Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resign'd To tender pa.s.sions all his mighty mind: His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke; Her bosom labor'd with a boding sigh, And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

"Too darling 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, And thou must fall, thy virtues sacrifice.

Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain!

Oh grant me, G.o.ds! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!

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 wrapp'd our walls in fire, Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire!

By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell, In one sad day beheld the gates of h.e.l.l.

My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands.

Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see 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: O, prove a husband's and a father's care!

That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy Where yon wild fig-trees join the walls of Troy; Thou from this tower defend the important post; There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, That pa.s.s Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain.

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."

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 renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the l.u.s.tre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?

My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains; Let me be foremost to defend the throne, And guard my father's glories and my own.

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, Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.

And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's h.o.a.ry hairs defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the sh.o.r.e, As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread; I see the trembling, weeping, captive led!

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, 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!

May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay!

Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."

Thus having spoke, the ill.u.s.trious chief of Troy Stretch'd 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 hasted to relieve his child; The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the gleaming helmet on the ground.

Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the G.o.ds preferr'd a father's prayer:-- "O, thou whose glory fills the ethereal throne!

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!

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, 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 he laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd.

The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear.

She mingled with the smile a tender tear.

The soften'd chief with kind compa.s.sion view'd, And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:-- "Andromache, my soul's far better part, Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?

No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.

Fix'd is the term to all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth, 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, 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.

His princess parts, with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream'd at every look; then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.

There, while her tears deplored the G.o.d-like man, Through all her train the soft infection ran.

The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn the living Hector as the dead.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, vi.

THE RACE OF MAN.

(_By Homer._)

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise: So generations in their course decay; So flourish these when those are past away.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, vi.

COUNCIL OF THE G.o.dS.

(_By Homer._)

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn; When Jove convened the senate of the skies, Where high Olympus' cloudly tops arise.

The Sire of G.o.ds his awful silence broke, The heavens attentive trembled as he spoke:-- "Celestial states, immortal G.o.ds, give ear!

Hear our decree, and reverence what ye hear; The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move; Thou, Fate, fulfill it; and ye, Powers, approve!

What G.o.d but enters yon forbidden field, Who yields a.s.sistance, or but wills to yield, Back to the skies with shame he shall be driven, Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven: Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown, Low in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan, With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, And lock'd by h.e.l.l's inexorable doors; As deep beneath the infernal center hurl'd, As from that center to the ethereal world.

Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes, And know the Almighty is the G.o.d of G.o.ds.

League all your forces, then, ye powers above, Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove: Let down our golden everlasting chain, Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main; Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth, To drag, by this, the Thunderer down to earth: Ye strive in vain! If I but stretch this hand, I heave the G.o.ds, the ocean, and the land; I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight!

For such I reign, unbounded and above; And such are men and G.o.ds, compared to Jove."

_Pope_, _Iliad_, viii.

NIGHT-SCENE.

(_By Homer._)

The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumined all the ground.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole, O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays: The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.

_Pope_, _Iliad_, viii.

HATEFULNESS OF WAR.

(_By Homer._)

Cursed is the man, and void of law and right, Unworthy property, unworthy light, Unfit for public rule, or private care; That wretch, that monster, who delights in war: Whose l.u.s.t is murder, and whose horrid joy To tear his country, and his kind destroy!

_Pope_, _Iliad_, ix.

FALSEHOOD.