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From the Greek by Alexander Pope
From “The Iliad,” Book VI.
“TOO daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? | |
| Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son! | |
| And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be, | |
| A widow I, a helpless orphan he! | |
| For sure such courage length of life denies, | 5 |
| And thou must fall, thy virtue’s sacrifice. | |
| Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; | |
| Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! | |
| Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, | |
| All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! | 10 |
| So shall my days in one sad tenor run, | |
| And end with sorrows as they first begun. | |
| No parent now remains, my griefs to share, | |
| No father’s aid, no mother’s tender care. | |
| The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, | 15 |
| Laid Thebè waste, and slew my warlike sire! | |
| His fate compassion in the victor bred; | |
| Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, | |
| His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, | |
| And laid him decent on the funeral pile; | 20 |
| Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned; | |
| The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned; | |
| Jove’s sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow | |
| A barren shade, and in his honor grow. * * * * * | |
| “Yet while my Hector still survives, I see | 25 |
| My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee. | |
| Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, | |
| Once more will perish if my Hector fall. | |
| Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share; | |
| Oh prove a husband’s and a father’s care! | 30 |
| That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy, | |
| Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: | |
| Thou, from this tower defend th’ important post; | |
| There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, | |
| That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, | 35 |
| And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. | |
| Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, | |
| Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. | |
| Let others in the field their arms employ, | |
| But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.” | 40 |
| The chief replied: “That post shall be my care, | |
| Nor that alone, but all the works of war. | |
| [How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, | |
| And Troy’s proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, | |
| Attaint the lustre of my former name, | 45 |
| Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? | |
| My early youth was bred to martial pains, | |
| My soul impels me to th’ embattled plains: | |
| Let me be foremost to defend the throne, | |
| And guard my father’s glories, and my own. | 50 |
| Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; | |
| (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates) | |
| The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, | |
| And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. | |
| And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, | 55 |
| My mother’s death, the ruin of my kind, | |
| Not Priam’s hoary hairs denied with gore, | |
| Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; | |
| As thine, Andromachè! thy griefs I dread; | |
| I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!] | 60 |
| In Argive looms our battles to design, | |
| And woes of which so large a part was thine! | |
| To bear the victor’s hard commands or bring | |
| The weight of waters from Hyperia’s spring. | |
| There, while you groan beneath the load of life, | 65 |
| They cry, Behold the mighty Hector’s wife! | |
| Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, | |
| Embitters all thy woes by naming me. | |
| The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, | |
| A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! | 70 |
| May I lie cold before that dreadful day, | |
| Pressed with a load of monumental clay! | |
| Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep, | |
| Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.” | |
| Thus having spoke, th’ illustrious chief of Troy | 75 |
| Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. | |
| The babe clung crying to his nurse’s breast, | |
| Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. | |
| With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, | |
| And Hector hastèd to relieve his child; | 80 |
| The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, | |
| And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. | |
| Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, | |
| Thus to the gods preferred a father’s prayer: | |
| “O thou whose glory fills th’ ethereal throne, | 85 |
| And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! | |
| Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, | |
| To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, | |
| Against his country’s foes the war to wage, | |
| And rise the Hector of the future age! | 90 |
| So when, triumphant from successful toils, | |
| Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, | |
| Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, | |
| And say, This chief transcends his father’s fame: | |
| While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, | 95 |
| His mother’s conscious heart o’erflows with joy.” | |
| He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms | |
| Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; | |
| Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, | |
| Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. | 100 |
| The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, | |
| She mingled with the smile a tender tear. | |
| The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, | |
| And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: | |
| “Andromachè! my soul’s far better part, | 105 |
| Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? | |
| No hostile hand can antedate my doom, | |
| Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. | |
| Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, | |
| And such the hard condition of our birth. | 110 |
| No force can then resist, no flight can save; | |
| All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. | |
| No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home, | |
| There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: | |
| Me glory summons to the martial scene, | 115 |
| The field of combat is the sphere for men. | |
| Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, | |
| The first in danger as the first in fame.” | |
| Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes | |
| His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. | 120 |
| His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, | |
| Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, | |
| That streamed at every look: then, moving slow, | |
| Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. | |
| There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, | 125 |
| Through all her train the soft infection ran; | |
| The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, | |
| And mourn the living Hector as the dead. | |
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