POETRY.
IDYLLS OF THE ILIAD.—X. ANDROMACHE.
IN Mysia, where the deep-soiled Apian plain Slopes to the golden waves of Rhyndacus, O'er Thebe, underneath the wooded heights Of Places, reigned Eetion ; reigned in peace, Till war broke on the land, and swept the king, And the king's seven fair sons, and Thebe's self, To buried ruin ; nor was aught to tell The woe to after years, save those few elms, Set by kind nymphs round good Eetion's tomb. And one far-wedded daughter of his race, Andromache, whom Hector, Priam's son, Chiefest and best, had wooed and borne away From death, to dree the doom the gods ordained. There in beleaguered Troy her days went by, Half happiness, half fear, because the name Of Hector's wife was as a magic charm, To win the people's praise, who, when she passed, Prayed blessings on her, and the love of men Hang all around her, as on troubled nights The pale gold circle hangs around the moon, And made her as a goddess to their eyes. But haunting fear was ever at her heart, Unsleeping, as the surging of the sea Sleeps not, but beats for ever in the caves, That crumble from the cliffs ; so she, with dread Of Hector's rashness and the hate of him, Who in one day had butchered all her kin, Wore out her crumbling courage; and her fear
Was often as a goad, and drave her forth, To climb the tower by the Scan gate, And scan with half-averted eyes the field.
There, with one maiden and her infant boy, Scamandrius, whom the city-folk, for love Of princely Hector, named Astyanax, The City-Prince, through the hot, weary hours Of fight she lingered, till the westering sun Slanted the shore-ward shadows of the ships, And quenched the thirst of battle : then she rose, And hope was with her for a while, and sped Her homeward steps, and cheered the welcome task Of bath, and new-washed robe, and mingled cup.
And in her arms the darling of her soul Lay cradled, gazing with wide, happy eyes On eyes tear-dimmed, and lips that strove to smile, E'en while they spake her grief :—" 0 me ! sweet boy, Better that thou hadst ne'er been born, ne'er seen The day, or else hadst been the baseborn child Of hireling parents, tillers of the soil, Who know no care, save that the furrows yield Due produce in their season, and the skies Let down the former and the latter rain : But I have cares, that cease not night nor day, Fearing the hour when sacred Ilium Shall fall, and Hector shall be slain, and I, A widow, shall be slave to some Greek dame, And see thee taken from thy mother's arms.
For either they will grudge thy tender life, For hatred of thy father, and will hew Thy soft, sweet limbs, and I shall not be nigh To weep, as now I weep, foreseeing all, And bear thee to the grave, and sate my soul With grief among the women of my house : Or, if thou 'scape thy murderers, thou wilt lead A loveless life, not having any joy Of parents, who might shelter thee from harm.
And happy children, who have homes, will scorn With bitter words, and drive thee from their play ; Nor at the feast will place be found for thee, But they will strike thee with their hands, and say, 'Thy father sits "tat with us ; get thee hence.'
And, hungering, thou wilt seek the men who knew My Hector, craving alms ; and one will give Dry bread, and one a scanty cup of wine, In grudging pity, moistening thy lips ; My boy, who from thy birth has tasted naught But daintiest cheer, marrow, and fat of lambs, And lain upon thy father's knees, and slept, Lapped in fond arms, nor hunger known, nor cold.
Such will be thine; and mine, in far.off lands To weave the woof, and ply the menial task,
And sing my soul away for grief, as sings
The bird whose nest a swooping kite bath found, And snatched away her brood, and slain her mate ; Haply, to share the bed of some bought slave, I, daughter of a king, and Hector's wife.
But him the dogs will tear and birds devour, Naked, upon these sands ; because the Greek Will know no mercy, nor restore his corpse For ruth nor ransom. Only will I pile, Where'er I be, an empty mound of turf, And feign the name of Hector, and the stream Of Simois, and whatever wakes the thought Of vanished things, and weep, until I die." 0. OGLE.
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