POETRY.

HECUBA BESEECHES AGAMEMNON TO AVENGE

HER SON.

[El-Jimmies, Hecuba, 774-833.]

Now, for the cause for which I clasp thy knees, Listen, and if thou deemest that my wrongs Are justly borne, I bear and am content ;

But else, 0 King ! avenge me of the man,

This wickedest of hosts, who neither fears The nether world, nor upper, and hath wrought The wickedest of deeds ; for many a time He sat among my guests and ever stood First of my friends, and so received my son In wardship, with provision as was meet, And slew him, aye ! and having slain, denied Due burial rites, but east him on the waves.

For me—I am a slave, and doubtless weak ; Yes—but the gods are strong, and strong is law, Which sways the gods, for verily of law

Comes faith in gods that rule US, and the sense

By which we live, dividing right from wrong.

Shall law appeal to thee, and be contemned?

Shall he who slays the guest, who robs the shrine, Escape unpunished? Nay, for then would be No justice anywhere in human things.

Far be such baseness from thee ! yield me, King, The suppliant's meed of pity ; stand apart, As stands a painter, and regard me well, And know what woes are mine. But yesterday I was a queen, I am thy slave to-day ; I had a noble offspring, see me now

Childless and old—no fatherland, no friends— Surely the wretchedeat of mortal things.

[Agamemnon seems to be about to depart.

• Unhappy that I am ! where wilt thou go?

I seem to speak but vainly, woe is me !

0 foolish mortals, why do we pursue,

Careful, as duty bids, all arts beside, But this one art—Persuasion—though it be Sole lord of men, desire not with desire E'en at a price to learn, and so to sway All hearts to what we would, and gain our end ?

Who after me can hope for happy days?

So many sons I had, and all are gone, And I am borne away in shameful guise, A captive of the spear, and see the smoke Rising above this city of my birth.

• — • ' Listen again. Thou seest this dead child ; Pay him due honour, 'tis to thine own kin Honour is paid. One word is lacking yet.

Oh! that there dwelt within these arms a voice

(The work of art, Dmdalean or divine),—

These hands, and these white hairs, and weary feet, All should together cling about thy knees With tears, with all imaginable speech.

0 Lord ! chief light of Hellas, hear, and reach

A hand of helping to my helpless age,—

Aye, though I be as nothing, reach it forth.

Stall should the good man serve the cause of Right, And to ill-doers work continual ill.

ALFRED CHURCH,