[_She clasps her hands to her brow and feels the wreaths._

O, ye wreaths!

Ye garlands of my G.o.d, whose love yet breathes About me, shapes of joyance mystical, Begone! I have forgot the festival, Forgot the joy. Begone! I tear ye, so, From off me!... Out on the swift winds they go.

With flesh still clean I give them back to thee, Still white, O G.o.d, O light that leadest me!

[_Turning upon the Herald.

Where lies the galley? Whither shall I tread?

See that your watch be set, your sail be spread The wind comes quick[27]! Three Powers--mark me, thou!-- There be in h.e.l.l, and one walks with thee now!

Mother, farewell, and weep not! O my sweet City, my earth-clad brethren, and thou great Sire that begat us, but a s.p.a.ce, ye Dead, And I am with you, yea, with crowned head I come, and shining from the fires that feed On these that slay us now, and all their seed!

[_She goes out, followed by Talthybius and the Soldiers_ Hecuba, _after waiting for an instant motionless, falls to the ground._

LEADER OF CHORUS.

The Queen, ye Watchers! See, she falls, she falls, Rigid without a word! O sorry thralls, Too late! And will ye leave her downstricken, A woman, and so old? Raise her again!

[_Some women go to HECUBA, but she refuses their aid and speaks without rising._

HECUBA.

Let lie ... the love we seek not is no love....

This ruined body! Is the fall thereof Too deep for all that now is over me Of anguish, and hath been, and yet shall be?

Ye G.o.ds.... Alas! Why call on things so weak For aid? Yet there is something that doth seek, Crying, for G.o.d, when one of us hath woe.

O, I will think of things gone long ago And weave them to a song, like one more tear In the heart of misery.... All kings we were; And I must wed a king. And sons I brought My lord King, many sons ... nay, that were naught; But high strong princes, of all Troy the best.

h.e.l.las nor Troas nor the garnered East Held such a mother! And all these things beneath The Argive spear I saw cast down in death, And sh.o.r.e these tresses at the dead men's feet.

Yea, and the gardener of my garden great, It was not any noise of him nor tale I wept for; these eyes saw him, when the pale Was broke, and there at the altar Priam fell Murdered, and round him all his citadel Sacked. And my daughters, virgins of the fold, Meet to be brides of mighty kings, behold, 'Twas for the Greek I bred them! All are gone; And no hope left, that I shall look upon Their faces any more, nor they on mine.

And now my feet tread on the utmost line: An old, old slave-woman, I pa.s.s below Mine enemies' gates; and whatso task they know For this age basest, shall be mine; the door, Bowing, to shut and open.... I that bore Hector!... and meal to grind, and this racked head Bend to the stones after a royal bed; Tom rags about me, aye, and under them Tom flesh; 'twill make a woman sick for shame!

Woe's me; and all that one man's arms might hold One woman, what long seas have o'er me rolled And roll for ever!... O my child, whose white Soul laughed amid the laughter of G.o.d's light, Ca.s.sandra, what hands and how strange a day Have loosed thy zone! And thou, Polyxena, Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seed Of man nor woman now shall help my need.

Why raise me any more? What hope have I To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pa.s.s away Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call Happy, believe not ere the last day fall!

CHORUS[28]. [_Strophe._

O Muse, be near me now, and make A strange song for Ilion's sake, Till a tone of tears be about mine ears And out of my lips a music break For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years: When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed, And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast; And all around were the Argive spears A towering Steed of golden rein-- O gold without, dark steel within!-- Ramped in our gates; and all the plain Lay silent where the Greeks had been.

And a cry broke from all the folk Gathered above on Ilion's rock: "Up, up, O fear is over now!

To Pallas, who hath saved us living, To Pallas bear this victory-vow!"

Then rose the old man from his room, The merry damsel left her loom, And each bound death about his brow With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving!

[_Antistrophe._

O, swift were all in Troy that day, And girt them to the portal-way, Marvelling at that mountain Thing Smooth-carven, where the Argives lay, And wrath, and Ilion's vanquishing: Meet gift for her that spareth not[29], Heaven's yokeless Rider. Up they brought Through the steep gates her offering: Like some dark ship that climbs the sh.o.r.e On straining cables, up, where stood Her marble throne, her hallowed floor, Who l.u.s.ted for her people's blood.

A very weariness of joy Fell with the evening over Troy: And lutes of Afric mingled there With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden, With white feet glancing light as air, Made happy music through the gloom: And fires on many an inward room All night broad-flashing, flung their glare On laughing eyes and slumber-laden.

A MAIDEN.

I was among the dancers there To Artemis[30], and glorying sang Her of the Hills, the Maid most fair, Daughter of Zeus: and, lo, there rang A shout out of the dark, and fell Deathlike from street to street, and made A silence in the citadel: And a child cried, as if afraid, And hid him in his mother's veil.

Then stalked the Slayer from his den, The hand of Pallas served her well!

O blood, blood of Troy was deep About the streets and altars then: And in the wedded rooms of sleep, Lo, the desolate dark alone, And headless things, men stumbled on.

And forth, lo, the women go, The crown of War, the crown of Woe, To bear the children of the foe And weep, weep, for Ilion!

[_As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms._

LEADER.

Lo, yonder on the heaped crest Of a Greek wain, Andromache[31], As one that o'er an unknown sea Tosseth; and on her wave-borne breast Her loved one clingeth, Hector's child, Astyanax.... O most forlorn Of women, whither go'st thou, borne 'Mid Hector's bronzen arms, and piled Spoils of the dead, and pageantry Of them that hunted Ilion down?

Aye, richly thy new lord shall crown The mountain shrines of Thessaly!

ANDROMACHE [_Strophe I._

Forth to the Greek I go, Driven as a beast is driven.

HEC. Woe, woe!

AND. Nay, mine is woe: Woe to none other given, And the song and the crown therefor!

HEC. O Zeus!

AND. He hates thee sore!

HEC. Children!

AND. No more, no more To aid thee: their strife is striven!

HECUBA.

[_Antistrophe I._

Troy, Troy is gone!

AND. Yea, and her treasure parted.

HEC. Gone, gone, mine own Children, the n.o.ble-hearted!

AND. Sing sorrow....

HEC. For me, for me!

AND. Sing for the Great City, That falleth, falleth to be A shadow, a fire departed.

ANDROMACHE.

[_Strophe 2._