University of Virginia Library

From the dark Horrors of a prison's cave,
Where all is cheerless as the doleful grave;
The chain'd Andromache pours forth her grief,
And ev'n from Pyrrhus now implores relief.
If e'er soft pity touch'd thy manly Breast,
And on thy soul mild Nature's stamp imprest,
O take compassion on my deep-felt woe,
“'Tis what the happy to th'unhappy owe.”
Too dire alas! to see my Hector dead,
Why dost thou show'r more sorrows on my Head?
Why am I lock'd in this lone Dungeon's cell,
To moan unpity'd? all my suff'rings tell
To heedless walls, that cannot know my pain,
Nor hear Affliction's sorrowing Child complain?
Was it my fault that Hector warr'd with thee?
Why then thy wrath impetuous spent on me?
Yet let me still thy rage unbounded feel,
No more, no longer, for myself I kneel!
—Some friendly Pow'r avert the barb'rous Deed,
For ah I tremble lest my Infant bleed!
Soon as Aurora had unveil'd the Day,
And to my prison sent a hateful ray,
Thy savage Ministers relentless came,
In right of war Astyanax to claim;
At my loud grief no pity they express'd,
But tore the helpless Infant from my Breast.
Yet worse—with impious joy the Ruffians said,
“This night shall find him number'd with the dead.”
My Infant die! forbid it Pow'rs above,
And from Despair call back maternal Love.

Say, Pyrrhus, can it be thy fix'd design
To ruin and to slaughter all that's mine?
Dost thou without the least remorse engage,
With guiltless Blood t'allay the Grecian rage?
O Greece, O Argives, for great Deeds renown'd,
Fav'rites of Mars, with glorious conquests crown'd!
What Praise, what Honour do you think t'acquire,
When my Child bleeds a victim to your ire?
Or do you fear that he'll in future Day,
(Starting to manhood) force his crimson way
Thro' slaughter'd Greeks? your wealthy towns invade,
And thus revenge his injur'd Father's shade?
Do you suspect he'll from the walls of Troy
Burst like a storm, your armies to destroy?
Alas! did not yourselves fam'd Troy surround,
And shake her walls and bulwarks to the ground?
Raze the proud Tow'rs, wherein she plac'd her trust,
Mix her expiring Heroes with the Dust?
In this low state how can my Son aspire
To wake revenge, and calm his injur'd Sire?
How to his Law make Greece submissive bow,
And prove her Conq'ror who's her Captive now?
The sky-crown'd Oak as well might be afraid,
The little worm that lives within its shade,
In time shou'd eat its vital sap away,
And cause its storm-proof branches to decay.
Infuriate Men! your brutal scheme I know,
You slay the Child, t'enhance the Mother's woe:
You slay the Child, lest e'er he might impart
Some feeble comfort to this drooping Heart;
Lest from the cheek he wipe the trickling Tear,
And with his presence soften my Despair.
Blest with that darling pledge of virtuous Love,
The Grief that weighs me down, wou'd lighter prove:
His pratt'ling Innocence wou'd sooth my care,
Ev'n Hector's Death in some Degree repair.
But I must suffer woe increas'd on woe,
And Pyrrhus ever gives the cruel Blow.
Tell me no more thoul't quiet my alarms,
And straight return my Infant to these arms,
If to thy late proposal I agree
T'accept at once my Liberty and Thee;
Unheard-of evils rather be my Doom!
May I alive be shrouded in the Tomb!
Did'st thou imagine thou could'st make me prove
False to my Hector, my eternal Love?
Or dost thou think, thou'rt merciful and mild,
When in this view, thou'lt spare my only child?
Horrible Mercy! . . . Bear, O bear away
My Son to gloomy Death an instant prey:
Bid the sharp Dagger pierce his guiltless Heart,
Yet let the Grief-torn Mother share her part;
Not as spectator idly there remain,
But let me heighten the distressful scene:
On both our heads thy thund'ring vengeance throw,
And headlong hurl us to the shades below.

Yet oh reflect, what charms have I to move
Thy war-delighting soul to gentle Love?
Stern Grief has dim'd the brightness of this Eye,
This ghastly form the winning Graces fly.
But were I blest with ev'ry beauteous Grace,
Ev'n worthy to enjoy a God's embrace,
How dar'st thou, Pyrrhus, woo me to thy Bed?
Thou my aversion, thou my greatest Dread!
Thou the inhuman pois'ner of my joy!
Thou the Destroyer of once happy Troy!
Thou who in scenes of blood can'st drink delight!
Oh can I e'er forget that dismal night?
That night now present to my bleeding mind,
When tott'ring Troy was to the Flames consign'd?
Still, still I hear the groans and piteous cries
Of dying Trojans rend th'affrighted skies:
Still, still I hear the angry clash of arms,
My every nerve still trembles with alarms.
I saw thee, Pyrrhus, when thou entered'st Troy
With Slaughter leagu'd to ravage and destroy;
Enormous Rage thy fiery eye-balls glar'd,
From thy dread face bewilder'd Horror star'd:
Strife-breathing Discord (with her flaming Brand)
And tearless Cruelty waited thy command.
Thus deathfully array'd! thou gav'st the war,
Unnumber'd Trojans groan beneath thy spear.
Hark! the loud Bursts of wild Despair and Fright
Deepen the terrors of this tragick Night.
Of grief-distracted Mothers the shrill cries,
The shrieks of tender Virgins to the skies,
Of Infants torn from their fond Parents' care,
Were sounds of musick to thy raptur'd ear.

But foreign this to me.—See on the ground,
My Hector lies!—Ah view the gaping wound!
All rest, all comfort, I from hence forego,
And now, O Joy, I'm thine eternal Foe.
Cursed Achilles, cursed be thy spear
That drunk his Blood—Give patience to the air—
To the fierce acme of Despair I'll soar,
My Lord, my Friend, my Husband is no more!
Yes, Pyrrhus, thou wast present at this scene,
And joy tumultuous swell'd thy ev'ry vein;
To thee, the most inhuman of thy race,
To thee my Hector owes his last Disgrace.
Fix'd to the Chariot wheels he's trail'd along,
The scorn and laughter of the Grecian Throng.
That Face, the dread of Demi-gods before,
Defil'd with mire, and stain'd with clotted gore.
May Vengeance swift pursue the impious Deed,
Yet let not Greece—let Pyrrhus only bleed.
May from the fun'ral pile no flame ascend,
But Dogs voracious for thy Bones contend.
Lo! next at bending Priam's feeble age
Thou meanly level'st thine inglorious rage:
Deaf to soft Pity's mercy-moving Pray'r,
(Thou'dst not be Pyrrhus if thou knew'st to spare;)
Tears nor entreaties can thy wrath restrain,
The Daughters beg, the Wife implores in vain;
Mocking his Years with unrelenting Ire,
Thou throw'st th'impatient jav'lin at the Sire!
He sinks a bloody corse.—The horrid scene,
His wretched kindred know not to sustain:
With lamentation wild, they pierce the air,
Their bosoms beat, uproot their flowing hair:
Curse Greece and Grecians with united Breath,
And in their Desperation call for Death.

Are these the noble Deeds from which thou'dst claim
The bland endearment of a Husband's name?
Are these the Deeds by which thou hope'st t'impart
The soft inflaming passion to my Heart?
Come, courteous Conqu'ror, lead me to the grove,
There let us drink long Draughts of melting Love.
O Wretch, O Tyrant, Hell-born Monster go—
“Rise worlds between us, and vast Oceans flow!”
Thy voice, thy presence, e'en thy name offends,
And all my soul with indignation rends.
And dar'st thou yet my soft affection crave?
Go, sooner wake the Tenants of the Grave.
I scorn the pow'r of thy ignoble art
That wou'd divorce my Husband from this heart.
Thou can'st not manacle the mind—that's free,
And all my Thoughts, O Hector, dwell on thee.
As the unchanging Ivy clasps its Oak,
Though level'd by the swain's relentless stroke:
So to my breathless Hector will I prove
Constant and true with an eternal Love.

Ah me what means this sudden burst of Woe?
Why bleeds afresh my Grief-torn heart? why flow
Anew my Tears? O Heaven point out the crime
For which incens'd you blast my blooming prime.
Like in the painted fragrancy of May,
When bright Aurora ope's the glad'ning Day,
The gay Flow'r smiles, and sheds its kind perfume,
But Night approaching fades its lovely Bloom:
Young tho' it be, its short-liv'd reign is o'er,
Weeping it droops—ne'er, ne'er to flourish more:
So 'tis with me! when first kind Hymen's Bands
Fasten'd the silken knot, and join'd our Hands,
Each way I look'd sweet Happiness was there,
And smiling Pleasures crowded to appear.
Alas! how soon the gilded vision's fled!
Behold great Hector humbled with the Dead!
Andromache in chains!—pale Mis'ry's Guest,
Without one Glimpse of joy to sooth my Breast:
Where e'er I turn I meet with no relief,
Grief ever present, and still only grief.

Lo! the stern jaylor aggravates my woes,
And on my wretchedness foul mock'ry throws:
‘Does proud Andromache submit to Fears,
‘Her fading cheek bedew'd with fruitless Tears!
‘It gives me glee to hear thy mournful voice,
‘Whilst in thy depth of sorrow I rejoice.
‘Let Trojans on their knees now beg for Peace,
‘And ever tremble at the Name of Greece.’

Yet wherefore do I rashly thus complain,
Too well assur'd that all I say is vain?
Do not these chains I wear, this dungeon's cell,
This bed of flint, these gloomy horrors tell,
That now from Cruelty I Mercy seek,
And to relentless Tyranny I speak!

Wretch that I am, with ev'ry Ill opprest,
Forsook by Hope that calms the lab'ring Breast:
Hope, that forbids the sorrowing stream to flow,
Hope, the kind soother and the Friend of woe.
A Parent's Title then with Grief I bear,
Who calls me Mother, plants a dagger here!—
In vain, sweet Babe, I've have held thee to this Breast:
In vain I've hush'd thee on this Lap to rest:
In vain I sav'd thee in that dreadful Hour,
When flaming Troy was crush'd by Grecian Power:
In vain, alas! for on this cruel Day,
To Græcia's Chief you fall a certain prey.
Pyrrhus no longer Hero, Butcher of my Race,
Hate him Mankind, and load him with Disgrace:
Let him no more the name of Conq'ror hear,
But bloody Tyrant meet his pamper'd Ear.
Then falls my Child a victim to thine Ire!
—Sure nobler Thoughts great Pyrrhus' mind inspire.
By thee if Priam stalks a Ghost below,
It is but just, for Priam was thy Foe.
They ask no mercy, who no mercy give,
Such Heroes scorn the Boon, disdain to live:
But this poor helpless Babe, whose feeble arm
Uplifted, ne'er cou'd strike thee with alarm;
Whose infant mind nor good nor evil knows,
Unable to distinguish Friends from Foes;
What has He done to raise such mad'ning rage,
Which nought but instant Death can now assuage?
Oh then relent: to these fond arms restore
A Mother's joy: 'tis all I now implore:
Load me with ills, in darkness let me dwell,
Increase the horrors of this horrid cell,
With bitt'rest curses rivet on this chain,
I'll smile at wretchedness, exult in pain.

Behold the Tyrant scorns my humble pray'rs,
Laughs at my fondness, and contemns my tears.
Let him contemn—no longer I'll entreat,
No more I'll meanly prostrate at thy Feet:
Blood-spilling Thoughts within thy Bosom roll,
And gnawing passions twine around thy soul!

Yet timid Prudence shou'd my warmth restrain,
These daring sallies rigid silence chain.
Stung with fierce Grief, I had alas forgot—
—I'm still a captive, ign'rant of my Lot.
Then now decide, oh conq'ring Pyrrhus tell,
If fix'd thy purpose, black as deepest Hell!
If fix'd to hurl my Infant to the Dead,
Unless I instant yield t'ascend thy Bed!
My heart-thron'd Lord, can I forget thee so,
As hold alliance with thy greatest Foe!
All love of Thee to mingle with the air,
And in my prostituted womb to bear
To Greece new Warriors—to my Son new Foes—
And to my bleeding Country still new Woes!—
Forbid it Shame, forbid it God of Love,
Forbid it Thou, O Gods commanding Jove!
Rather than stoop to such a crime—I doom
(Severe Decree) my Infant to the Tomb.

Ye Pow'rs above my Breast with courage steel,
That when the Hour arrives, I may not feel
A Mother's weakness melting this sad Heart,
Nor thro' my soul keen pangs of Sorrow dart.
O'er me that hour kind Heav'n thy influence cast,
No—rather let that moment be my last.
What moment? say! alas have I decreed
My Son to Death, my only Born to bleed?
Ah cruel Mother! but more cruel Vows,
Plighted to Hector! Thou more cruel Spouse!
Yet Vows of Love extend but to the Grave—
Why doubt I then my darling Child to save!
Why solace to myself refuse to give!
Vanish my Fears, Astyanax shall live:
And Nature's sacred impulse be obey'd,
In spite of Hector, and the Vows I've made.
Forbear—ah whither is my Reason fled?
Or with my Hector is my Passion dead?
Are these the means (oh Shame) I take to prove
A Faith unshaken, and a constant Love?
—Then let the Mother with destroying Breath,
Devote her Infant to untimely Death;
Let me, forgetful of my Sex, resign
Each mild resolve—and cruelty be mine!
Ah no—ye bloody Thoughts from me remove,
Is this the Language of maternal Love?
Oh my Astyanax, oh all that's dear,
For whom now gushes this unbidden Tear:
When thou art lost, again my Hector bleeds,
To deep-felt woe, still deeper woe succeeds:
Again Despair will torture ev'ry vein,
And all my sorrows past commence again.

Omniscient Jove, to whose tremendous Laws
All things submit, defend a Mother's cause:
Oh grant at least for injur'd Hector's sake,
That thy too long unactive wrath awake,
Send thy revenging fiery Thunders down,
And wrap in quenchless Flames each Grecian Town.
Confusion be th'insulting Conq'ror's share,
Oh may He feel the rack of wild Despair.

My Pray'rs are heard, my Soul prophetick sees
The rig'rous Doom that righteous Heav'n decrees.
I see her plagues on Grecian armies light,
And hurry Myriads to eternal Night.
As when the golden wavy crops of corn
Play with the Breeze, and spacious Fields adorn;
The blacken'd clouds oft gather to a storm,
And all the beauteous scene at once deform:
Or when in Autumn howling winds descend,
And plants and lab'ring trees oppressive bend;
The leafy Honours scatter'd all around,
Fall and decay unnumber'd on the ground.
So shall it be with Greece—for Vengeance now
Is on the wing, now twangs its deadly Bow.
Lo Græcia fades! her armies fall away,
And ghastly Death enjoys the wasteful day.
See, he approaches terrible and fell,
Sweeping off Millions to the gates of Hell!
And thou, O Pyrrhus, tremble in thy turn,
No more with thoughts of glorious conquests burn:
No royal captive shall thy grace implore,
The scene is chang'd, thy blust'ring act is o'er:
Too late to rue each impious past decree,
Death lifts his arm, and graves now yawn for thee.
What comfort this to me! Behold my Son
By guards surrounded,—instant let me run—
Barbarians stop!—no enemy to Greece—
To Pyrrhus none,—your bloody purpose cease—
He is my Child—what can an Infant do
T'embroil your state! what wars can he renew,
Abandon'd and alone! Oh then be mild,
And to its Parent yield the Death-doom'd Child.

They hear me not—he's to the altar brought,
Perhaps next moment—oh the piercing thought—
Ungovern'd Madness seizes now my Brain,
And the fond Mother bleeds at ev'ry vein.
Let my loud voice tear Mercy from the skies,
For lo extended at the stake he lies! . . . .
Only one moment longer let him live,
Only one moment to this Bosom give.
In vain,—I see th'uplifted threat'ning Blade,
Just, just alighting on his tender Head!
O Grief! O Fury! whither must I fly?
O rigid Duty, must my Dear-one die?
Haste, tell the Conq'ror—if his dire command—
Forgive me Hector—Pyrrhus take my Hand—
What do I say!—Ah look, my Hector's shade
Appears, my sex, my weakness to upbraid.
My trembling soul Dismay and Terror chain,
Whilst my damp Blood creeps chilly thro' each vein.
—Is that my Husband?—that guant paly Ghost
My Lord? of Trojans once the glorious Boast?
How chang'd?—Alas! he sends a threat'ning Eye,
Now shadowy moves, and glides disdainful by.
O sacred Hector, O my slaughter'd Spouse,
Does thy Andromache forget her vows?
Even for Pyrrhus flame with soft Desire,
And in his Breast bid Gratitude expire?
Far be it from her—still believe her true,
What her Lips spoke, her Soul disdains to do.
Yet, yet I must, or act a cruel part,
And tear the tender Mother from this Heart!

Death carrying Darts, whom force nor shield withstood,
Why did ye spare me in the Night of Blood?
When Troy was bury'd in her native Gore,
When Fate exclaim'd—Let Ilion be no more—
Oh had some spear transfix'd my Heart! what Pow'r,
What cruel God preserv'd me for this hour?

Once more to thee I'll raise my tearful Eye!
—If lenient Pity dwells beneath the sky;
Oh Pyrrhus hear the voice of Nature, hear,
And mildly listen to my woe-taught pray'r;
From thy great mind each narrow Thought remove,
Forbid my Infant's Death—but name not Love—
Ev'n Heav'n itself shall catch thy soaring Fame,
And future Nations sound thy deathless name.
I speak in vain—Behold the cruel Band,
Eager to execute the dire command.
I'll rend these chains—break thro' the prison—fly—
With this bold arm arrest the stroke, or die.
Arise O Hector, instant at the head
Of thousand Furies to prevent the Deed.
Too late, too late, I hear his shrieks resound,
I see the Blood now gushing from the wound!
Hark, hark, again I hear him pierce the skies—
I see him struggle—Oh he gasps, he dies—
I am no longer Mother—Give the Bowl—
The Dagger—let me ease my tortur'd soul.—

And now the regions of pale Death I tread,
Whilst deeper Horrors gloom around my Head.
Hail sunless soil! Hail O tremendous vale,
And all ye dread infernal Beings hail!
Some Power direct me to the dreary Grove,
Where the wan spirits of the slaughtered rove!
There my Asty'nax haply I may find,
His cruel fate revolving in his mind.
Yonder he moves! to spirits thronging round
Relates his woe, and shews the recent wound.
Oh let me come to sooth the mournful Ghost,
She best can comfort thee who loves thee most!
Sweet-murder'd Innocence, why dost thou fly?
No bloody Grecian here—Behold 'tis I,
Thy tender Mother—know'st thou not my voice?
Haste—in my strict and eager fold rejoice!
Here on my Breast unlock thy ev'ry care,
Here pour thy plaint, here shed the trick'ling tear.
I rave—where am I?—whither have I been?
Where is my Child?—Alas! what have I seen?
I can no more—thick Dimness clouds my Eyes,
And shudd'ring Tremors in my Limbs arise:
My lab'ring Bosom heaves with shorten'd Breath—
I feel the hand—the icy grasp of Death.