Act V

MESSENGER.
[entering]
Oh, cruel fate, Oh, piteous, horrible!
What sight so fell and bloody have we seen
In ten long years of war? Between thy woes,
Andromache, and thine, O Hecuba,
I halt, and know not which to weep the more.

HECUBA.
Weep whosesoe'er thou wilt--thou weepest mine.
While others bow beneath their single cares,
I feel the weight of all. All die to me;
Whatever grief there is, is Hecuba's.

MESSENGER.
The maid is slain, the boy dashed from the walls.
But each has met his death with royal soul.

ANDROMACHE.
Expound the deed in order, and display
The twofold crime. My mighty grief is fain
To hear the gruesome narrative entire.
Begin thy tale, and tell it as it was.

MESSENGER.
One lofty tower of fallen Troy is left,
Well known to Priam, on whose battlements
He used to sit and view his warring hosts.
Here in his arms his grandson he would hold
With kind embrace, and bid the lad admire
His father's warlike deeds upon the field,
Where Hector, armed with fire and sword, pursued
The frightened Greeks. Around this lofty tower
Which lately stood, the glory of the walls,
But now a lonely crag, the people pour,
A motley, curious throng of high and low.
For some, a distant hill gives open view;
While others seek a cliff, upon whose edge
The crowd in tiptoed expectation stand.
The beech tree, laurel, pine, each has its load;
The whole wood bends beneath its human fruit.
One climbs a smouldering roof; unto another
A crumbling wall precarious footing gives;
While others (shameless!) stand on Hector's tomb.
Now through the thronging crowd with stately tread
Ulysses makes his way, and by the hand
He leads the little prince of Ilium.
With equal pace the lad approached the wall;
But when he reached the lofty battlement,
He stood and gazed around with dauntless soul.
And as the savage lion's tender young,
Its fangless jaws, all powerless to harm,
Still snaps with helpless wrath and swelling heart;
So he, though held in that strong foeman's grasp,
Stood firm, defiant. Then the crowd of men,
And leaders, and Ulysses' self, were moved.
But he alone wept not of all the throng
Who wept for him. And now Ulysses spake
In priestly wise the words of fate, and prayed,
And summoned to the rite the savage gods;
When suddenly, on self-destruction bent,
The lad sprang o'er the turret's edge, and plunged
Into the depths below.--

ANDROMACHE.
What Colchian, what wandering Scythian,
What lawless race that dwells by Caspia's sea
Could do or dare a crime so hideous?
No blood of helpless children ever stained
Busiris' altars, monster though he was;
Nor did the horses of the Thracian king
E'er feed on tender limbs. Where is my boy?
Who now will take and lay him in the tomb?

MESSENGER.
Alas, my lady, how can aught remain
From such a fall, but broken, scattered bones,
Dismembered limbs, and all those noble signs
In face and feature of his royal birth,
Confused and crushed upon the ragged ground?
Who was thy son lies now a shapeless corse.

ANDROMACHE.
Thus also is he like his noble sire.

MESSENGER.
When headlong from the tower the lad had sprung,
And all the Grecian throng bewailed the crime
Which it had seen and done; that selfsame throng
Returned to witness yet another crime
Upon Achilles' tomb. The seaward side
Is beaten by Rhoeteum's lapping waves;
While on the other sides a level space,
And rounded, gently sloping hills beyond,
Encompass it, and make a theater.
Here rush the multitude and fill the place
With eager throngs. A few rejoice that now
Their homeward journey's long delay will end,
And that another prop of fallen Troy
Is stricken down. But all the common herd
Look on in silence at the crime they hate.
The Trojans, too, attend the sacrifice,
And wait with quaking hearts the final scene
Of Ilium's fall. When suddenly there shone
The gleaming torches of the wedding march;
And, as the bride's attendant, Helen came
With drooping head. Whereat the Trojans prayed:
"Oh, may Hermione be wed like this,
With bloody rites; like this may Helena
Return unto her lord." Then numbing dread
Seized Greeks and Trojans all, as they beheld
The maid. She walked with downcast, modest eyes,
But on her face a wondrous beauty glowed
In flaming splendor, as the setting sun
Lights up the sky with beams more beautiful,
When day hangs doubtful on the edge of night.
All gazed in wonder. Some her beauty moved,
And some her tender age and hapless fate;
But all, her dauntless courage in the face
Of death. Behind the maid grim Pyrrhus came;
And as they looked, the souls of all were filled
With quaking terror, pity, and amaze.
But when she reached the summit of the mound
And stood upon the lofty sepulcher,
Still with unfaltering step the maid advanced.
And now she turned her to the stroke of death
With eyes so fierce and fearless that she smote
The hearts of all, and, wondrous prodigy,
E'en Pyrrhus' bloody hand was slow to strike.
But soon, his right hand lifted to the stroke,
He drove the weapon deep within her breast;
And straight from that deep wound the blood burst forth
In sudden streams. But still the noble maid
Did not give o'er her bold and haughty mien,
Though in the act of death. For in her fall
She smote the earth with angry violence,
As if to make it heavy for the dead.
Then flowed the tears of all. The Trojans groaned
With secret woe, since fear restrained their tongues;
But openly the victors voiced their grief.
And now the savage rite was done. The blood
Stood not upon the ground, nor flowed away;
But downward all its ruddy stream was sucked,
As if the tomb were thirsty for the draught.

HECUBA.
Now go, ye Greeks, and seek your homes in peace.
With spreading sails your fleet in safety now
May cleave the welcome sea; the maid and boy
Are slain, the war is done. Oh, whither now
Shall I betake me in my wretchedness?
Where spend this hateful remnant of my life?
My daughter or my grandson shall I mourn,
My husband, country--or myself alone?
O death, my sole desire, for boys and maids
Thou com'st with hurried step and savage mien;
But me alone of mortals dost thou fear
And shun; through all that dreadful night of Troy,
I sought thee 'midst the swords and blazing brands,
But all in vain my search. No cruel foe,
Nor crumbling wall, nor blazing fire, could give
The death I sought. And yet how near I stood
To agéd Priam's side when he was slain!

MESSENGER.
Ye captives, haste you to the winding shore;
The sails are spread, our long delay is o'er.