with tenfold ruin, meet The bark that wafts me o’er the wave From Troy to Greece a miserable slave. Before the golden mirror wont to braid Her tresses, like a sportive maid, May Helen never reach the Spartan shore, Those household gods to whom she proved untrue, Nor her paternal mansions view, Enter the streets of Pitane no more, Nor Pallas’ temple with its brazen gate; Because her nuptials teemed with foul disgrace To mighty Greece through each confederate state; And hence on Simois’ banks were slain Troy’s guiltless race.

But ha! on this devoted realm are hurled Successive woes. Ye hapless Phrygian dames, Behold the slain Astyanax, whom Greece With rage inhuman from yon towers hath thrown.

TALTHYBIUS, HECUBA, CHORUS.

_The Body of_ ASTYANAX _borne in upon a Shield_.

TAL. O Hecuba, one ship is left behind To carry the remainder of the spoils Which to Achilles’ son have been adjudged, To Phthia’s coast. For Neoptolemus, Hearing that recent evils hath befall’n His grandsire Peleus, and that Pelias’ son Acastus hath expelled him from his realm, Already hath departed with such speed As would admit of no delay: with him Andromache is gone, for whom I shed A stream of tears, when from the land she went Wailing her country, and to Hector’s tomb Her plaints addressing: the victorious chief Hath she entreated, to allow the corse Of your unhappy Hector’s son, who perished From Ilion’s ramparts thrown, to be interred, Nor bear this shield, the terror of the Greeks, With brass refulgent, which his father placed Before his flank in battle, to the house Of Peleus; nor to that ill-omened chamber Where spousals dire on her arrival wait The mother of the slain; for such an object Must grieve her to behold: but in the stead Of cedar and the monumental stone, Bury the child in this: for she the corse Hath to your arms consigned, that you may grace it With many a fragrant garland, and with vests Such as your present fortunes will afford. For she has sailed, and through his haste her lord Prevented her from lodging in the grave Her son. While thus you his remains adorn We will mark out the spot, and with our spears Dig up the ground. Without delay perform These duties: I one task to you most irksome Have rendered needless: for I laved the body, And cleansed the wounds as o’er Scamander’s stream I passed. But to prepare for the deceased A tomb, I go, that with united toil When this we have accomplished, they may steer Our vessel homeward.

[_Exit_ TALTHYBIUS.

HEC. Place that orbed shield Of Hector on the ground, a spectacle Most piteous, and unwelcome to these eyes. How, O ye Greeks, whose abject souls belie Your brave achievements, trembling at a child, Could ye commit this unexampled murder, Lest at some future time he should rebuild The walls of Ilion? Ye inhuman cowards! Our ruin from that fatal hour we date When Hector with unnumbered heroes fell. But having sacked our city, and destroyed Each Phrygian warrior, feared ye such an infant The dastard I abhor who meanly shrinks Through groundless panic. O for ever loved, By what a piteous fate didst thou expire! Hadst thou, the champion of thy country, died, In riper years, when married, and endued With power scarce second to th’ immortal gods, Thou hadst been blest, if aught on earth deserves The name of bliss. But thou, my son, beheld’st And hadst a distant knowledge of these joys, Which thou didst ne’er experience: for to thee The treasures which the palaces of Troy Contained, proved useless. O unhappy youth, How wert thou hurled from thy paternal walls Reared by Apollo’s hand; and through those ringlets, Which oft thy mother smoothed and kissed, the gore Bursts from thy fractured skull: but let me waive So horrid a description. O ye hands, How in your fingers do ye still retain A pleasing sad remembrance of your sire, Or why do ye lie motionless before me? Dear mouth, full many a babbling accent wont To utter, art thou closed by death? Thy voice Deceived me erst, when clinging to these garments, “O mother,” oft didst thou exclaim, “the hair Shorn from my brows to thee I will devote, Lead round thy tomb my comrades, and address Thy hovering ghost in many a plaintive strain.” Now not to me, alas! dost thou perform These duteous offices, but I, bowed down With age, an exile, of my children reft, Must bury the disfigured corse of thee A tender infant. These unnumbered kisses, My cares in nurturing thee, and broken sleep, Proved fruitless. What inscription can the bard Place o’er thy sepulchre? “The Greeks who feared This infant, slew him!” Such an epitaph Would shame them. As for thee who hast obtained Nought of thy wealth paternal, yet this shield In which thou shalt be buried will be thine. O brazen orb, which erst wert wont to guard The nervous arm of Hector, thou hast lost Thy best possessor: in thy concave circle How is that hero’s shape impressed; it bears Marks of that sweat which dropped from Hector’s brow, Wearied with toil, when ’gainst thy edge he leaned His cheek. Hence carry, to adorn the corse, Whate’er our present station will afford, For such the fortunes which Jove grants us now As splendour suits not: yet accept these gifts Out of the little I possess. An idiot Is he, who thinking himself blest, exults As if his joys were stable: like a man Smitten with frenzy, changeful fortune bounds Inconstant in her course, now here, now there, Nor is there any one who leads a life Of bliss uninterrupted.

CHOR. All is ready: For from the spoils yon Phrygian matrons bear Trappings to grace the dead.

HEC. On thee, my son, Not as a victor who with rapid steeds Didst ever reach the goal, or wing the shaft With surer aim, an exercise revered By each unwearied Phrygian youth, thy grandame Places these ornaments which erst were thine: But now hath Helen, by the gods abhorred, Stripped thee of all thou didst possess, and caused Thy murder, and the ruin of our house.

CHOR. Alas! thou hast transpierced my inmost soul, O thou, whom I expected to have seen Troy’s mighty ruler.

HEC. But I now enwrap Thy body with the vest thou shouldst have worn At Hymen’s festive rites, in wedlock joined With Asia’s noblest princess. But, O source Of triumphs numberless, dear shield of Hector, Accept these laureate wreaths: for though by death Thou canst not be affected, thou shalt lie Joined with this corse in death; since thou deserv’st More honourable treatment, than the arms Of crafty and malignant Ithacus.

CHOR. Thee, much lamented youth, shall earth receive. Now groan, thou wretched mother.

HEC. Oh!

CHOR. Commence Those wailings which are uttered o’er the dead.

HEC. Ah me!

CHOR. Alas! too grievous are thy woes To be endured.

HEC. These fillets o’er thy wounds I bind, and exercise the healing art In name and semblance only, but, alas! Not in reality. Whate’er remains Unfinished, ’mid the shades beneath, to thee With tender care thy father will supply.

CHOR. Smite with thy hand thy miserable head Till it resound. Alas!

HEC. My dearest comrades.

CHOR. Speak to thy friends; O Hecuba, what plaints Hast thou to utter?

HEC. Nought but woe for me Was by the gods reserved; beyond all cities To them hath Troy been odious. We in vain Have offered sacrifice. But had not Jove O’erthrown and plunged us in the shades beneath, We had remained obscure, we by the Muse Had ne’er been sung, nor ever furnished themes To future bards. But for this hapless youth Go and prepare a grave; for the deceased Is with funereal wreaths already crowned: Although these pomps, I deem, are to the dead Of little consequence; an empty pride They in the living serve but to display.

CHOR. Thy wretched mother on thy vital thread Had stretched forth mighty hopes: though styled most happy From thy illustrious birth, thou by a death Most horrid didst expire.

HEC. Ha! who are these Whom I behold, in their victorious hands Waving those torches o’er the roofs of Troy? E’en now o’er Ilion some fresh woes impend.

TALTHYBIUS, HECUBA, CHORUS.

TAL. To you I speak, O leaders of the troops Who are ordained to burn this town of Priam. No longer in your hands without effect Reserve those blazing torches: but hurl flames On this devoted city, for when Troy Is utterly demolished, we shall leave Its hated shores, exulting. But to you, O Phrygians, I the same behests address; When the shrill trumpet of our chief resounds, Ye to the Grecian navy must repair And from these regions sail. But as for thee, Thou aged and most miserable dame, Follow their steps who from Ulysses come. To whom thy fate consigns thee for a slave Far from thy country in a foreign land.

HEC. Ah, wretched me! this surely is the last, The dire completion this, of all my woes. I leave my country: Ilion’s bulwarks flame. Yet, O decrepit feet, with painful haste Bear me along, that I may bid adieu To my unhappy city. Thou, O Troy, Distinguished erst among barbarian tribes By thy superior prowess, soon shalt lose The most illustrious name thou didst acquire: Thee will the flames consume, and us our foes Drag from our home to slavery. O ye gods! Upon the gods yet wherefore should I call? For when we erst invoked them oft, they heard not. Come on, and let us rush amid the flames: For in the ruins of my blazing country ’Twill be to me most glorious to expire.

TAL. Thy griefs, O wretched woman, make thee frantic. But lead her hence, neglect not. For Ulysses Obtained this prize, and she to him must go.

HEC. O dread Saturnian king, from whom the Phrygians Derive their origin, dost thou behold Our sufferings, most unworthy of the race Of Dardanus?

CHOR. He surely doth behold: But this great city, city now no more, Is ruined: nought remains of Troy.

HEC. The blaze Of Ilion glares, the fire hath caught the roofs, The streets of Pergamus, and crashing towers.

CHOR. As the light smoke on rapid wing ascends To heaven, how swiftly vanishes fallen Troy! Torrents of flame have laid the palace waste, And o’er its summit waves the hostile spear.

HEC. O fostering soil, that gave my children birth.

CHOR. Alas! alas!

HEC. Yet hear me, O my sons, Your mother’s voice distinguish.

CHOR. With loud plaints Thou call’st upon the dead, those aged limbs Stretched on the ground, and scraping up the dust With either hand. I follow thy example Kneeling on earth’s cold bosom, and invoke My wretched husband in the shades beneath.

HEC. We forcibly are borne——

CHOR. Most doleful sound!

HEC. To servile roofs.

CHOR. From my dear native land.

HEC. Slain, uninterred, abandoned by thy friends, Thou sure, O Priam, know’st not what I suffer. For sable death hath closed thine eyes for ever; Though pious, thou by impious hands wert murdered. O ye polluted temples of the gods, And thou my dearest city.

CHOR. Ye, alas! Are by the deadly flame and pointed spear Now occupied, on this beloved soil Soon shall you lie a heap of nameless ruins: For dust, which mixed with smoke, to Heaven ascends, No longer will permit me to discern Where erst my habitation stood: the land Loses its very name, and each memorial Of pristine grandeur; wretched Troy’s no more.

HEC. Ye know the fatal truth, ye heard the crash Of falling towers. Our city to its basis Is shaken. O ye trembling, trembling limbs, Support my steps!

TAL. Depart to end thy days In servitude. Alas! thou wretched city! Yet to the navy of the Greeks proceed.

THE CYCLOPS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

SILENUS. CHORUS OF SATYRS. ULYSSES. POLYPHEME THE CYCLOPS.

SCENE.—THE MOUNTAIN OF ÆTNA IN SICILY.

SILENUS.

O Bacchus, for thy sake have I endured Unnumbered toils, both at the present hour, And when these nerves by vigorous youth were strung: By Juno first with wild distraction fired, Thou didst forsake the mountain nymphs whose care Nurtured thy infancy. Next in that war With the gigantic progeny of earth, Stationed beside thee to sustain thy shield, Piercing the buckler of Enceladus, I slew him with my lance. Is this a dream? By Jove it is not: for I showed his spoils To Bacchus, and the labours I endure At present, are so great that they exceed E’en those. For since ’gainst thee Saturnia roused, To bear thee far away, Etruria’s race Of impious pirates, I soon caught th’ alarm, And sailed in quest of thee with all my children: Myself the stern ascended, to direct The rudder, and each satyr plied an oar Till ocean’s azure surface with white foam Was covered; thee, O mighty King, they sought. Near Malea’s harbour as the vessel rode, An eastern blast arose, and to this rock Of Ætna, drove us, where the sons of Neptune, The one-eyed Cyclops, drenched with human gore, Inhabit desert caves; by one of these Were we made captives, and beneath his roof To slavery are reduced. Our master’s name Is Polypheme; instead of Bacchus’ orgies We tend the flocks of an accursed Cyclops. My blooming sons, on yonder distant cliffs, Feed the young lambs; while I at home am stationed The goblet to replenish, and to scrape The rugged floor; to this unholy lord, A minister of impious festivals: And now must I perform the task assigned Of cleansing with this rake the filthy ground, So shall the cave be fit for his reception, When with his flocks my absent lord returns. But I already see my sons approach, Their fleecy charge conducting. Ha! what means This uproar? would ye now renew the dance Of the Sicinnides, as when ye formed The train of amorous Bacchus, and assembled, Charmed by the lute, before Althæa’s gate?

CHORUS, SILENUS.

CHORUS.

ODE.

I.

Sprung from an untainted race, Hardy father of the fold, Why, bounding o’er that craggy space, Roam’st thou desperately bold, Far from the refreshing gale, The verdant herbage of the mead, And sloping channel wont to feed Thy trough with springs that never fail? Yon caves with bleating lambkins ring, Come, depasture with the flock; Leave, O leave the dewy rock, Ere this ponderous stone I fling. Thee with speeding horns I call To the Cyclops’ lofty stall.

II.

Thou too those swollen udders yield, That thy young ones may be fed, Who, while thou browsest o’er the field, Lie neglected in the shed; Slumbering all the livelong day At length with clamorous plaints they wake, Thou t’ appease them wilt forsake Ætna’s valleys ever gay. Young Bromius and his jocund rout Here their orgies ne’er repeat, No thyrsus waves, no drums they beat; Where the gurgling currents spout, Here no vineyards yield delight, Nor sport the nymphs on Nyssa’s height.

III.

Yet here I chaunt the strains which Bacchus taught, To that Venus whom I sought When with the Mænades I ranged. Where, gentle Evan, dost thou tread Alone, and from thy comrades far estranged, Those auburn ringlets floating from thy head? Thy votary once, but now a slave To yonder one-eyed Cyclops, I abide In this detested cave: Covered with a goat’s vile hide, Thy friend, alas! exposed to scorn Wanders helpless and forlorn.

SIL. My sons, be silent: bid your followers drive Their flocks into the stony cave.

CHOR. Proceed. But wherefore, O my father, in this haste?

SIL. A Grecian vessel, stranded on the coast, I see, and to this cave the mariners Attend their leader, on their heads they bear Those empty vessels which express they want Provisions, with fresh water too their urns Would they replenish. O unhappy strangers! Who are they? unapprised what lord here rules, Dread Polypheme, they in an evil hour Are entering this inhospitable threshold, And rushing headlong e’en into the jaws Of this fierce Cyclops, gorged with human flesh. But interrupt me not; I will inquire Whence to Sicilian Ætna’s mount they came.

ULYSSES, SILENUS, CHORUS.

ULY. Can ye direct me, strangers, where to find Fresh springs to slake our thirst; or who will sell Food to the hungry sailor? But what means That group of satyrs, whom before yon cave I see assembled? we at Bacchus’ city Seem to have landed. Thee, the elder-born, Thee first I hail.

SIL. Hail! foreigner; acquaint us Both who you are, and from what realm you came.

ULY. Ulysses, king of Ithaca, and th’ isle Of Cephalenè.

SIL. That loquacious man, The crafty brood of Sisyphus, full well I know.

ULY. Reproach me not, for I am he.

SIL. Whence sailed you to Sicilia?

ULY. From the shores Of blazing Ilion, from the war of Troy.

SIL. What, knew you not the way to your own country?

ULY. The tempests violently drove me hither.

SIL. By Heaven, your fortunes are the same with mine.

ULY. What cam’st thou hither too against thy will?

SIL. Yes, in pursuit of those accursed pirates Who seized on Bromius.

ULY. But what land is this, And by what men inhabitated?

SIL. This mountain, Called Ætna, overlooks Sicilia’s plains.

ULY. Where are the fortresses and lofty towers Which guard its peopled cities?

SIL. They exist not. No men, O stranger, on these summits dwell.

ULY. But who possess the land, a savage race Of beasts?

SIL. The Cyclops occupy these caves, They have no houses.

ULY. Governed by what chief? Is this a mere democracy?

SIL. They lead The life of shepherds, and in no respect Yield to each other.

ULY. Do they sow the grain Of Ceres, or on what do they subsist?

SIL. On milk, on cheese, and on their sheep, they feed.

ULY. Affords the vine, nectareous juice, the drink Bacchus invented?

SIL. No such thing: they dwell In an ungrateful soil.

ULY. But do they practise The rites of hospitality, and hold The stranger sacred?

SIL. They aver the flesh Of strangers is a most delicious food.

ULY. What saidst thou, banquet they on human flesh?

SIL. Here no man lands who is not doomed to bleed.

ULY. Where is this Cyclops, in the cave?

SIL. He went To Ætna’s summit, with his hounds to trace The savage beasts.