University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Tent of Agamemnon.
The Grecian Princes assembled.
Chal.
Noble Achilles, then if thou would'st know
What moves the arrow-darting Phœbus' rage,
Swear to protect me by thy power and sword,
For I our mightiest chieftain must accuse,
And truths reveal, offensive to the great.

Ach.
What Heaven has told thee, tell us undismay'd!
No! By the ever-glorious God thou serv'st,
And whose prophetic oracle thou art,
While light is dear to me, and life enjoy'd,
No hand profane shall touch thy sacred head,
Not e'en the sovereign whom we all obey,
Shall Agamemnon dare to do thee wrong!

Chal.
'Tis he himself who has incens'd the God—
The priest of Phœbus came with costly gifts,
An ample ransom for his captive child,
And on the shore to all the host of Greece,
That stood consenting, he addressed his prayer.
But Agamemnon, with disdainful pride,
The gifts rejected, and the pray'r contemn'd.
For this, the father to his God complain'd—
For this, the God indignant bent his bow,
Nor will relent, till to her father's arms
Ye send Chryseïs—and with sacrifice
Implore Apollo, and atone the sin.

Agam.
Prophet of mischief! Ever such to me—
Must now the Greeks by thy malignant tongue
Be lectured to rebel?—Be taught, that I
Incensed the God, that I brought down the plague
Which slays the innocent—because I prize
The gentle captive more than paltry gold?
But if 'tis meet that she should go, I yield—
Perish myself—if for the common good.
Yes, let her go!—revoke the gift ye gave,
O it is just the generous Greeks should tell
That Agamemnon unrewarded bled!

Ach.
Supreme in grandeur and renown, and greed,
How shall the army gratify thee now?
We shar'd impartially our hard-won spoil—
Would'st thou oblige us to refund for thee
Our several portions? Call on all our men—
On all the Greeks to form the stock anew
For thee again to share?—This would be wise!
But send the damsel home, and when great Jove
Makes towered Ilion's hoarded heaps our own,
Threefold o'er all shall be thy rich reward.

Agam.
God as thou count'st thyself amidst the fight,
Art thou in council so surpassing too
That I defrauded must confess thy skill?
Before that I resign my beauteous prize
Produce the just equivalent, and well—
But if ye rob me, and deny my due,
I will exert the greatness of my power,
And from the prizes others safe enjoy,
Indemnity acquire. Ulysses, your's;
Or your's, brave Ajax; ah! Achilles, chafe!
Thine own perhaps may first appease my claim!

Ach.
Inglorious man!—But in assurance great!
What Greek again at thy command will watch
In secret ambush, or in battle fight?
What cause had I to war for thee or thine?
Troy wrong'd not me—nor ever Trojan drove
My steeds or oxen, nor within my land
Left print of hostile tread! Far, far, from hence,
Fenced by the sea and vale-o'ershadowing hills,
My coursers fed, and affluent harvests blest
The peaceful labors of my joyous swains.
Hither, thou front of hollow heartless brass,
We cheerful came—came, when implored by thee,
T'avenge a private, not a public wrong,
Thine and thy brother's cause. The recompence—
Disgrace and insult! What, and dar'st thou threat
To seize my prize, so hard, so dearly won?
A prize, O tyrant! match'd with thine, as small
As thy atchievements, when compared with mine;
Wealth in each conquest ever is thy share,
But mine is toil and danger. Despot! know,
Achilles is thy ready slave no more,
And soon my fleet shall bear me swiftly home.

Agam.
Haste, spread thy sails! away, with speed, away!
I woo thee not to linger. Fly, begone!
Thy transient friendship, and thy groundless hate,
To me are equal. Tyrannize at home,
But here, 'tis mine to lord and thine to serve.
Go, get ye home. There is not in the camp
King or commander whom I hate as thee.
Back to her sire, my bark shall bear the maid—
But then prepare, imperious prince, prepare
To yield thy captive too—she shall be mine,
Even in thy tent, yea, at thy side I'll seize her;
So shalt thou rue the madness of that hour,
In which thou dared'st imperial might, and all
Our host shall know, and tremble while they learn,
That Kings are subject to the Gods alone.

Ach.
Thou dog at baying, though in heart a deer,
When wast thou known to brave the ambush'd foe,
Or dare the front of war? Thou scourge of Jove,
Sent in his anger on a slavish race—
By this, this sacred sceptre that thou seest
In my right hand, as severed from the tree,
Its parent on the mountain top, as I
Shall henceforth be from thee and thine,
This sceptre, emblem of the power conferr'd
By Jove on Kings—a dreadful oath I swear;
When Greece again shall ask Achilles' aid
In vain shall she implore!—When Hector comes
Bloody and grim, fierce trampling to the shore
O'er mountains of the dead—then shalt thou mourn,
And rage in bitterness of soul to think,
How thou hast scorn'd, as he were like thyself,
Achilles—I—the bulwark of your cause.

SCENE II.

A Chamber.
Hector, Paris, and Helen.
Hec.
Infatuated man! by woman's smiles
Spell-bound to thy destruction. Hadst thou died
At thy ill-starr'd nativity, or death
Prohibited thy fatal nuptial rites,
What shame hadst thou escaped, and Troy what woe!
Couldst thou along the proudly swelling waves,
Thy breast more haughty, in thy stately ships
Courageous seek the beauteous Spartan bride,
And bear her willing from her lord away;
Yet basely here in slack seclusion lurk,
Shrunk from thy country's foes, friends but for thee?
Disastrous recreant! thy father's shame!
Is this a time for such soft dalliance?
For thee, for thine, the sons of Ilion fall,
Till but the high-heap'd corses of the dead
Alone protect the town. For thee, for thine,
Around the war a narrowing circle burns,
The soldiers perish, and the widows cry!
Closer and closer nears the wasteful fire,
And thou sitt'st safe regardless. Up and forth,
Or here with Troy be sheeted in the flames.

Par.
These just reproaches, Hector, I deserve—
O who can boast thy firmly temper'd mind,
Prepared for every accident of fate,
Like the keen hatchet in the shipwright's hand,
Still edged for use, and still untired by toil.
Now shrinking from th'indignant public eye,
I sat lamenting my unhappy doom;
But roused by thee, my honor wakes again,
And beauteous Helen urges me to arm.
Conquest to-day may yet redeem my fame—
To dare is man's, the victory is Heav'n's!
Stay patient here, till I my armour brace,
Or go, and emulous, I'll soon be there.
[Exit Paris.

Helen.
O brother of a sister, self-abhorred,
And by all hearts for ills that I have caus'd!
But here some short respite from labor take:
Alas, no breast endures such pain as thine!
For Paris' guilt, and worthless Helen's crime,
The Gods ordain our miserable fate,
Present distress and infamy to come,
The direful themes of everlasting song.

Hect.
I must not rest, fair Helen; other friends
Claim sad endearments ere I seek the field.
But urge the loiterer, let him not delay
To join me ere again I quit the town.
[Exit Hector.

Hel.
Oh! that the winds had seiz'd me at my birth,
Borne me to wilds, the famish'd eagles' prey!
Or, plung'd me deep in death beneath the waves,
Before the vengeance of this direful war
Had thus devouring rag'd around for me.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Street in Troy near the Scæan Gate.
Hector and Andromache, with the Nurse and Child.
And.
Impetuous prince, O whither dost thou run,
Thy wife forgetting and thy helpless child?
O sure such courage but provokes thy doom,
And Greece with all her heroes closing round
Will overwhelm thee, and thou must be lost.
Earth yield me ere that fatal hour a tomb,
For then no other refuge will be mine!
No mother now remains to soothe my woe,
Nor sire to shield, nor brother to protect;
Yet in thee, Hector, I possess them all.
But father, mother, brethren lost again
I must deplore, when I shall mourn for thee.
Where the scath'd fig-trees shade the southern wall,
The Greeks pour all the battle. There his host
The dreadful Agamemnon rolls, and there
In furious confluence the foes unite,
And threaten the fenc'd town. Stay, Hector, stay,
Defend that post, while others try the field.

Hect.
How would the sons of Troy in arms so fam'd,
And Troy's proud matrons slight the chief they praise,
If he should shun the fight! My early youth
Was to the hardships of the camp inur'd,
And my prompt spirit burns for its renown.—
But come it will, the awful destin'd day,
When thou, imperial Troy, shall sink to dust!
Thy honors perish, and thy glory die!
And yet Andromache no sad presage,
My mother's death, nor Priam's sacred head
Defil'd with gore, nor all my kindred laid
In bloody tragedy amidst the wreck,
So wounds my spirit as the thought for thee.
Methinks I see thee o'er the Argive looms
Pale-bending weave the story of these wars,
Thy tears fast falling on thine own sad part:
Oh, Gods! and shall some haughty Greek dare say,
As she deep-loaded with the flowing urn,
Fill'd at th'Hyperian spring, (her slavish task,)
“Look at the wife of Hector!”
But be my bones inhum'd in trodden clay,
Before thy captive cries shall pierce mine ear!—
[He takes the Child from the Nurse.
Eternal Jove, bestow on this my son
Such fame in arms as thou hast giv'n to me,
And make him rise the future strength of Troy:
From fight returning, be his welcome still
“He far excels his father;” while apart
His anxious mother feels her joy renew'd.
Weep not for me, Andromache, no hand
Can antedate my doom, the base and brave
Have their allotted time, and no safe art
Can add one atom to their number'd sands.—
Hence to thy home, and with thy maidens there
Ply thy domestic tasks: leave war to men:
'Tis their rude work, and most of all 'tis mine.