Book XXII

SO these up and down through the city, as fawns in panic quaking,
Were cooling the sweat on their brows, and the fire of their thirst were they slaking,
On the fair-built battlements leaning: but on the Achaians pressed
Ever nigher the wall, and their shields on their shoulders the while did they rest,
But there were the feet of Hector fettered by baleful fate
In front of Ilium to tarry before the Skaian gate.
But Phoebus Apollo spake to Achilles Peleus’ seed:
“Wherefore with swift feet, Peleus’ son, after me dost thou speed,
Who art mortal, and I an Immortal?—Ha, nowise thou knewest ere now
How that I am a God, but with tireless feet on stormest thou!
What, carest thou naught for the Trojans’ toil, whom thou puttest in fear?
Lo, now in the town are they gathered: thou turnest aside and art here!
Me shalt thou never slay; not subject to death am I.”
Then sorely disquieted fleetfoot Achilles made reply:
“Thou hast thwarted me, Smiter from Far, above all Gods worker of ill,
From the wall who hast hitherward turned me, else many another still
Had gnashed his teeth in the dust ere they won unto Ilium again!
Thou hast reft great glory from me, and my foes hast delivered from bane
With a light heart:—vengeance to come was there none to cause thee to quail.
I would surely avenge me on thee, if my strength for the deed might avail!”
He spake, and with heart uplifted he turned him aback to the town,
Rushing on as a horse in a chariot, a winner of guerdon-renown,
When he runneth full lightly, and straineth away and away o’er the plain;
So lithe were his feet and his knees, as Achilles plied them amain.
And him did the old man Priam the first with his eyes espy,
O’er the plain as he rushed far-flashing, as gleameth the star from the sky,
The star of the latter summer, whose beams exceeding bright
Appear mid the host of heaven in the hush of the dead of night,
Which men have surnamed with a name, and the Hound of Orion they call:
Brightest it is, but a sign and a token of evil withal,
For a bearer it is of fever to many a hapless man:
Even so did the brass on the breast of Achilles flash as he ran.
And the old man wailed, and he smote on his head, uplifting on high
His hands, and he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry,
Beseeching his dear-loved son: but in front of the gate he stood
Eager to fight with Achilles, and all unshaken of mood.
And the old man stretching his hands unto him made pitiful moan:
“O Hector, my son, my beloved, abide this man not alone
With none other to help thee, lest on a sudden doom thou light
Overborne by Peleides, for greater by far than thine is his might,—
That ruthless man!—oh would that as dear to the Gods he were
As to me! —his body full soon should the hounds and the vultures tear
As he lay: then forth of mine heart should its terrible anguish flee!—
The man who of sons full many and brave hath bereaved me,
Slaying and selling to thraldom in isles far over the sea.
Yea, now two sons, Lykaon and Polydorus withal,
I cannot discern mid the Trojans that throng within Ilium’s wall:
Laothoé bare them to me: among women a princess she is.
But if yet mid the host of the foemen they live, ah then, I wis,
Redeem them will we with the brass and the gold in mine halls that is found,
For that much to his daughter was given of Altes the ancient renowned.
But and if by this they be dead, and have passed unto Hades’ hall,
Upon me and the mother who bare them shall trouble and anguish fall;
But lighter shall lie on the rest of the people their burden of woe
If thou too perish not by Achilles’ hands laid low.
Nay, pass thou within the wall, dear child, and save thereby
The Trojans and daughters of Troy, and glory great and high
Give not to Peleides, nor thou of the precious life be bereft.
And compassionate wretched me, who yet have feeling left,
The hapless, whom Father Kronion shall slay on the threshold of eld
By an evil fate, when mine eyes full many an ill have beheld,
Have beheld sons butchered, and daughters dragged unto shame and thrall,
And my chambers havoc-wasted, and helpless babes withal
Uplifted and dashed to the ground in the ghastly sport of the fray,
And the wives of my sons by Achaian ravishers haled away.
And me, even me, at the entering in of my doors at the last
Raw-ravening dogs shall rend—when a foeman with javelin-cast
Or with stab of the keen-whetted brass my life from my limbs shall have sped,—
Those trencher-hounds, door-warders that I in mine own halls fed;.
Drunk with my blood, yea, maddened therewith, in the porch of my gate
Shall they lay them down. For the young man seemly is every fate,
Battle-stricken, with keen brass mangled and torn, to lie:—
Whatsoever befall, there is honour, for so do the heroes die.
But ah, when the hoary head and the white beard’s reverend hair
And the shame of the old man slaughtered the dogs defile and tear,
Most piteous is this of all that wretched mortals bear.”
The old man spake, and his hoary hair he plucked and rent
From his head with his hands, yet would not Hector’s purpose be bent.
And his mother wept the while and lamented sore distressed,
And she loosened the folds of her vesture, she bared the mother’s breast,
And with shedding of tears the swift-winged words to her son she addressed:
“O Hector, my child, have respect unto this, and have mercy on me,
Even me; if ever I gave consolation of this unto thee,
Remember it, O my son, my darling, and fight yon foe
From within the wall, nor without for a champion stand thou so!
He is ruthless; for if he shall slay thee, I never shall lay on a bed
The blossom that sprang from my womb, nor lament my belovéd dead,
Nor thy wife of the rich bride-price: but from us O far away
By the ships of the Argives the fleetfoot dogs shall devour the prey.”
So to their dear-loved son with weeping and wailing they cried,
And with earnest beseeching; yet turned not Hector’s purpose aside.
But-he waited Achilles the mighty as nearer and nearer he sped,
As a mountain-snake by his den abideth the wayfarer’s tread,
Which hath eaten of deadly herbs; dread fury hath passed into him,
And coiled round the pit of his den he is glaring exceeding grim:
So Hector with quenchless fury filled would in no wise yield;
And against a tower forth-jutting he leaned his glittering shield.
But in sore disquiet he spake to his spirit gallant-souled:
“Ah me, if I enter the gates and the walls of the fencéd hold,
First will Polydamas be to heap reproach on me then,
Who bade me backward to lead to the city the Trojan men
When fell that ruinous night when Achilles uprose to the war.
But I would not hearken nor heed;—ay, this had been better far!
But now, forasmuch as my folly hath ruined the host, I fear
Troy’s sons and her scornful daughters royally-robed, and the jeer,
Lest haply a worser than I shall say with mocking sneer:
‘ Hector by trust in his own might brought the people to bane!’
So shall they say: but for me, it were more, far more for my gain
To face Achilles, and turn not again till I smite him down,
Or in front of the town by his hand with honour to die and renown.
—But what if my buckler boss-bestarred I should lay down here,
And my massy helmet, and lean against yon wall my spear,
And myself should go and stand the princely Achilles before,
And should promise to him that Helen and all that treasure-store,
What things soe’er Alexander in hollow ships oversea
Brought unto Troy, wherefrom this strife began to be,
I would render to Atreus’ sons to bear away, and beside
Would give the Achaians the half of the wealth this city doth hide,
And would take an oath of the Trojans, and cause the elders to swear
To hide back nothing thereof, but to make division fair
Of all the warded wealth in the city glorious?
—Tush! wherefore now is mine heart within me communing thus?
I go to meet him!—Achilles will nowise pity nor spare;
He will have not any respect, but will slay me fenceless there:
Like a woman shall I be slain, of my war-gear disarrayed.
No time is it now from beneath a rock or an oak-tree’s shade
To speak soft words unto him, as of maiden and youth it is done
When maiden and youth together softly murmur alone.
Better to clash in the strife. Let us speedily see and know
Upon whether of us the Olympian glory’s meed will bestow.”
So mused he, and tarried: but nearer Achilles and nearer pressed,
Like the Warrior-god Enyalius, Lord of the tossing crest,
Brandishing over his rightward shoulder the Pelian ash,
Terrible: round him the brazen armour gleamed, as the flash
Of fire when its flame rusheth up, or the sun springing up from the sea.
And trembling on Hector gat hold when he saw: no more dared he
There to abide, but the gates he forsook, and he fled in his fear,
And Peleides in pride of his fleetness of foot rushed after the fleer.
Even as a hawk on the mountains, the swiftest of all winged things,
On a trembling hare cometh swooping adown with effortless wings,
And she fleeth before him, but he with a wild scream following still
Darteth to seize her, and darteth again with eager will:
So in his fury he flew right onward, and Hector fled
‘Neath the wall of the Trojans, and strained strong knees that lightly sped.
On, by the watch-height—on, by the wild-fig tossed with the wind,—
By the wain-track they darted, leaving the wall ever farther behind.
And they came to the beautiful-flowing springs where the ripples gleam
As the fountains twain well up of Skamander’s swirling stream.
For with warm flood floweth the one, and around it upgoeth a smoke
Therefrom, as though it were blazing fire from the earth that broke.
And the other in summer’s heat as cold hail gusheth forth,
Or as snow, or as ice of the water begotten by winds of the north.
And beside them cisterns broad fair-fashioned of stone are there,
Full nigh, whither wives of the Trojan men and their daughters fair
Were wont to bring their glistering raiment and cleanse the same
In the olden days of peace, ere the sons of Achaia came.
Thereby those twain, this fleeing, and that pursuing, raced:
’Twas a brave man fled before, but a mightier far who chased
Swiftly; for not for an ox they contended, no hide was the meed,—
Such things as be set for guerdons when men in the footrace speed,—
But they raced for the life of Hector the queller of the steed.
And as thunderfoot horses, the winners of guerdons, with feet fast-flying
Dash round the turning-post, and there is the great prize lying,
A tripod or woman-thrall, when dead is a mighty man;
So compassing thrice the city of Priam the heroes ran
With hurrying feet: and all the Gods looked on from the sky.
And now did the Father of Gods and of men in the midst of them cry:
“Out on it!—dear unto me is the man that I see with mine eyes
Hunted around yon wall, and ruth in mine heart doth arise
For Hector, who burnt to me sacrifice-thighs, ay, many an one,
Now on the crests of Ida of many a fold, and anon
On the citadel’s height: even him Achilles the godlike at last
Is hunting around the city of Priam with feet flying fast.
But come now, bethink you, ye Gods, take counsel together for this:
Or shall we redeem his life from destruction, or, brave as he is,
In death shall we bow him beneath Achilles Peleus’ seed?”
Unto him made answer Athéné, the Grey-eyed uttered her rede:
“O Father of gleaming levin and dark cloud, what sayest thou?
A man that is mortal, whose weird hath been spoken long ere now,
For him wouldst thou loose the bands of death dread-echoing?
Ay, work thy will—but the Gods shall nowise praise this thing!”
But answer to her did Zeus the Cloudrack-gatherer make:
“Fear not, O Trito-begotten, belovéd child: I spake
Nowise with purpose of heart, but of grace unto thee am I fain.
As thy spirit hath moved thee, so shalt thou do; and thou shalt not refrain.”
Enkindled the more by his word was Athéné the eager-hearted:
She flashed from the crests of Olympus, and down to the earth she darted.
Swift-chasing Hector amain Achilles followed his flight;
As a hound which hath roused from its covert a fawn on a mountain-height
Chaseth the child of the stag through many a glade and glen;
And though it should cower ’neath a bush, and a moment escape his ken,
Yet unresting he runneth, and scenteth it out, till he light thereon:
So never might Hector baffle Peleus’ fleetfoot son;
But oft as over against the gates Dardanian
He would suddenly swerve to dart ’neath the stately towers as he ran,
If haply his friends from above with their darts would succour his plight,
So often Achilles would head him, and backward turn him in flight
To the plain, for himself on the cityward side flew on evermore.
And as one in a dream can ne’er overtake him who fleeth before,
As this one can never escape, neither that draw nigh to the fleer,
So never could this with his feet overtake, neither that win clear.
And how had Hector escaped so long from death’s grim doom,
Except for the last and the uttermost time Apollo had come
To his side, and enkindled his might, making lightsome his knees as they sped?
But unto his war-folk ever Achilles shook his head,
And forbade them to hurl their bitter darts, lest another should win
The glory of Hector’s death, and himself be but second therein.
But when for the fourth time these to the fountains twain drew nigh,
Then hung Allfather his golden Balances forth from the sky:
Two fates of Death the outstretcher in sleep thereinto he flung,
Whereon the lives of Achilles and Hector the horse-queller hung.
By the midst did he grasp them and raise—sank Hector’s doom-fraught day
Down, down unto Hades, and Phoebus passed from his side away.
Then came to Peleides the Goddess Athéné the flashing-eyed;
Beside him she stood, and she loosed the winged word-flight, and she cried:
“O glorious Achilles the Zeus-beloved, we twain this day
To the galleys shall bear, I trust, high fame for Achaia’s array
By laying yon Hector low, be he never so hungry for fight.
No more unto him is it given to escape from our hands by flight,
Not though in an agony Phoebus the Smiter from Far should entreat,
Though he grovelled at Father Zeus the Aegis-bearer’s feet.
But thou stand still and awhile draw breath, and for me, I will go
And persuade yon craven man against man to abide his foe.”
So spake Athéné, and hearkened Achilles, and blithe of mood
He halted, and leaned on his brazen-pointed spear as he stood.
And the Goddess left him there, and to Hector the godlike she came;
But it seemed Déiphobus’ shape, and the mighty voice was the same.
And lo, at his side she stood, and the light-winged word spake she:
“Dear brother, Achilles the swift of a truth doeth violence to thee,
Hunting thee round the city of Priam with fast-flying feet.
Nay then, let us stand, and his onset abide, and in battle meet.”
Answered her Hector, and spake the lord of the stormy crest:
“Déiphobus, ever in days overpast I loved thee best.
Of all my brethren, the children whom Priam and Hekabé bore:
But now in my soul, I ween, shall I honour thee even more,
Thee, who hast dared for my sake, when thou saw’st with thine eyes, to my side
To come forth of the wall, the while all else safe-sheltered abide.”
Unto him made answer Athéné, and spake the Flashing-eyed:
“Dear brother, low at my knees did my father and mother fall,
And one after other besought me, yea, and my comrades withal,
Here to abide, so greatly before Achilles they quake.
But mine heart within me was sore with a grievous pain for thy sake.
Now let us have at him, now let us battle: no sparing of spears
Let there be, to the end we may know whether haply Achilles the fierce
Shall slay us twain, and shall bear our blood-stained battle-gear
Unto his hollow ships, or shall fall smitten down by thy spear.”
So spake Athéné, and deathward she drew him by subtlety.
So when, as against each other they strode, they were drawn full nigh,
Then first to his foe great Hector the stormy-crested said:
“No longer, O Peleus’ son, will I flee thee, as erst I fled
Round the mighty city of Priam thrice, nor endured against thee
To stand as thou camest, but now hath my spirit enkindled me
To abide thee, man against man, to be slain or haply to slay.
Yet come, let us swear by the Gods, for none more righteous than they
Shall be found for our witnesses and our warders of covenant:
For to thee will I do no foul despite, if Zeus shall grant
That my strength outlast thy strength, and I take thy life away.
But when I have stripped from thy shoulders, Achilles, thy war-array,
Thy corse will I yield to the men of Achaia. And so do thou.”
But Achilles the fleetfoot cried unto him with lowering brow:
“Hector, thou madman, prate not to me of a covenant-troth!
As between fierce lions and men there is found no assurance of oath,
And as wolves and lambs a spirit of harmony never shall find,
But evil against each other for aye are the thoughts of their mind,
So friendship is nowise for thee and for me, nor betwixt us twain
Shall be plighting of oaths, or ever the one or the other slain
Glut Arés the Warrior, the stubborn-shielded, with life-blood enow.
Bethink thee of all thy prowess!—bitter need hast thou
To prove thee a cunning spearman, a warrior unblenching in fight.
Escape is there none for thee now, but Pallas Athéné forthright
Shall subdue thee beneath my spear, and the whole debt now shalt thou pay
Of the woes of my friends, whom thou with thy raging lance didst slay.”
He spake, and he swung up on high, and he hurled it, the long-shadowed lance,
Yet Hector avoided its leap, looking forward with keen swift glance:
For he crouched low, watching:—the brazen spear o’er the head of him flew,
And it plunged in the earth; but Pallas Athéné the shaft forth drew
And gave to Achilles, unmarked of Hector the shepherd of folk.
Then to the princely child of Peleus Hector spoke:
“Thou hast missed me!—so then not yet did Achilles the godlike know
From Zeus the doom of Hector! Ha, but thy thought was so!
Nay, a deceiver in speech is here, and a glib-tongued wight,
To cause me to quail at thy face, and forget my fury and might.
Ha, not as I flee shalt thou thrust through the midst of my back the dart,
But as onward I charge do thou drive it clear through my breast and my heart,
If God hath vouchsafed to thee this. Now then shun thou the brass
Of my spear:—and oh that its whole length into thy flesh might pass!
More light for the Trojans then were the burden of war, I trow,
If thou wert cut off from the earth, for the heaviest curse art thou.”
He spake, and the long-shadowed lance high-swung from his hand hath he shot,
And it smote in the midst of Peleides’ shield, and it missed him not.
But the spear glanced far from the buckler, and Hector chafed in wrath
To see how his keen lance fled from his hand on a bootless path.
Confounded he stood, for he had no ashen spear beside.
Then to Déiphobus, prince of the white shield, loud he cried:
“Ho, give me a long spear yet!”—but lo, he was nowhere nigh.
Then Hector’s soul knew all, and he spake full bitterly:
“Ah me, of a truth the Gods have summoned me deathward to fare!
I weened that the hero Déiphobus stood beside me there:
But he is within the wall; ’twas Athéné that mocked my despair!
Now, nigh to me now is an evil death, nor afar it is:
Escape there is none,—ah, sure from of old the pleasure was this
Of Zeus and the Zeus-born Smiter from Far, who in days overpast
Of their good will saved me; but doom hath lighted upon me at last.
Yet let me not tamely perish, nor die in renownless shame
Till a deed shall be wrought whereof the unborn shall hear the fame.”
Swift, as he spake, from the scabbard his keen-whetted sword flashed out,
Which hung below his side, his falchion massy and stout;
And he gathered his might, and like to a soaring eagle he swooped,
Which adown from the clouds dark-lowering unto the plain hath stooped
With purpose to pounce ’on a tender lamb, or a cowering hare;
So Hector swooped as he brandished on high his sword made bare.
But onward with fierce rage filling his soul did Achilles charge,
And he cast in front of his breast the fence of his goodly targe
Curious-wrought, and a wild light danced on his helm bright-gleaming
With its fourfold crest, and around were the golden hairs wide-streaming,
Fair threads, which Hephaistus had shed full thickly about the plume.
As amidst of the stars forth goeth a star in the night’s deep gloom,
Hesperus, loveliest star that paceth the floor of the sky,
So glittered the point of his keen-whetted spear, which Achilles on high
In his right hand shook, upon Hector the godlike to wreak his wrath,
Keen-watching for glimpse of his flesh, where the lance might find a path.
But his body in brazen harness of proof was sheathed all o’er,
Fair mail, which himself from the body of slain Patroclus tore.
Yet a moment appeared the throat, where the sundering collar-bones lie
’Twixt shoulder and neck: there is swiftest doom for the life thereby.
Even there in his mid-rush godlike Achilles smote with his spear,
And on through the smooth of his neck the point of the lance cleft sheer.
Yet was not the windpipe pierced by the ashwood heavy with brass,
That yet he might speak, and the answering word through his lips might pass.
Down fell he in dust, and Achilles the godlike taunting cried:
“Hector, and didst thou think, in the hour when Patroclus died,
To be safe?—and thou gavest no thought unto me who was not by his side!
Thou fool!—aloof the while was a mightier far than he,
Even I: by the hollow ships his avenger remained for thee,
Who have palsied thy knees: now dogs and vultures shall shamefully rend
Thee, but Achaia’s host shall with glory entomb my friend.”
Then faintly and feebly Hector the stormy-crested spake:
“By thy life and thy knees I entreat thee, I pray for thy parents’ sake,
Cast me not forth by the ships for Achaian dogs to devour,
But accept thou the brass and the gold, the abundant ransom-shower
Of the gifts that my sire and my mother the Queen at thy feet shall cast,
And yield thou my corse to be homeward borne, that so at the last
Trojans and daughters of Troy may pay me the dues of the pyre.”
But Achilles the fleetfoot spake, and his eyes were a lurid fire:
“Knee me no knees, thou dog, neither prate of my parents to me!
Would God my spirit within me would leave my fury free
To carve the flesh of thee raw, and devour, for the deeds thou hast done!
There is none shall deliver thine head from the teeth of the dogs, there is none,
Not though they brought hither and told the ransom ten times o’er,
Yea, though it were twenty-fold, and though they should promise yet more,
Though Priam Dardanus’ son against thy corse bade weigh
Gold in the balance—not then should the lady thy mother lay
Her dead on the bier, and make lamentation for him that she bare;
Nay, but the vultures and dogs thine every limb shall tear.”
And Hector the stormy-crested dying answer made:
“Yea, as thou art I behold thee: I was not like to persuade
Such as thee, for surely of steel the heart in thy breast is wrought.
—Take heed lest I rise up against thee, the God’s wrath kindled hot,
In the day wherein Paris and Phoebus Apollo with death shall smite
At the entering in of the Skaian gate even thee in thy might.”
As fainted the word on his lips was death’s veil over him spread,
And the soul from the limbs forth fleeting adown unto Hades had fled,
Moaning her ruin, forsaking her youth and her goodlihead.
But to him, yea, dead as he lay, Achilles the godlike said:
“Die thou:—but my doom will I then receive, when the pleasure it is
Of Zeus and the rest of the deathless Gods to accomplish this.”
So spake he, and forth of the corpse he drew the brazen spear,
And he set it aside, and he stripped from his shoulders the battle-gear
Blood-stained: and running around did the other Achaians press,
And with wonder they gazed on the stature and marvellous comeliness
Of Hector: was none but dealt him a stab as he stood thereby;
And thus, as he glanced at his neighbour, did this man and that man cry:
“Ha ha, sooth, softer is Hector now to be touched with the hand
Then when on the ships he was hurling the red consuming brand!”
So cried they, and this one and that drew nigh, and they stabbed the slain.
But when fleetfoot Achilles the godlike the mail from his body had ta’en,
Amidst the Achaians standing he spake the swift-winged words:
“O friends, ye chiefs of the Argive men, and battle-lords,
Seeing the Gods have vouchsafed me to bring this man unto naught
Who hath done much evil, above what all the rest have wrought,
Come, make we assay in our harness, and compass the city around,
To know of the mind of the Trojans, the purpose their hearts have found,
Whether now they will leave their stronghold, since he to the dust is brought,
Or be stedfastly minded to tarry, albeit Hector is not.
Yet wherefore now is my spirit communing within me so?
Beside the galleys unburied and unbewailed lieth low
Patroclus: but him will I never forget from mine heart, so long
As amidst of the living I fare, and my limbs for my need be strong.
Yea, and if even the dwellers in Hades their dead forget,
Even there my friend, my beloved, will I remember yet.
But now, O sons of Achaia, the victory-hymn let us sing,
And return to the hollow ships, and this corse thitherward bring.
We have won high glory, have stricken Hector the godlike down,
Unto whom, as a God, the Troyfolk prayed throughout their town!”
He spake, and a shameful handling devised he for Hector slain;
For behind each foot did he sunder therefrom the sinews twain
From the ankle-joint to the heel: hide-bands through the gashes he thrust;
To his chariot he bound them, and left the head to trail in the dust.
He hath mounted his car, and the glorious armour thereon hath he cast,
And he lashed the horses, and they with eager speed flew fast.
And a dust from the haling of Hector arose, and tossed wide-spread
His dark locks: wholly in dust his head lay low—that head
Once comely: ah then was the hero delivered over of Zeus
In his very fatherland for his foes to despitefully use.
So dust-besprent was his head; but his mother was rending her hair
The while, and she flung therefrom her head-veil glistering-fair
Afar, and with wild loud shriek as she looked on her son she cried;
And in piteous wise did his father wail, and on every side
Through the city the folk brake forth into shriek and wail at the sight.
It was like unto this above all things, as though, from her topmost height
To the ground, all beetling Troy in flame and in smoke were rolled.
And scarce could the folk in his frenzy the ancient King withhold
From rushing forth the Dardanian gates in his wild desire:
And he prayed unto all, the while he rolled himself in the mire,
Naming them all by their names, and calling on every one:
“Forbear, my friends, and for all your anguish leave me alone
Forth of the city to fare to the ships of Achaia’s array.
Unto him, yon fiend, yon worker of violent deeds, let me pray.
In the sight of his fellows perchance he will blush, with compassion will see
Grey hairs—he too hath a father, an old man like unto me,
Even Peleus, the sire that begat him, and reared him up for a bane
Unto Troy: but on me above all hath he laid the bitterest pain,
So many my sons in manhood’s bloom hath his hand laid low.
Yet not so much for the rest do I grieve, for all my woe,
As for one for whom sharp anguish shall bow unto Hades mine head,
Even Hector—would God from between mine arms he had passed to the dead!
Then had we taken our fill of the moan and the keening cry,
His mother, the hapless woman who bare him to this, and I.”
So spake he weeping; the people echoed him groan for groan.
Then Hekabé raised to the daughters of Troy her frenzied moan:
“My child, what is life unto me with horrors stricken sore
Now thou art dead?—Unto me both night and day evermore
A boasting thou wast in the city, a blessing to all that abode
In the burg, where the sons and the daughters of Troy hailed thee as a God;
‘For surely a glory exceeding great to thy people wast thou
While yet thou livest; but death and doom have o’ertaken thee now.”
So weeping she spake: howbeit not yet had his wife heard aught
Of Hector; for tidings to her had no sure messenger brought
How that her husband was tarrying yet without the wall:
But a web she wove in an inner room of her stately hall,
Twofold, of crimson, and broidery-flowers thereover she laid.
And she called to her fair-tressed maidens throughout the palace, and bade
To set on the fire a mighty tripod, that so should be dight
For Hector the steaming bath what time he returned from the fight.
Ah fool! for she knew not that very far from the bath he had died
’Neath Achilles’ hands by the might of Athéné the flashing-eyed.
Then heard she a shriek from a tower, a wild and woeful sound;
Then reeled her limbs, and the shuttle fell from her hands to the ground.
Then turned she again to her handmaids beautiful-tressed, and she cried:
“Hitherward, follow me twain: let me see what deeds betide.
The voice of mine husband’s reverend mother I hear, and in me
The heart in my breast is leaping up to my lips: each knee
Is numbed. Unto Priam’s children some evil is surely near!—
Ah far from mine ears be the word!—but sorely, sorely I fear
Lest haply Achilles the godlike have cut off Hector alone
From the city, and now to the plain is chasing that valiant one,
Yea, and hath made him to cease from the desperate hardihood
Which possessed him: for never mid press of the warriors shrinking he stood,
But he charged before all, for he yielded to none in his valorous mood.”
So spake she, and forth of the chamber as one distraught she fled,
With heart fast beating the while; and her handmaids beside her sped.
But when to the tower she came and the gathered throng of men,
Wild-staring she stood on the wall: and then—she espied him then
Dragged onward in front of the city: the swift steeds’ pitiless feet
Were haling him on to the hollow ships of Achaia’s fleet.
Then blackness of darkness veiled from her swimming eyes the day;
Backward reeling she fell, and she gasped her spirit away.
And tossed afar from her head did the glistering bands of it fall,
The frontlet thereof, and the net, and the plaited coronal,
And the veil that Aphrodité the Golden gave in the hour
When Hector the stormy-crested led his bride from her bower
In Eétion’s halls, when he gave bride-gifts, a countless store.
And her husband’s sisters and brothers’ wives thronged round, and bore
Up in their arms that hapless one distraught unto death,
Till her spirit came back to her breast, and shivered again her breath.
Then wailing with broken sobs mid the daughters of Troy did she cry
“O Hector, woe is me!—unto one fate thou and I,
Were born; in the palace of Priam thou, in wide Troy-town,
And in Thébé I, ’neath the shadow of Plakos’ forest-crown,
In Eétion’s home, who fostered his babe to a fearful lot—
Ill-fated sire!—would God that sire had begotten me not!
And thou unto Hades’ homes ’neath earth’s dark places must go,
And me in thy palace-halls art thou leaving in bitter woe,
A widow: and still but a child, yea, a very babe, is thy son,
Which of thee and of me, the hapless, was born: to thy little one
Thou shalt ne’er be a joy, O Hector, nor he unto thee: thou art gone!
For though from the dolorous war of Achaia scatheless he flee,
Evermore shall his portion be labour and sorrow in days to be.
For the lands of his heritage shall strangers take away;
And mateless and lonely a child is made by the orphaning day.
Utterly droopeth his head, and with tears do his cheeks aye flow.
And the child to his father’s companions in hunger and want shall go,
Plucking at one by his tunic, and one by his mantle’s fold;
And in pity the man to his lips the cup but a moment shall hold,
That it wetteth his lips, but the roof of his mouth is unmoistened and dry.
And a lad unorphaned shall thrust him aback from the feast, and cry,
With smiting of cruel hands and with stab of the pitiless jeer:
‘Begone! no father of thine sitteth feasting amidst of us here!’
And weeping the child shall return to his mother, to widowed me—
Astyanax, who once, enthroned on his father’s knee,
On naught save the marrow and fatness of sheep was wont to feast:
And when slumber enfolded him round, and from childish play he ceased,
On a bed was he wont to sleep, in the arms of his nurse soft-stilled
On an easeful couch, when with royal dainties his heart was filled.
But now, of his father bereft, full many an ill shall he have—
My Astyanax—that name unto him ’twas the Trojans gave;
For their gates and their far-stretching walls thou only wast wont to save.
But now by the hollow ships, from thy parents far away,
Shall the coiling worms devour, when filled are the dogs with the prey,
A naked corse—ah yet in thine halls lieth raiment of thine,
Fair-fashioned of women’s fingers, daintily woven fine.
But verily all these things will I burn with devouring fire:—
O yea, no profit to thee—they shall not swathe thee on the pyre;
But to be for thine honour in Troytown’s sons’ and daughters’ eyes.”
So wailed she and wept she, while moaned the women’s answering cries.