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HECTOR.
Always I knew it. Had we any need
Of seers to tell this was Odysseus’ deed?
For me, what could I else, when I beheld
The hosts of
Argos
camped upon this field,
What but with prayers and heralds bid my friend
955
Come forth and fight for
Ilion
ere the end?
He owed me that.—Yet, now my friend is slain,
His sorrow is my sorrow. On this plain
I will uplift a wondrous sepulchre,
And burn about it gifts beyond compare
Of robes and frankincense. To Troy’s relief
960
He came in love and parteth in great grief.
Always I knew it. Had we any need
Of seers to tell this was Odysseus’ deed?
For me, what could I else, when I beheld
The hosts of
Argos
camped upon this field,
What but with prayers and heralds bid my friend
955
Come forth and fight for
Ilion
ere the end?
He owed me that.—Yet, now my friend is slain,
His sorrow is my sorrow. On this plain
I will uplift a wondrous sepulchre,
And burn about it gifts beyond compare
Of robes and frankincense. To Troy’s relief
960
He came in love and parteth in great grief.
MUSE.
My son shall not be laid in any grave
1
Of darkness; thus much guerdon will I crave
Of Death’s eternal bride, the heavenly-born
Maid of Demeter, Life of fruits and corn,
To set this one soul free. She owes me yet,
965
For Orpheus widowed, an abiding debt.
To me he still must be—that know I well—
As one in death, who sees not. Where I dwell
He must not come, nor see his mother’s face.
Alone for ever, in a caverned place
970
Of silver-veinèd earth, hid from men’s sight,
A Man yet Spirit, he shall live in light:
As under far Pangaion Orpheus lies,
Priest of great light and worshipped of the wise.
Howbeit an easier anguish even to me
Falls than to Thetis in her azure sea;
975
For her son too shall die; and sorrowing,
First on the hills our band for thee shall sing,
Then for Achilles by the weeping wave.
Pallas could murder thee, but shall not save
Thy foe; too swift Apollo’s bolt shall fly.
O fleshly loves of sad mortality,
980
O bitter motherhood of these that die,
She that hath wisdom will endure her doom,
The days of emptiness, the fruitless womb;
Not love, not bear love’s children to the tomb.
The VISION rises through the air and vanishes.
My son shall not be laid in any grave
1
Of darkness; thus much guerdon will I crave
Of Death’s eternal bride, the heavenly-born
Maid of Demeter, Life of fruits and corn,
To set this one soul free. She owes me yet,
965
For Orpheus widowed, an abiding debt.
To me he still must be—that know I well—
As one in death, who sees not. Where I dwell
He must not come, nor see his mother’s face.
Alone for ever, in a caverned place
970
Of silver-veinèd earth, hid from men’s sight,
A Man yet Spirit, he shall live in light:
As under far Pangaion Orpheus lies,
Priest of great light and worshipped of the wise.
Howbeit an easier anguish even to me
Falls than to Thetis in her azure sea;
975
For her son too shall die; and sorrowing,
First on the hills our band for thee shall sing,
Then for Achilles by the weeping wave.
Pallas could murder thee, but shall not save
Thy foe; too swift Apollo’s bolt shall fly.
O fleshly loves of sad mortality,
980
O bitter motherhood of these that die,
She that hath wisdom will endure her doom,
The days of emptiness, the fruitless womb;
Not love, not bear love’s children to the tomb.
LEADER.
The dead man sleepeth in his mother’s care;
2
But we who battle still—behold, the glare
Of dawn that rises. Doth thy purpose hold,
Hector, our arms are ready as of old.
985
The dead man sleepeth in his mother’s care;
2
But we who battle still—behold, the glare
Of dawn that rises. Doth thy purpose hold,
Hector, our arms are ready as of old.
985
HECTOR.
March on; and bid the allies with all speed
Be armed, bind fast the yoke upon the steed,
Then wait with torches burning, till we sound
The Tuscan trump.—This day we shall confound,
God tells me, their Greek phalanx, break their high
990
Rampart and fire the galleys where they lie.
Pointing to the dawn.
Yon first red arrow of the Sun, that brings
The dawn to Troy, hath freedom on his wings.
March on; and bid the allies with all speed
Be armed, bind fast the yoke upon the steed,
Then wait with torches burning, till we sound
The Tuscan trump.—This day we shall confound,
God tells me, their Greek phalanx, break their high
990
Rampart and fire the galleys where they lie.
Yon first red arrow of the Sun, that brings
The dawn to Troy, hath freedom on his wings.
Rhesus. Euripides. Gilbert Murray (Translator). London. 1913.
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