FOOTNOTES:

[65] Baffled is here used for insulted.

[66] Deft for dexterous.

THE

LAST PARTING

OF

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

FROM

THE SIXTH BOOK OF THE ILIAD.

THE ARGUMENT.

Hector returning from the field of battle, to visit Helen, his sister-in-law, and his brother Paris, who had fought unsuccessfully, hand to hand with Menelaus, from thence goes to his own palace to see his wife Andromache, and his infant son Astyanax. The description of that interview is the subject of this translation.

Thus having said, brave Hector went to see
 His virtuous wife, the fair Andromache.
 He found her not at home; for she was gone,} Attended by her maid and infant son, } To climb the steepy tower of Ilion; } From whence, with heavy heart, she might survey
 The bloody business of the dreadful day.
 Her mournful eyes she cast around the plain,
 And sought the lord of her desires in vain.
 But he, who thought his peopled palace bare,
 When she, his only comfort, was not there,
 Stood in the gate, and asked of every one,
 Which way she took, and whither she was gone;
 If to the court, or with his mother's train,
 In long procession to Minerva's fane?
 The servants answered,—Neither to the court,
 Where Priam's sons and daughters did resort;
 Nor to the temple was she gone, to move
 With prayers the blue-eyed progeny of Jove;
 But more solicitous for him alone,
 Than all their safety, to the tower was gone,
 There to survey the labours of the field,
 Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans yield;
 Swiftly she passed, with fear and fury wild;
 The nurse went lagging after with the child.
 This heard, the noble Hector made no stay,
 The admiring throng divide to give him way;
 He passed through every street, by which he came,
 And at the gate he met the mournful dame.
 His wife beheld him; and, with eager pace,
 Flew to his arms, to meet a dear embrace.
 His wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's crown,
 And in herself a greater dower alone;
 Aetion's heir, who, on the woody plain
 Of Hippoplacus, did in Thebé reign.
 Breathless she flew, with joy and passion wild;
 The nurse came lagging after with the child.
 The royal babe upon her breast was laid,
 Who, like the morning star, his beams displayed.
 Scamandrius was his name, which Hector gave,
 From that fair flood which Ilion's wall did lave;
 But him Astyanax the Trojans call,
 From his great father who defends the wall.
 Hector beheld him with a silent smile,
 His tender wife stood weeping by the while;
 Pressed in her own, his warlike hand she took,
 Then sighed, and thus prophetically spoke:—
 Thy dauntless heart, which I foresee too late,
 Too daring man, will urge thee to thy fate.
 Nor dost thou pity, with a parent's mind,
 This helpless orphan, whom thou leav'st behind;
 Nor me, the unhappy partner of thy bed,
 Who must in triumph by the Greeks be led.
 They seek thy life; and, in unequal fight
 With many, will oppress thy single might.
 Better it were for miserable me
 To die, before the fate which I foresee;
 For, ah! what comfort can the world bequeath
 To Hector's widow, after Hector's death!
 Eternal sorrow and perpetual tears
 Began my youth, and will conclude my years;
 I have no parents, friends, nor brothers left,
 By stern Achilles all of life bereft.
 Then, when the walls of Thebes he overthrew,
 His fatal hand my royal father slew;
 He slew Aetion, but despoiled him not,
 Nor in his hate the funeral rites forgot;
 Armed as he was he sent him whole below,
 And reverenced thus the manes of his foe.
 A tomb he raised; the mountain-nymphs around
 Enclosed, with planted elms, the holy ground.
 My seven brave brothers, in one fatal day,
 To death's dark mansions took the mournful way;
 Slain by the same Achilles, while they keep
 The bellowing oxen, and the bleating sheep.
 My mother, who the royal sceptre swayed,
 Was captive to the cruel victor made,
 And hither led; but, hence redeemed with gold,
 Her native country did again behold,
 And but beheld; for soon Diana's dart,
 In an unhappy chace, transfixed her heart.
 But thou, my Hector, art thyself alone
 My parents, brothers, and my lord, in one.
 O, kill not all my kindred o'er again, } Nor tempt the dangers of the dusty plain } But in this tower, for our defence, remain.} Thy wife and son are in thy ruin lost;
 This is a husband's and a father's post.
 The Scæan gate commands the plains below; } Here marshal all thy soldiers as they go; } And hence, with other hands, repel the foe.} By yon wild fig-tree lies their chief ascent,
 And thither all their powers are daily bent.
 The two Ajaces have I often seen,
 And the wronged husband of the Spartan queen;
 With him his greater brother; and, with these,
 Fierce Diomede, and bold Meriones;
 Uncertain if by augury, or chance,
 But by this easy rise they all advance;
 Guard well that pass, secure of all beside.—
 To whom the noble Hector thus replied:
 That and the rest are in my daily care;
 But, should I shun the dangers of the war,
 With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains,
 And their proud ladies, with their sweeping trains;
 The Grecian swords and lances I can bear,
 But loss of honour is my only fear.
 Shall Hector, born to war, his birth-right yield,
 Belie his courage, and forsake the field?
 Early in rugged arms I took delight,
 And still have been the foremost in the fight;
 With dangers dearly have I bought renown,
 And am the champion of my father's crown.
 And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage,
 That Troy shall perish by the Grecian rage:
 The fatal day draws on, when I must fall,
 And universal ruin cover all.
 Not Troy itself, though built by hands divine,
 Nor Priam, nor his people, nor his line,
 My mother, nor my brothers of renown,
 Whose valour yet defends the unhappy town,—
 Not these, nor all their fates which I foresee,
 Are half of that concern I have for thee.
 I see, I see thee, in that fatal hour,
 Subjected to the victor's cruel power;
 Led hence a slave to some insulting sword,
 Forlorn, and trembling at a foreign lord;
 A spectacle in Argos, at the loom,
 Gracing with Trojan fights, a Grecian room;
 Or from deep wells the living stream to take,
 And on thy weary shoulders bring it back.
 While, groaning under this laborious life,
 They insolently call thee Hector's wife;
 Upbraid thy bondage with thy husband's name,
 And from my glory propagate thy shame.
 This when they say, thy sorrows will increase} With anxious thoughts of former happiness; } That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress.} But I, oppressed with iron sleep before,
 Shall hear thy unavailing cries no more.—
 He said;
 Then, holding forth his arms, he took his boy,
 The pledge of love and other hope of Troy.
 The fearful infant turned his head away,
 And on his nurse's neck reclining lay,
 His unknown father shunning with affright,
 And looking back on so uncouth a sight;
 Daunted to see a face with steel o'erspread,
 And his high plume that nodded o'er his head.
 His sire and mother smiled with silent joy,
 And Hector hastened to relieve his boy;
 Dismissed his burnished helm, that shone afar,
 The pride of warriors, and the pomp of war;
 The illustrious babe, thus reconciled, he took,
 Hugged in his arms, and kissed, and thus he spoke:—
 Parent of Gods and men, propitious Jove!
 And you, bright synod of the powers above!
 On this my son your gracious gifts bestow;
 Grant him to live, and great in arms to grow,
 To reign in Troy, to govern with renown,
 To shield the people, and assert the crown;
 That, when hereafter he from war shall come,
 And bring his Trojans peace and triumph home,
 Some aged man, who lives this act to see,
 And who, in former times, remembered me,
 May say, the son, in fortitude and fame,
 Outgoes the mark, and drowns his father's name:
 That, at these words, his mother may rejoice,
 And add her suffrage to the public voice.—
 Thus having said;
 He first, with suppliant hands, the Gods adored;
 Then to the mother's arms the child restored.
 With tears and smiles she took her son, and pressed
 The illustrious infant to her fragrant breast.
 He, wiping her fair eyes, indulged her grief,
 And eased her sorrows with this last relief:—
 My wife and mistress, drive thy fears away,
 Nor give so bad an omen to the day;
 Think not it lies in any Grecian's power
 To take my life, before the fatal hour.
 When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly
 The irrevocable doom of destiny.
 Return; and, to divert thy thoughts at home,} There task thy maids, and exercise the loom,} Employed in works that womankind become. } The toils of war, and feats of chivalry
 Belong to men; and, most of all, to me.—
 At this, for new replies he did not stay,
 But laced his crested helm, and strode away.
 His lovely consort to her house returned,
 And, looking often back, in silence mourned.
 Home when she came, her secret woe she vents,
 And fills the palace with her loud laments;
 Those loud laments her echoing maids restore,
 And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.

END OF THE TWELFTH VOLUME.

Edinburgh:
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co.

Transcriber's notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected, but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.