The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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CASSANDRA. |
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The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | ||
346
CASSANDRA.
Στενω, στενω σε, δισσα και τριπλα δορος
Αυθις προς αλκην και διαρπαγας δομων
Και πυρ εναυγαζουσαν αιστωτηριον.
Lycophron, Cassandra, 69.
Αυθις προς αλκην και διαρπαγας δομων
Και πυρ εναυγαζουσαν αιστωτηριον.
Lycophron, Cassandra, 69.
I
They hurried to the feast,The warrior and the priest,
And the gay maiden with her jewelled brow;
The minstrel's harp and voice
Said “Triumph and rejoice!”—
One only mourned!—many are mourning now!
II
“Peace! startle not the lightWith the wild dreams of night!”—
So spake the Princes in their pride and joy,
When I in their dull ears
Shrieked forth my tale of tears,
“Woe to the gorgeous city, woe to Troy!”—
III
Ye watch the dun smoke riseUp to the lurid skies;
Ye see the red light flickering on the stream:
Ye listen to the fall
Of gate and tower and wall;
Sisters, the time is come!—alas, it is no dream!
347
IV
Through hall and court and porchGlides on the pitiless torch;
The swift avengers faint not in their toil:
Vain now the matron's sighs,
Vain now the infant's cries;—
Look, sisters, look! who leads them to the spoil?
V
Not Pyrrhus, though his handIs on his father's brand;
Not the fell framer of the accursed steed;
Not Nestor's hoary head,
Nor Teucer's rapid tread,
Nor the fierce wrath of impious Diomede.
VI
Visions of deeper fearTo-night are warring here;—
I know them, sisters, the mysterious Three:
Minerva's lightning frown,
And Juno's golden crown,
And him, the mighty Ruler of the sounding sea!
VII
Through wailing and through woeSilent and stern they go;
So have I ever seen them in my trance:
Exultingly they guide
Destruction's fiery tide,
And lift the dazzling shield, and poise the deadly lance.
348
VIII
Lo, where the old man stands,Folding his palsied hands,
And muttering, with white lips, his querulous prayer:
“Where is my noble son,
My best, my bravest one—
Troy's hope and Priam's—where is Hector, where?”
IX
Why is thy falchion grasped?Why is thy helmet clasped?
Fitter the fillet for such brow as thine!
The altar reeks with gore;
O sisters, look no more!
It is our father's blood upon the shrine!
X
And ye, alas! must roamFar from your desolate home,
Far from lost Ilium, o'er the joyless wave;
Ye may not from these bowers
Gather the trampled flowers
To wreathe sad garlands for your brethren's grave.
XI
Away, away! the galeStirs the white-bosomed sail;
Hence! look not back to freedom or to fame
Labour must be your doom,
Night-watchings, days of gloom,
The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame.
349
XII
Even now some Grecian dameBeholds the signal flame,
And waits, expectant, the returning fleet;
“Why lingers yet my lord?
Hath he not sheathed his sword?
Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?”
XIII
Me, too, the dark Fates call:Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne:—
I tell of others' lot;
They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phœbus, hide from me mine own!
The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | ||