(Homer’s Iliad vi. 369-503.)
Thus, having done his duty to his gods
And to his country, Hector sought his home,
Where Art and Nature vied in loveliness.
Love winged his feet; his home he quickly found.
But her whom his soul loved he found not there,
Her of the snowy arms, Andromache:
For she, with infant child and well-robed nurse,
Unto a tower that faced the Grecian camp
Had gone to watch and weep. So Hector paused
Upon the threshold, as he left the house,
And made enquiry of the household maids:
“Come now, handmaidens, answer me in truth,
Whither white-armed Andromache has gone,
To seek my sisters, or my brothers’ wives,
Or to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright-haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears?”
A trusty servant quickly made response:
“Hector, my lord, right willingly my lips
Shall answer truthfully thy eager quest,—
Not to thy sisters, nor thy brothers’ wives,
Nor to Athene’s temple, where a crowd
Of matrons seek the bright haired goddess’ wrath
To turn to mercy by the strength of tears,
Has gone Andromache; but she has gone
Unto a lofty tower of Ilion
To watch the contest, for bad tidings came
Of Greeks victorious and of Trojans slain;
And at this moment, like a frenzied one,
She rushes to the rampart, while, behind,
Her darling boy is carried by his nurse.”
She ceased; nor waited Hector long, but rushed
Forth from the house, along the very way
That he had come, through fair-built Troja’s streets;
Nor paused he till he reached the Scæan gate,
(Through which he meant to hie him to the plain).
But here Andromache of queenly dower,
His wife, the daughter of Eëtion,
Who dwelt erstwhile ’neath Placus’ woody height,
In Thebe, ruling o’er Cilician men,
Came running till she met him in the way.
With her, the nurse, who to her bosom held
An innocent-hearted babe, their only son,
His father’s joy, in beauty like a star,
Scamandrius named by Hector, but the host
Called him Astyanax, the City’s King,
Honouring Hector chief defence of Troy.
And now he looked on him, and smiled a smile
That spake his heart more than a thousand words,
And called the tears into his mother’s eyes.
She, clinging to her husband, grasped his hand,
And, sobbing “Hector,” spoke to him these words:
“Ah! love, thy bravery will be thy bane,
And, seeking glory, thou forgettest him
And me, ah! hapless me when thou art gone!
Soon, soon, I know it, all the foes of Troy,
Rushing on thee at once, shall take thy life.
And, when I miss thee, it were better far
That I were laid beneath the ground: for I
Shall then have none to comfort me, not one,
But woes on woes, when thou hast left me, Hector!
No sire have I, nor gentle mother left,—
Him, as thou know’st, the proud Achilles slew,
And razed his fair-built city to the ground.
High-gated Thebe. Yet he spoiled him not,
Although he slew him, but, with reverence,
Laid him in glittering arms upon the pyre,
And raised a mound in honour of his name,
Which the hill-nymphs garlanded round with elms,
The daughters of the ægis-bearing Zeus.
And my seven brothers, in one fatal day,
Entered the gloomy shades where Pluto reigns,
Slain by the ruthless hand that slew my sire,
As, in their native fields, they watched the herds
Of kine, slow-footed, and of snowy sheep.
Nor did my queenly mother long survive,
For, led a captive to the Grecian camp,
With other spoils, the victor sent her home,
For goodly ransom, only to be slain
By the sure shaft of huntress Artemis.
But thou art father, mother, brother, spouse,
My pride, my Hector! Oh! then, pity me!
Stay here and watch with me upon this tower,—
Stay, stay, my Hector, go not hence to make
Thy child an orphan and a widow me!
But set the forces by the Fig-tree Hill,
Where the chief risk of hostile entrance lies,
And where the wall is weakest. At that point
Already have the bravest of our foes—
Idomeneus and either Ajax, Diomede,
And the two sons of Atreus—made assault,
Whether incited thither by some voice
Prophetic, or high hope of victory.
So stay, my Hector, they will need thee here.”
Then valiant Hector, of quick-glancing helm,
Thus made reply: “Of all that thou hast said,
My own true wife, I feel, I know the truth,
But—could I bear the taunts of Trojan chiefs
And stately Trojan dames, if, coward-like,
I skulked from battle in my country’s need?
Nor does my spirit keep me from the fight,
For I have learned, brave-hearted, ’mid the first,
To draw my sword in Ilion’s defence,
To struggle for the honour of my sire
And for my own. Although too well I know
The day shall come when sacred Troy must fall,
And Priam and his war-like hosts, who well
Can wield in fight the ashen-handled spear!
But not the woes of my brave countrymen,
Nor yet my mother’s nor my kingly sire’s,
Nor all my brethren’s who shall bite the dust
’Neath bitter foes, touch me so much as thine,
When some one of the brass-mailed Greeks shall end
Thy days of freedom, leading thee away
In tears; and, haply, in far Argos, thou
May’st tend another’s loom or water draw
From Hyperea’s or Messeis’ fount,—
A slavish duty forced on thee by fate.
And some one, looking on thy tears, may say:
‘She was the wife of Hector, who excelled
In fight among the chiefs that fought for Troy.’
And thy poor heart will ache with vain regret
For him whose strong right arm would keep thee free.
Then may his heaped-up grave keep Hector’s eyes
From looking on thy sorrow and disgrace!”
So spake the noble Hector, and his arms
Extended to receive his son; but he
Shrank, crying, to his well-robed nurse’s breast,
Fearing the war-like presence of his sire,
His brazen armour and the horse-hair crest
Above his helmet nodding fearfully.
And Hector took the helmet off his head
And laid it down, all gleaming, on the ground;
And then he kissed and dandled him, and prayed
To Zeus and all the gods on his behalf:
“O Zeus and all ye gods, I pray you, grant
That this, my son, may, as his sire, excel,
And may he truly be the City’s King!
And may men say of him, as he returns
From war: ‘He’s braver than his father was.’
May he from war-like men take gory spoils,
And may his mother glory in his might!”
Such was the warrior’s prayer; and in the arms
Of his dear wife he placed the little child.
She clasped the treasure to her fragrant breast,
Tearfully smiling. And her husband’s soul
Was touched with pity, and he nursed her hand,
And called her by her name: “Andromache,
My love, fret not thyself too much for me!
No man descends to Hades ere his time,
And none whoe’er is born escapes his fate,
Whether his heart be cowardly or brave.
But, love, returning home, apply thyself
To household duties, and thy handmaidens
Despatch to theirs, the distaff and the loom.
For war must be the business of men,
And of all men that have been born in Troy,
This war has need of none so much as me.”
Thus having spoken, noble Hector placed
The waving helmet on his head again.
And, silently, Andromache returned
(Oft looking back through her fast-gushing tears)
To the fair mansion of her warrior spouse.
And there, amid her handmaidens, she wept;
And they wept, too, mourning their lord as dead,
While yet he lived: for, though he lived, they said
They knew that he would never more return,
Exulting in his prowess, from the war.
THE LAMENT OF ANDROMACHE FOR HECTOR.
(Homer’s Iliad xxii. 437-515.)
But she whom he had loved, Andromache,
Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had come
To tell her of his stay without the walls.
She in the lofty palace sat retired
Within her chamber, working at the loom,—
Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowers
Embroidered.
But, as she her fair-haired maids
Enjoined to place upon the blazing fire
The spacious caldron, that the soothing bath
Might be for Hector ready when he came
Home from the battle, knowing not that he,
Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding lay
Beneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the sound
Of weeping and of wailing on the walls;
And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fell
Upon the ground.
Then cried she to her maids:
“Come, quickly, follow me, that we may see
What thing has happened, for I surely heard
My mother’s voice. My heart within my breast
Bounds to my lips,—my knees are stiff with fear,—
And—oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house.
Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ son
Has severed my brave Hector from the town,
And drives him to the plain; and soon his life
Will be the forfeit of his manly rage.
Never would he abide amid the crowd,
But must be ever foremost in the war,—
In valour without peer.”
She said, and flew
Forth from the palace, like a frenzied one,
With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her.
But when she reached the tower, amid the throng,
She stood upon the wall, and gazed around,
Until she saw her Hector dragged along
With foul dishonour by the prancing steeds
Towards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight,
Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes.
Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fall
The ornaments that bound her captive hair,
Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil,
And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift,
What day brave Hector led Andromache
Forth from her father’s house, Eëtion.
Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle care
Received her sinking form, and by her side
Waited in fear lest she should wake no more.
But when, at last, the parted life returned
And the full sense of misery, she wept
Among her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs,
Called Hector’s name:
“Ah, wretched me! my Hector,
Surely a cruel fate has followed us
Since we were born,—thou, in this city, Troy,
In Priam’s palace,—I, in far-off Thebes,
Where Placus rears on high his woody crest,
The hapless daughter of a hapless king!
Oh! would that I had never seen the sun!
For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abode
Thou hast descended, leaving me alone,
A mournful widow in thy empty halls.
And he who was his hapless parents’ pride,
Our infant son, shall see thy face no more,
Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes,
Since thine are closed in death.
Unhappy boy!
If even he escape the Grecian sword,
Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot,
And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,—
The woful day of orphanage has made
His life all friendless and companionless,—
The constant prey of grief, upon his cheek
The tears shall never dry,—and he must beg
With suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests,
Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed.
His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry need
Both parents well supply, with cruel hands
Thrusting him from the feast, will rudely say:
‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’
Then to his widowed mother, all in tears,
My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax,
Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee,
Shared in the choicest titbits of the board;
And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased,
Lulled by his tender nurse, his little head
Reposed on downy pillow, and his cheek
Glowed with the silent pleasure of his heart.
Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone,
Whose valour won his name Astyanax,
‘The City’s King,’—for Hector was of Troy,
Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence.
And thou, my Hector, liest all unclad
Far from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,—
Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,—
While in thy desert halls neglected lie
The soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee,
Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught.
These now must only deck thy funeral pyre,
In mournful honour to thy cherished name—
The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”
Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around,
The listening chorus of her maidens wept.