University of Virginia Library

Act V.

Scene I.

NUNCIUS, ANDROMACHE and HECUBA.
Nuncius.
O horrid, cruel, cursed Fates! what Crime
Hath bloody Mars yet seen in ten years time
Like sad or barbarous! where shall I begin?
With your Woes, Madam? Or yours, Aged Queen?

Hecuba.
Whose Woes soe'er you tell, they're mine; each Breast
Bears its own Griefs, but mine's with all opprest,
The universal Sorrow: None can say
He's wretched, but he's such to Hecuba.

Nuncius.
The Virgin's sacrific'd, and the Youth cast
From the Tow'rs Height: both Brave yet to the last.

Andromache.
Relate the Series of their Deaths: declare
This double Tragedy: I long to hear
The Sum of all my Griefs. Speak then and show
Th'intire Complement of all my Wo.

Nuncius.
A Tow'r yet stands; All now that's left of Troy,
Whence, bearing in his Arms his Age's Joy,
His little Grandson; Priam us'd to view
His Troops, and order what those Troops should do.
Thence (when brave Hector in that glorious Fight
What time the routed Greeks he chac'd in flight
With Sword and Fire) to young Astyanax
The old King show'd his Father's valiant Acts.
This noted Tow'r, once our Walls cheifest Grace,
(Now a curs'd Rock, and a detested Place)
Huge Crowds of Soldiers with their Troops surround.
A Seaman scarce to guard the Fleet is found.
All thither flock: To some a Hill does lend
From far an open Prospect: Some ascend
The rocky Cliffs, and there, eager to see,
On Tiptoes stand. Some climb this neighbouring Tree,
Some that: Th'adjoining Woods tremble to bear
The numerous Spectators. Some here are
Climb up steep Precipices. Some bestride
Ridges of half-burnt Houses. Others ride
On pieces of the broken Wall: And some
To see his Son's Death, get on Hector's Tomb.
Ulysses proudly stalks through all the Throng,
As way was made; leading in's Hand along
The Princely Youth, who makes no sluggish stop
In this sad March; but gaining the Tow'r's top,
Thence, here and there, with an undaunted Gest,
Casts round his angry Eyes: Of some fierce Beast,
As a young tender Cub, not able yet
To tyrannize with murdering Fangs, does threat,
And vainly snarls, and snaps, and swells with Rage;
The Princely Captive on this lofty Stage
Like Courage shows; and from all Hearts does force
Compassion, ev'n Ulysses feels Remorse.
He weeps not yet, for whom all else shed Tears.
Now whilst Ulysses (as enjoin'd) prepares
His solemn Speech; and with set Pray'rs invites
The cruel Gods to those more cruel Rites,
He nimbly of his own accord leaps down
Amidst the Ruins of his State and Town.

Andromache.
What Colchian, or what wand'ring Scythian,
Or Hyrcan, bordering on the Caspian Main,
That knows no Law, would such an Act have dar'd?
Cruel Busyris butchering Altars spar'd
Yet Childrens Blood; nor ever Diomed
His Horses with the Flesh of Infants fed.
Who'll take thy Limbs and give them Funeral?

Nuncius.
What Limbs could there be left by such a Fall?
His Bones were crush'd to pieces; nor one Grace,
Or Mark was left in Body or in Face
Resembling his illustrious Father: All
Were utterly defac'd by the sad Fall.
His Neck was broken. His Head 'gainst a Rock
Encount'ring, dash'd his Brains out with the Knock.
Nought but a shapeless Trunk he lay.

Andromache.
Ev'n so
Too like his Father.

Nuncius.
From this Scene of Wo
The Greeks next, (weeping yet for what they'd done)
To act another Crime as barbarous run,
In haste t'Achilles Tomb; whose farther side
Rhetæan Waves beat with a gentle Tide.
Th'Extreams to that oppos'd, a Champaign Ground
Invests; in th'midst of which a Vale is found,
From whose low Edge a hilly Ridge ascends,
And 'bout it like a Theatre extends.
The Shore is cover'd with the numerous Press.
Some think this done in order to release
Their Navy's stop; some look on the Design
As meant t'extirpate all Troy's Hostile Line.
Most of the giddy Vulgar seem to hate
The Act, they come to see and perpetrate.
Trojans attend too; and with fearful Eyes
Expect the last of all Troy's Tragedies.
When strait, as at our solemn Marriage Rites,
In head of all, are born the Nuptial Lights:
Next Helen, ar the Bride's sad Pronuba,
Comes with dejected Mein; whilst Phrygians pray
So may Hermione wed; and so may she
Return'd with Shame to her first Husband be.
Trojans and Greeks are both with Horror strook,
When forth the Princess comes; with submiss Look,
But Cheeks that dy'd in modest Blushes shine,
More beautiful in this her sad Decline.
As Phœbus seems to cast a sweeter Light
Now near his Set, when the approaching Night
Invades the Confines of the doubtful Day.
The vulgar Minds are lost in strange Dismay;
Who (as their Custom is) always commend
Those who are going to their fatal End.
Her Beauty some, others her Youth as much.
Some the sense does of her chang'd Fortune touch.
All her high Spirit praise; that Death dares meet.
Fearless she out-steps Pyrrhus; whilst to see't,
Some quake, some pity, some admire. Now come
To the Land's Point, Pyrrhus his Father's Tomb
Ascends; nor does the stout Virago shrink
Or draw one Foot yet back, tho at Death's brink,
But with a stern Look, Pyrrhus to provoke,
Turns to receive the Sacrificing Stroke.
Pity at once, and Wonder all Minds fill,
Seeing her so brave, and Pyrrhus slow to kill.
Soon as his Hand into her tender Breast
Had forc'd the murthering Steel, a full Stream press'd
Of bubling Gore through the large Wound: nor dy'd
Her Courage yet: she fell as tho she try'd
T'oppress Achilles in his Grave, and force
The Earth to lye yet heavier on his Corse.
Both sides, the Phrygians and the Greeks lament:
These tim'rously, their Sighs those louder vent.
This was the Order of the Sacrifice.
Nor on the Grounds hard Surface stangnant lies,
Or floats in streams the sacrificed Blood;
The thirsty Grave soon drank up all the Flood.

Hecuba.
Go, go ye Greeks! now seek your Homes again,
With your wing'd Fleet securely plough the Main,
The Royal Virgin, and the Youth are slain.
The War's now ended.—Would my Life were so.
Where shall I bear this Burden of my Wo?
How quit my Deaths vivacious Remora?
For whom shall I my Tears sad Tribute pay?
For my Girl? Grand-son? Husband? Country lost?
Or for all these at once? or my self most?
Whose only Wish is Death. Cruel! thou hy'st
To murder Infants; to young Virgins fly'st:
Each where mak'st hast to kill: But me alone
Thou fear'st; and shun'st, though all Night call'd upon
'Mid'st Fire and Sword:—Nor Rage of hostile Pow'rs,
Nor Flames, nor Ruins of Troy's falling Tow'rs,
One poor old Woman could dispatch. How nigh
To thee yet (Priam!) when thou fell'st, stood I?

Nuncius.
Away to Sea, ye Captives! Now unmor'd
The Greek Fleet hoises Sail: Hast, hast abord.