 | Hector |  |
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!
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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.
| Hector | |