O thou whose wound was deepest, Thou that my children keepest, Priam, Priam, O age-worn King, Gather me where thou sleepest.
ANDROMACHE (her hands upon her heart).
[Strophe 3.
O here is the deep of desire,
HEC. (How? And is this not woe?)
AND. For a city burned with fire;
HEC. (It beateth, blow on blow.)
AND. God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago:
Who sold for his evil love Troy and the towers thereof: Therefore the dead men lie Naked, beneath the eye Of Pallas, and vultures croak And flap for joy: So Love hath laid his yoke On the neck of Troy!
HECUBA.
[Antistrophe 3.
O mine own land, my home,
AND. (I weep for thee, left forlorn,)
HEC. See'st thou what end is come?
AND. (And the house where my babes were born.)
HEC. A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn:
Even as the sound of a song[32] Left by the way, but long Remembered, a tune of tears Falling where no man hears, In the old house, as rain, For things loved of yore: But the dead hath lost his pain And weeps no more.
LEADER.
How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress, And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness.
ANDROMACHE[33].
Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here?
HECUBA.
I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down.
ANDROMACHE.
I and my babe are driven among the droves Of plundered cattle. O, when fortune moves So swift, the high heart like a slave beats low.
HECUBA.
'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but now Have taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain.
ANDROMACHE.
Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again? But other evil yet is at thy gate.
HECUBA.
Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weight My evils are! Doom raceth against doom.
ANDROMACHE.
Polyxena across Achilles' tomb Lies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead.
HECUBA.
My sorrow!... 'Tis but what Talthybius said: So plain a riddle, and I read it not.
ANDROMACHE.
I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot; And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat My breast for her.
HECUBA (to herself).
O the foul sin of it! The wickedness! My child. My child! Again I cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain!
ANDROMACHE.
She hath died her death, and howso dark it be, Her death is sweeter than my misery.
HECUBA.
Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup Of Death is empty, and Life hath always hope.
ANDROMACHE.