The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tragedies of Seneca, by Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Andromache [in scorn]: Now great indeed

Must be the evil when our Helen weeps!

But dry thy tears, and tell what Ithacus

Is plotting now, what latest deed of shame?

Must this poor maid be hurled from Ida's heights,

Or from the top of Ilium's citadel?

Must she be flung into the cruel sea930

That roars beneath this lofty precipice,

Which our Sigeum's rugged crag uprears?

Come, tell what thou dost hide with mimic grief.

In all our ills there's none so great as this,

That any princess of our royal house

Should wed with Pyrrhus. Speak thy dark intent;935

What further suffering remains to bear?

To compensate our woes, this grace impart,

That we may know the worst that can befall.

Behold us ready for the stroke of fate.

Helen: Alas! I would 'twere mine to break the bonds

Which bind me to this life I hate; to die

By Pyrrhus' cruel hand upon the tomb940

Of great Achilles, and to share thy fate,

O poor Polyxena. For even now,

The ghost doth bid that thou be sacrificed,

And that thy blood be spilt upon his tomb;

That thus thy parting soul may mate with his,

Within the borders of Elysium.

Andromache [observing the joy with which Polyxena receives these tidings]: Behold, her soul leaps up with mighty joy945

At thought of death; she seeks the festal robes

Wherewith to deck her for the bridal rites,

And yields her golden locks to Helen's hands.

Who late accounted wedlock worse than death,

Now hails her death with more than bridal joy.

[Observing Hecuba.]

But see, her mother stands amazed with woe,

Her spirit staggers 'neath the stroke of fate.950

[To Hecuba.]

Arise, O wretched queen, stand firm in soul,

And gird thy fainting spirit up.

[Hecuba falls fainting.]

Behold,

By what a slender thread her feeble life

Is held to earth. How slight the barrier now

That doth remove our Hecuba from joy.

But no, she breathes, alas! she lives again,

For from the wretched, death is first to flee.

Hecuba [reviving]: Still dost thou live, Achilles, for our bane?955

Dost still prolong the bitter strife? O Paris,

Thine arrow should have dealt a deadlier wound.

For see, the very ashes and the tomb

Of that insatiate chieftain still do thirst

For Trojan blood. But lately did a throng

Of happy children press me round; and I,

With fond endearment and the sweet caress

That mother love would shower upon them all,

Was oft forespent. But now this child alone960

Is left, my comrade, comfort of my woes,

For whom to pray, in whom to rest my soul.

Hers are the only lips still left to me

To call me mother. Poor, unhappy soul,

Why dost thou cling so stubbornly to life?

Oh speed thee out, and grant me death at last,

The only boon I seek. Behold, I weep;

And from my cheeks, o'erwhelmed with sympathy,965

A sudden rain of grieving tears descends.

Andromache: We, Hecuba, Oh, we should most be mourned,

Whom soon the fleet shall scatter o'er the sea;970

While she shall rest beneath the soil she loves.

Helen: Still more wouldst thou begrudge thy sister's lot,

If thou didst know thine own.

Andromache: Remains there still

Some punishment that I must undergo?

Helen: The whirling urn hath given you each her lord.

Andromache: To whom hath fate allotted me a slave?975

Proclaim the chief whom I must call my lord.

Helen: To Pyrrhus hast thou fallen by the lot.

Andromache: O happy maid, Cassandra, blest of heaven,

For by thy madness art thou held exempt

From fate that makes us chattels to the Greeks.

Helen: Not so, for even now the Grecian king

Doth hold her as his prize.

Hecuba [to Polyxena]: Rejoice, my child.

How gladly would thy sisters change their lot

For thy death-dooming marriage.

[To Helen.]

Tell me now,

Does any Greek lay claim to Hecuba?

Helen: The Ithacan, though much against his will,980

Hath gained by lot a short-lived prize in thee.

Hecuba: What cruel, ruthless providence hath given

A royal slave to serve unkingly [50] men?

What hostile god divides our captive band?

What heartless arbiter of destiny

So carelessly allots our future lords,

That Hector's mother is assigned to him985

Who hath by favor gained th' accursed arms

Which laid my Hector low? And must I then

Obey the Ithacan? Now conquered quite,

Alas, and doubly captive do I seem,

And sore beset by all my woes at once.

Now must I blush, not for my slavery,990

But for my master's sake. Yet Ithaca,

That barren land by savage seas beset,

Shall not receive my bones.

Then up, Ulysses,

And lead thy captive home. I'll not refuse

To follow thee as lord; for well I know

That my untoward fates shall follow me.

No gentle winds shall fill thy homeward sails,995

But stormy blasts shall rage; destructive wars,

And fires, and Priam's evil fates and mine,

Shall haunt thee everywhere. But even now,

While yet those ills delay, hast thou received

Some punishment. For I usurped thy lot,

And stole thy chance to win a fairer prize.

[Enter Pyrrhus.]

But see, with hurried step and lowering brow,

Stern Pyrrhus comes.1000

[To Pyrrhus.]

Why dost thou hesitate?

Come pierce my vitals with thy impious sword,

And join the parents of Achilles' bride.

Make haste, thou murderer of agéd men,

My blood befits thee too.

[Pointing to Polyxena.]

Away with her;

Defile the face of heaven with murder's stain,

Defile the shades.—But why make prayer to you?1005

I'll rather pray the sea whose savage rage

Befits these bloody rites; the selfsame doom,

Which for my ship I pray and prophesy,

May that befall the thousand ships of Greece,

And so may evil fate engulf them all.