The Lament of Andromache for Hector

(Homer’s Iliad xxii. 437-515.)

But she whom he had loved, Andromache, Knew not of Hector’s death, for none had come To tell her of his stay without the walls. She in the lofty palace sat retired Within her chamber, working at the loom,— Weaving a purple vest, with varied flowers Embroidered. But, as she her fair-haired maids Enjoined to place upon the blazing fire The spacious caldron, that the soothing bath Might be for Hector ready when he came Home from the battle, knowing not that he, Betrayed by blue-eyed Pallas, bleeding lay Beneath Achilles’ hand, she heard the sound Of weeping and of wailing on the walls; And her limbs trembled, and the shuttle fell Upon the ground. Then cried she to her maids: “Come, quickly, follow me, that we may see What thing has happened, for I surely heard My mother’s voice. My heart within my breast Bounds to my lips,—my knees are stiff with fear,— And—oh! I dread some ill to Priam’s house. Ah, me! I fear me much, great Peleus’ son Has severed my brave Hector from the town, And drives him to the plain; and soon his life Will be the forfeit of his manly rage. Never would he abide amid the crowd, But must be ever foremost in the war,— In valour without peer.” She said, and flew Forth from the palace, like a frenzied one, With throbbing heart; and her maids followed her. But when she reached the tower, amid the throng, She stood upon the wall, and gazed around, Until she saw her Hector dragged along With foul dishonour by the prancing steeds Towards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight, Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes. Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fall The ornaments that bound her captive hair, Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil, And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift, What day brave Hector led Andromache Forth from her father’s house, Eëtion. Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle care Received her sinking form, and by her side Waited in fear lest she should wake no more. But when, at last, the parted life returned And the full sense of misery, she wept Among her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs, Called Hector’s name: “Ah, wretched me! my Hector, Surely a cruel fate has followed us Since we were born,—thou, in this city, Troy, In Priam’s palace,—I, in far-off Thebes, Where Placus rears on high his woody crest, The hapless daughter of a hapless king! Oh! would that I had never seen the sun! For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abode Thou hast descended, leaving me alone, A mournful widow in thy empty halls. And he who was his hapless parents’ pride, Our infant son, shall see thy face no more, Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes, Since thine are closed in death. Unhappy boy! If even he escape the Grecian sword, Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot, And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,— The woful day of orphanage has made His life all friendless and companionless,— The constant prey of grief, upon his cheek The tears shall never dry,—and he must beg With suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests, Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed. His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry need Both parents well supply, with cruel hands Thrusting him from the feast, will rudely say: ‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’ Then to his widowed mother, all in tears, My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax, Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee, Shared in the choicest titbits of the board; And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased, Lulled by his tender nurse, his little head Reposed on downy pillow, and his cheek Glowed with the silent pleasure of his heart. Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone, Whose valour won his name Astyanax, ‘The City’s King,’—for Hector was of Troy, Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence. And thou, my Hector, liest all unclad Far from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,— Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,— While in thy desert halls neglected lie The soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee, Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught. These now must only deck thy funeral pyre, In mournful honour to thy cherished name— The glory and the strength of fallen Troy.”

Thus spake she ’mid her tears, and, all around, The listening chorus of her maidens wept.