SCENE II

_Hecuba, Chorus of Trojan Women._

_Chorus._ You bid those weep who are not new to grief; Our lamentations have not ceased to rise From that day when the Phrygian stranger sought Grecian Amyclæ; and the sacred pine Of Mother Cybele, through Grecian seas 75 A pathway cut. Ten times the winter snows Have whitened Ida--Ida stripped of trees To furnish Trojan dead with funeral pyres-- Ten times the trembling reaper has gone forth To cut the bearded grain from Ilium's fields, 80 Since any day has seen us free from tears. New sorrows ask new mourning, lift thy hand And beat upon thy breast: thy followers, queen, Are not inept at weeping.

_Hecuba._ Faithful ones, Companions of my grief, unbind your hair; 85 About your shoulders let it flow defiled With Troy's hot ashes; come with breast exposed, Carelessly loosened robes, and naked limbs; Why veil your modest bosoms, captive ones? Gird up your flowing tunics, free your hands 90 For fierce and frequent beating of your breasts. So I am satisfied, I recognize My Trojan followers; again I hear Their wonted lamentations. Weep indeed; We weep for Hector.

_Chorus._ We unbind our hair, 95 So often torn in wild laments, and strew Troy's glowing ashes on our heads; permit Our loosened robe to drop from shoulders bare; Our naked bosoms now invite our blows. O sorrow, show thy power; let Rhœta's shores 100 Give back the blows, nor from her hollow hills Faint Echo sound the closing words alone, But let her voice repeat each bitter groan, And earth and ocean hear. With cruel blows Smite, smite, nor be content with faint laments: 105 We weep for Hector.

_Hecuba._ For thee our hands have torn our naked arms And bleeding shoulders; Hector, 'tis for thee We beat our brows and lacerate our breasts; The wounds inflicted in thy funeral rites 110 Still gape and flow with blood. Thou, Hector, wast The pillar of thy land, her fates' delay, The prop of wearied Phrygians, and the wall Of Troy; by thee supported, firm she stood, Ten years upheld. With thee thy country fell, 115 Her day of doom and Hector's were the same. Weep now for Priam, smite for him your breasts; Hector has tears enough.

_Chorus._ Pilot of Phrygia, twice a captive made, Receive our tears, receive our wild laments. 120 Whilst thou wast king, Troy suffered many woes; Twice by Greek weapons were her walls assailed; Twice were they made a target for the darts Of Hercules; and when that kingly band, Hecuba's offspring, had been offered up, 125 With thee, their sire, the funeral rites were stayed; An offering to great Jove, thy headless trunk Lies on Sigea's plain.

_Hecuba._ Women of Troy, For others shed your tears; not Priam's death I weep; say rather all, thrice happy he! 130 Free he descended to the land of shades, Nor will he ever bear on conquered neck The Grecian yoke; nor the Atrides see; Nor look on shrewd Ulysses; nor, a slave, Carry the trophies on his neck to grace 135 A Grecian triumph; feel his sceptered hands Bound at his back; nor add a further pomp To proud Mycene, forced in golden chains To follow Agamemnon's royal car.

_Chorus._ Thrice happy Priam! as a king he went 140 Into the land of spirits; wanders now Through the safe shadows of Elysian Fields, In happiness among the peaceful shades, And seeks for Hector. Happy Priam say! Thrice happy he, who, dying in the fight, 145 Bears with him to destruction all his land.