SCENE I

_Hecuba, Andromache, Messenger._

_Messenger._ O bitter, cruel, lamentable fate! In these ten years of crime what deed so hard, So sad, has Mars encountered? What decree Of fate shall I lament? Thy bitter lot, 1085 Andromache? Or thine, thou aged one?

_Hecuba._ Whatever woe thou mournst is Hecuba's; Their own griefs only others have to bear, I bear the woes of all, all die through me, And sorrow follows all who call me friend. 1090

_Andromache._ Suffering ever loves to tell its woes, Tell of the deaths--the tale of double crime; Speak, tell us all.

_Messenger._ One mighty tower remains Of Troy, no more is left; from this high seat Priam, the arbiter of war, was wont 1095 To view his troops; and in this tower he sat And, in caressing arms, embraced the son Of Hector, when that hero put to flight With fire and sword the trembling, conquered Greeks. From thence he showed the child its father's deeds. This tower, the former glory of our walls, 1101 Is now a lonely, ruined mass of rock; Thither the throng of chiefs and people flock; From the deserted ships the Grecian host Come pouring; on the hills some find a place, 1105 Some on the rising cliffs, upon whose top They stand tiptoe; some climb the pines, and birch, And laurel, till beneath the gathered crowd The whole wood trembles; some have found the peaks Of broken crags; some climb a swaying roof, 1110 Or toppling turret of the falling wall; And some, rude lookers-on, mount Hector's tomb. Through all the crowded space, with haughty mien, Passes the Ithacan, and by the hand Leads Priam's grandson; nor with tardy step 1115 Does the young hero mount the lofty wall. Standing upon the top, with fearless heart He turns his eagle glance from side to side. As the young, tender cub of some wild beast, Not able yet to raven with its teeth, 1120 Bites harmlessly, and proudly feels himself A lion; so this brave and fearless child, Holding the right hand of his enemy, Moves host and leaders and Ulysses' self. He only does not weep for whom all weep, 1125 But while the Ithacan begins the words Of the prophetic message and the prayers To the stern gods, he leaps into the midst Of his and Priam's kingdom, willingly.

_Andromache._ Was ever such a deed by Colchians done, 1130 Or wandering Scythians, or the lawless race That dwells beside the Caspian? Never yet Has children's blood Busiris' altars stained, Nor Diomedes feasted his fierce steeds On children's limbs! Who took thy body up, My son, and bore it to the sepulcher? 1136

_Messenger._ What would that headlong leap have left? His bones Lie dashed in pieces by the heavy fall, His face and noble form, inheritance From his illustrious father, are with earth 1140 Commingled; broken is his neck; his head Is dashed in pieces on the cruel stones So that the brains gush forth; his body lies Devoid of form.

_Andromache._ Like Hector, too, in this.

_Messenger._ When from the wall the boy was headlong cast 1145 And the Achaians wept the crime they did, Then turned these same Achaians to new crimes, And to Achilles' tomb. With quiet flow The Rhœtean waters beat the further side, And opposite the tomb the level plain 1150 Slopes gently upward, and surrounds the place Like a wide amphitheater; here the strand Is thronged with lookers-on, who think to end With this last death their vessels' long delay, And glad themselves to think the foeman's seed At last cut off. The fickle, common crowd 1156 Look coldly on; the most part hate the crime. The Trojans haste with no less eagerness To their own funeral rites, and, pale with fear, Behold the final fall of ruined Troy. 1160 As at a marriage, suddenly they bring The bridal torches; Helen goes before, Attendant to the bride, with sad head bent. 'So may the daughter of Hermione Be wed,' the Phrygians pray, 'base Helen find Again her husband.' Terror seizes both 1166 The awe-struck peoples. With her glance cast down, Modestly comes the victim; but her cheeks Glow, and her beauty shines unwontedly; So shines the light of Phœbus gloriously 1170 Before his setting, when the stars return And day is darkened by approaching night. The throng is silenced; all men praise the maid Who now must die: some praise her lovely form, Her tender age moves some, and some lament The fickleness of fortune; every one 1176 Is touched at heart by her courageous soul, Her scorn of death. She comes, by Pyrrhus led; All wonder, tremble, pity; when the hill Is reached, and on his father's grave advanced, The young king stands, the noble maid shrinks not, 1181 But waits unflinchingly the fatal blow. Her unquelled spirit moves the hearts of all; And--a new prodigy--Pyrrhus is slow At slaughter; but at length, with steady hand, He buries to the hilt the gleaming sword 1186 Within her breast; the life-blood gushes forth From the deep wound; in death as heretofore Her soul is strong; with angry thud she falls As she would make the earth a heavy load 1190 Upon Achilles' breast. Both armies weep; The Trojans offer only feeble moans; The victors mourn more freely. So was made The sacrifice; her blood lay not for long Upon the soil, nor flowed away; the tomb 1195 Drank cruelly the gore.

_Hecuba._ Go, conquering Greeks, Securely seek your homes; with all sail set, Your fleet may safely skim the longed-for sea. The lad and maid are dead, the war is done! Where can I hide my woe, where lay aside 1200 The long delay of the slow-passing years? Whom shall I weep? my husband, grandson, child, Or country? Mourn the living or the dead? O longed-for death, with violence dost thou come To babes and maidens, but thou fleest from me! Through long night sought, mid fire, and swords, and spears, 1206 Why fly me? Not the foe, nor ruined home, Nor flame could slay me, though so near I stood To Priam!

_Messenger._ [_Talthybius, coming from the Greek camp._ Captive women, seek with speed The sea; the sails are filled, the vessels move. 1210

End of Project Gutenberg's Two Tragedies of Seneca, by Lucius Annaeus Seneca