The Trojan Women
Troades
Headnote
The Trojan Women (Troades) is Seneca’s tragedy of the morning after a conquest: Troy has fallen, the fighting is over, and the play watches what victory does to the defeated and to the victors while the Greek fleet sits becalmed in the harbor, unable to sail home. Out of the vast Trojan matter Seneca fuses two episodes that Euripides had treated separately — the sacrifice of Polyxena at Achilles’ tomb (the Hecuba) and the killing of Hector’s infant son Astyanax (the Trojan Women) — and binds them into a single action governed by one demand: the dead require blood before the living may depart. The ghost of Achilles rises to claim Priam’s daughter Polyxena as a bride for his shade; the seer Calchas adds that Hector’s son must die as well, flung from the last surviving tower. The play is the working-out of those two deaths, and the long agony of the women who must witness them.
It has no single protagonist so much as a chorus of grief with three soloists. Hecuba, once queen of Asia and now a captive prize, opens and closes the play and stands at its center as the figure on whom every loss converges — husband, sons, city, and at the end both a daughter and a grandchild on a single day; her recurring cry is that death, which she begs for, is the one thing fortune will not grant her. Andromache, Hector’s widow, carries the play’s most sustained scene: warned in a dream by Hector’s ghost, she hides their son in his father’s tomb, and is then matched against Ulysses in a duel of nerve and cunning that she loses — the great central confrontation in which a mother’s love is turned into the very lever that pries the child loose. Polyxena, silent throughout, becomes the play’s emblem of constantia: told she is to die, she dresses as for a wedding and meets the sword with a fierceness that shames her killer, falling face-down, the messenger says, as if to make the earth lie heavy on Achilles. Against them stand the Greeks — the cynical Ulysses, the boy-cruel Pyrrhus, the weary and self-doubting Agamemnon of the great debate, and Helen, made to lure Polyxena to her death under cover of the false marriage and given a self-defense of startling coldness.
Two of the choral odes are among the most famous Seneca wrote. The second, after the debate, is a flatly materialist meditation on death — “after death there is nothing, and death itself is nothing” — in which the chorus of Trojan women dismisses the whole apparatus of the underworld as “empty rumors and idle words, a tale like an anxious dream”; set inside a play whose entire plot is driven by a ghost’s demand and a tomb’s thirst for blood, the ode’s denial of any afterlife is one of the sharpest ironies in the corpus, and its relation to the surrounding action is a standing interpretive question. The fourth, on the strange consolation of shared suffering — “sweet to the mourner is a people of grievers” — anatomizes grief’s pettiness with the same unillusioned eye. The Stoic substrate is everywhere but never preached: the play tests, through the endurance of Polyxena and Astyanax and the bottomless survival of Hecuba, what it means to meet fortune’s worst with a spirit fortune cannot reach, and it leaves the question of whether such endurance is consolation or merely the last refinement of cruelty deliberately open.
The translation renders the verse in clear modern English lines, keeping the line structure of the Latin and the line-for-line cut of the stichomythia, and imposing no English meter or rhyme; the speaker attributions and the act and scene divisions follow the standard editorial tradition (the manuscripts give neither), and the section numbers approximate the line numbering by which the play is cited. The gods are kept Roman (Jupiter, Dis, Phoebus, Neptune); the heroes keep their familiar classical names, with Seneca’s frequent patronymics and epithets preserved — “the Aeacid” and “Peleus’s son” for Achilles, “the Ithacan” and “the lord of the Cephallenians” for Ulysses, “Tyndareus’s daughter” for Helen, “Alcides” for Hercules. Where the transmitted text is disturbed or lacunose — the manuscript of Troades is in places badly corrupted — the translation follows the most widely accepted reading and renders the established sense.
Whoever trusts in a throne and, mighty, lords it over a great hall, and fears not the fickle gods, and has handed his credulous heart to glad fortune — let him look at me, and at you, Troy. Never did chance offer greater proof of how on frail footing the proud are standing. The pillar of mighty Asia, toppled, is fallen, the gods’ own signal labor; to her aid had come even he who drinks the cold Tanais that spreads its mouth in seven channels, and she who, near neighbor, looking out on the roving Scythians, strikes the Pontic shore with her husbandless squadrons, and he who, first to receive the new-born day, mixes the warm Tigris with the reddening sea — yet Troy is cut down by the sword, Pergamum has fallen upon itself. See, the high glories of the wall lie heaped amid the scorched roofs; flames ring the palace, and far and wide the whole house of Assaracus smokes.
Quicumque regno fidit et magna potens dominatur aula nec leves metuit deos animumque rebus credulum laetis dedit, me videat et’ te, Troia: non umquam tulit documenta fors maiora, quam fragili loco starent superbi, columen eversum occidit pollentis Asiae, caelitum egregius labor; ad cuius arma venit et qui frigidum septena Tanain ora pandentem bibit, et quae vagos vicina prospiciens Scythas ripam catervis Ponticam viduis ferit, et qui renatum primus excipiens diem tepidum rubenti Tigrin inmiscet freto, excisa ferro est, Pergamum incubuit sibi. en alta muri decora congesti iacent tectis adustis; regiam flammae ambiunt omnisque late fumat Assaraci domus.
The fire does not stay the victor’s greedy hands: blazing Troy is plundered, nor does the sky show clear through the surging smoke; as though wrapped in dense cloud, black with cinders the Trojan day lies foul. The victor stands, glutting his rage, and with his eyes takes the measure of slow Ilium, and at last, savage, forgives the ten years; he shudders at her even in ruin, and though he sees her conquered, scarcely believes that by him she could have been conquered; the despoiler snatches the Dardanian spoils — a thousand ships cannot hold the plunder.
non prohibet avidas flamma victoris manus: diripitur ardens Troia, nec caelum patet undante fumo: nube ceu densa obsitus ater favilla squalet Iliaca dies. stat avidus irae victor et lentum Ilium metitur oculis ac decem tandem ferus ignoscit annis; horret afflictam quoque, victamque quamvis videat, haut credit sibi potuisse vinci, spolia populator rapit Dardania; praedam mille non capiunt rates.
I call to witness the power of the gods, set against me, and my country’s ashes, and you, ruler of the Phrygians, whom Troy now covers, buried with your whole kingdom, and your shade, by whose standing Ilium stood, and you, the great throngs of my children: whatever disaster has come to pass, whatever evils the priestess of Phoebus, raving with frenzied mouth, foretold while the god forbade belief — I, Hecuba, saw first. Pregnant, I did not keep my fears silent, and I was a prophet in vain before Cassandra. It was no wary Ithacan, nor the Ithacan’s comrade by night, that flung these fires upon you, nor lying Sinon: that fire is mine; you burn with my torches.
Testor deorum numen adversum mihi, patriaeque cineres teque rectorem Phrygum quem Troia toto conditum regno tegit, tuosque manes quo stetit stante Ilium, et vos meorum liberam magni greges, umbrae minores: quicquid adversi accidit, quaecumque Phoebas ore lymphato furens credi deo vetante praedixit mala, prior Hecuba vidi. gravida nec tacui metus et vana vates ante Cassandram fui. non cautus ignes Ithacus aut Itbaci comes nocturnus in vos sparsit aut fallax Sinon: meus ignis iste est, facibus ardetis meis.
But why do you groan over the ruins of a city overthrown, you tenacious old age? Look, unhappy one, on these fresh griefs: Troy is now an old sorrow. I saw the accursed horror of the king’s murder, and at the very altars a greater crime committed by the Aeacid’s weapons, when, fierce, with his left hand twisting the king’s head back by the hair, he buried the unspeakable sword deep in the wound; and when he had drawn it back, driven home to the hilt, the blade came willingly, dry, from the old man’s throat. Whom could turn him from his savage slaughter — not the man pressing upon the utmost verge of mortal life, not the gods above as witnesses of the crime, not the strange sanctity of a fallen realm? That father of so many kings, Priam, lacks a tomb and wants for fire, though Troy is burning; yet that is not enough for the gods above.
sed quid ruinas urbis eversae gemis, vivax senectus? respice infelix ad hos luctus recentes: Troia iam vetus est malum, vidi execrandum regiae caedis nefas ipsasque ad aras maius admissum scelus Aeacidis armis, cum ferox, scaeva manu coma reflectens regium torta caput, alto nefandum vulneri ferrum abdidit; quod. penitus actum cum recepisset, libens ensis senili siccus e iugulo redit. placare quem non potuit a caede effera mortalis aevi cardinem extremum premens superique testes sceleris et quoddam sacrum regni iacentis? ille tot regum parens caret sepulcro Priamus et flamma indiget ardente Troia, non tamen superis sat est:
See, the urn, choosing a master for Priam’s daughters and sons’ wives, allots them, and I — look — a cheap prize, shall follow. This man pledges to himself the marriage-bed of Hector, this one wants the wife of Helenus, this one Antenor’s; nor is there lacking one to seek your bed, Cassandra. My lot is feared; I alone am a terror to the Greeks.
dominum ecce Priami nuribus et natis legens sortitur urna praedaque en vilis sequar. hic Hectoris coniugia despondet sibi. hic optat Heleni coniugem. hic Antenoris; nec dest tuos. Cassandra, qui thalamos petat. mea sors timetur, sola sum Danais metus.
Do the laments fall silent? My crowd of captive women, strike your breasts with your palms and raise the dirge and perform Troy’s funeral rites; let fatal Ida resound at last, the home of the dread judge.
Lamenta cessant? turba captivae mea, ferite palmis pectora et planctus date et iusta Troiae facite, iamdudum sonet fatalis Ide, iudicis diri domus.
It is no untrained crowd, new to tears, that you bid mourn: this we have done through unbroken years, ever since the Phrygian guest touched Grecian Amyclae, and the pine, sacred to the Mother Cybele, crossed the strait under the axe. Ten times has Ida whitened with snow, ten times been stripped bare for our pyres, and on the Sigean plains the anxious reaper has cut the tenth crop’s ears, so that no day goes without its grief. But a new cause of weeping supplies itself: go to the dirge, and lift, O queen, your wretched hand. We, the cheap throng, will follow our mistress: we are not unschooled in mourning.
Non rude vulgus lacrimisque a ovum lugere iubes: hoc continuis egimus annis, ex quo tetigit Phrygius Graias hospes Amyclas securique fretum pinus matri sacra Cybebae. deciens nivibus canuit Ide, deciens nostris nudata rogis, et Sigeis trepidus campis decumas secuit messor aristas, ut nulla dies maerore caret. sed nova fletus causa ministrat: ite ad planctus, miseramque leva, regina, manum. vulgus dominam vile sequemur: non indociles lugere sumus.
Faithful companions of my fate, loose your hair; let the locks flow down your mournful necks, foul with Troy’s still-warm dust. Fill your hands — this much it is permitted to take from Troy. Let the throng bare its arms; with robe let down, gird up the folds, and let the body lie open to the waist. For what marriage do you veil your breast, captive modesty? Let the mantle bind the loosened tunics, let the frenzied hand be free for the blows of the thronging dirge — this guise pleases, it pleases: I know again the Trojan throng. Let the old grief come back once more, outdo your accustomed way of weeping: we weep for Hector.
Fidae casus nostri comites, solvite crinem, per colla fluant maesta capilli tepido Troiae pulvere turpes: complete manus, hoc ex Troia sumpsisse licet. paret exertos turba lacertos; veste remissa substringe sinus uteroque tenus pateant artus. cui coniugio pectora velas, captive pudor? cingat tunicas palla solutas, vacet ad crebri verbera planctus furibunda manus— placet hic habitus, placet: agnosco Troada turbam. iterum luctus redeant veteres, solitum flendi vincite morem: Hectora flemus.
We have all loosed our hair, torn for so many a death; the locks hang free of their knot, and the hot ash has strewn our faces. The robe falls from our bared shoulders and, drawn up, covers only the lowest flank; now the naked breast calls for our hands: now, now, grief, bring out your cheap blows. Let the Rhoetean shores ring with the dirge, and let Echo, who dwells in the hollow mountains, not, as is her wont, send back curtly the last brief words, but give back all the groans of Troy: let all the sea and the sky hear. Rage, hands, pound the breast with vast blows; I am not content with the wonted sound: we weep for Hector.
Solvimus omnes lacerum multo funere crinem; coma demissa est libera nodo sparsitque cinis fervidus ora. cadit ex umeris vestis apertis imumque tegit suffulta latus; iam nuda vocant pectora dextras: nunc, nunc viles exprome, dolor. Rhoetea sonent litora planctus, habitantque cavis montibus Echo non, ut solita est, extrema brevis verba remittat, totos reddat Troiae gemitus: audiat omnis pontus et aether. saevite, manus, pulsu pectus tundite vasto, non sum solito contenta sono: Hectora flemus.
For you our right hand strikes our arms, for you it strikes our bloodied shoulders, for you our right hand beats our head, for you our breasts lie torn by a mother’s palms. Let every scar I tore open at your death flow and stream with abundant blood. Pillar of your country, stay of the fates, you were the bulwark of the weary Phrygians, you were the wall, and on your shoulders she stood, propped up, through ten years: with you she fell, and Hector’s last day was one and the same as his country’s. Turn the dirge: pour out your tears for Priam; Hector has enough.
Tibi nostra ferit dextra lacertos umerosque ferit tibi sanguineos, tibi nostra caput dextera pulsat, tibi maternis ubera palmis laniata iacent: fluat et multo sanguine manet quamcumque tuo funere feci rapta cicatrix. columen patriae, mora fatorum, tu praesidium Phrygibus fessis, tu murus eras umerisque tuis stetit illa decem fulta per annos: tecum cecidit summusque dies Hectoris idem patriaeque fuit. Vertite planctus: Priamo vestros fundite fletus, satis Hector habet.
Receive, ruler of Phrygia, our dirge, receive our tears, old man twice taken. Troy suffered nothing only once under your reign: twice the Dardanian walls were battered by Greek iron, and twice she endured the quivers of Hercules. After Hecuba’s children carried to the grave, and the throng of kings, you, father, close the last of the funerals, and, slain as a victim to great Jupiter, you press the Sigean shore, a headless trunk.
Accipe, rector Phrygiae, planctus, accipe fletus, bis capte senex, nil Troia semel te rege tulit, bis pulsari Dardana Graio moenia ferro bisque pharetras passa Herculeas. post elatos Hecubae partus regumque gregem postrema pater funera cludis magnoque Iovi victima caesus Sigea, premis litora truncus.
Turn your tears elsewhere: my Priam’s death is not to be pitied, daughters of Ilium. Say, all of you: Priam is blessed. Free, he goes down to the shades below, and never will he bear on a conquered neck the yoke of the Greeks; he does not look upon the two sons of Atreus, nor see deceitful Ulysses; he will not, the prize of an Argive triumph, bow his neck beneath the trophies; he will not put behind his back the hands once accustomed to the scepter, nor, following Agamemnon’s chariot, his golden right hand wearing chains, become a pageant for broad Mycenae.
Alio lacrimas flectite vestras: non est Priami miseranda mei mors, Iliades. felix Priamus dicite cunctae: liber manes vadit ad imos, nec feret umquam victa Graium cervice iugum; non ille duos videt Atridas nec fallacem cernit Vlixen; non Argolici praeda triumphi subiecta feret colla tropaeis; non adsuetas ad sceptra manus posterga dabit currusque sequens Agamemnonios aurea dextra vincula gestans latis fiet pompa Mycenis.
Blessed Priam, we all say: departing, he took his kingdom with him. Now in the safe shades of the Elysian grove he wanders, and blessed among the holy souls he seeks his Hector. Blessed Priam, blessed whoever, dying in war, took all things with him, spent to nothing.
Felix Priamus dicimus omnes: secum excedens sua regna tulit; nunc Elysii nemoris tutis errat in umbris interque pias felix animas Hectora quaerit. felix Priamus, felix quisquis bello moriens omnia secum consumpta tulit.
Always, for the Greeks, the long delay in port, whether they wish to go to war or go home.
O longa Danais semper in portu mora, seu petere bellum, petere seu patriam volunt.
What makes the delay for the ships and the Greeks? Speak: what god closes the homeward roads?
Quae causa ratibus faciat et Danais moram, effare, reduces quis deus claudat vias.
My spirit quakes, a bristling tremor shakes my limbs. Portents greater than the truth — they scarcely find belief — I saw myself, I saw. Already Titan was grazing the topmost ridges with his rising, day had conquered night, when suddenly the earth, roaring with a blind bellow, convulsed, drew up all its depths from the bottom; the woods tossed their heads, and the high grove thundered with a vast crash, and the sacred wood; the rocks of Ida fell from the ridges that burst apart. Nor did the earth alone tremble: the sea too felt its own Achilles at hand and flattened its waters. Then the cleft valley opened immense caverns, and the chasm of Erebus, the ground split, offered a passage through to the world above, and heaved up the tomb.
Pavet animus, artus horridus quassat tremor, maiora veris monstra (vix capiunt fidem) vidi ipse, vidi. summa iam Titan iuga stringebat ortu, vicerat noctem dies, cum subito caeco terra mugitu fremens concussa totos traxit ex imo sinus; movere silvae capita et excelsum nemus fragore vasto tonuit et lucus sacer: Idaea ruptis saxa ceciderunt iugis. nec terra solum tremuit: et pontus suum adesse Achillen sensit ac stravit vada. tum scissa vallis aperit immensos specus et hiatus Erebi pervium ad superos iter tellure fracta praebet ac tumulum levat.
There flashed up the huge shade of the Thessalian chief, such as when, rehearsing the Thracian arms against your fates already, Troy, he laid them low, or struck down Neptune’s son, the youth bright with white hair, or when, raging amid the battle-lines with violent war, he choked the rivers with corpses, and Xanthus, seeking a path, wandered slow through its bloodied shallows, or when, victor, he stood upon his proud chariot and plied the reins, dragging Hector and Troy. The sound of his wrath filled all the shore:
emicuit ingens umbra Thessalici ducis, Threicia qualis arma proludens tuis iam, Troia, fatis stravit aut Neptunium cana nitentem perculit iuvenem coma, aut cum inter acies Marte violento furens corporibus amnes clusit et quaerens iter tardus cruento Xanthus erravit vado, aut cum superbo victor in curru stetit egitque habenas Hectorem et Troiam trahens. implevit omne litus irati sonus:
“Go, go, you sluggards, carry off the honors owed to my shade, loose the thankless ships that mean to sail over my seas: at no small price has Greece paid for Achilles’ wrath, and at a great price shall pay. Let Polyxena, betrothed to my ashes, be slaughtered by Pyrrhus’s hand and drench my tomb.”
cite, ite inertes, manibus meis debitos auferte honores, solvite ingratas rates per nostra ituri maria, non parvo luit iras Achillis Graecia et magno luet: desponsa nostris cineribus Polyxene Pyrrhi manu mactetur et tumulum riget.’
Having said this, he plunged the day into deep night, and seeking Dis again, as the earth closed over, he joined the enormous cavern shut. The calm waters lie unmoved, the wind has cast off its threats, and the sea murmurs peaceful with a gentle swell, and from the deep the choir of Tritons sang a wedding-hymn.
haec fatus alta nocte demersit diem repetensque Ditem rursus ingentem specum coeunte terra iunxit, immoti iacent tranquilla pelagi, ventus abiecit minas placidumque fluctu murmurat leni mare, Tritonum ab alto cecinit hymenaeum chorus.
When you were about to give your glad sails to the sea for the journey home, Achilles slipped your mind — Achilles, by whose hand alone Troy was battered; whatever delay was added once he was gone, she stood in doubt only as to which way to fall. Though you should wish to give what is asked, and hasten, you will give it late: already all the chiefs have taken their reward. What lesser recompense can be paid for valor so great? Did he earn too little — who, bidden to flee the war and sit out a long lifetime in old age, outlasting the years of the Pylian elder, cast off his mother’s wiles and the false dress, and confessed himself a man by reaching for arms?
Cum laeta pelago vela rediturus dares, excidit Achilles, cuius unius manu impulsa Troia, quicquid accessit morae illo remoto, dubia quo caderet stetit, velis licet quod petitur ac properes dare, sero es daturus: iam suum cuncti duces tulere pretium, quae minor merces potest tantae dari virtutis? an meruit parum qui, fugere bellum iussus et longa sedens aevum senecta ducere ac Pylii senis transcendere annos, exuit matris dolos falsasque vestes, fassus est armis virum?
Telephus, ungovernable lord of an inhospitable realm, while he refused entry to fierce Mysia, dyed that raw hand with royal blood, and felt the same hand both strong and gentle. Thebes fell; Eetion, conquered, watched his kingdom taken; by a like ruin little Lyrnesos was overthrown, set on its high ridge, and the land made famous by captive Briseis lies fallen, and Chryse, the cause of strife between kings, and Tenedos known to fame, and Scyros, rich in fat pasture, that feeds Thracian herds, and Lesbos that splits the Aegean strait, and Cilla, dear to Phoebus. What of the lands the Caycus washes, swelling its flood with the waters of spring?
inhospitali Telephus regno impotens, dum Mysiae ferocis introitus negat, rudem cruore regio dextram imbuit fortemque eandem sensit et mitem manum. cecidere Thebae, vidit Eetion capi sua regna victus; clade subversa est pari apposita celso parva Lyrnesos iugo, captaque tellus nobilis Briseide et causa litis regibus Chryse iacet et nota fama Tenedos et quae pascuo fecunda pingui Thracios nutrit greges Scyros fretumque Lesbos Aegaeum secans et cara Phoebo Cilla; quid quas alluit vernis Caycus gurgitem attollens aquis?
This great wreck of nations, this great terror, so many cities strewn like a vast whirlwind — for another man it would be glory and the crown of honor: for Achilles it is a march. So my father came, and waged such wars while only preparing for war. To pass over his other deserts: would Hector alone not have been enough? My father conquered Ilium; you only pulled it down. It is my joy to follow the famous praises and bright deeds of my great sire: Hector lay slain before his father’s eyes, and Memnon before his uncle’s — for whose mourning his mother brought forth a grieving, pale-faced day; and the victor shuddered at the example of his own work, and Achilles learned that even goddesses’ sons die. Then the savage Amazon fell, the last terror.
haec tanta clades gentium ac tantus pavor, sparsae tot urbes turbinis vasti modo alterius esset gloria ac summum decus: iter est Achiilis; sic meus venit pater et tanta gessit bella, dum bellum parat. ut alia sileam merita, non unus satis Hector fuisset? Iliun vicit pater, vos diruistis. inclitas laudes iuvat et facta magni clara genitoris sequi: iacuit peremptus Hector ante oculos patris patruique Memnon, cuius ob luctum parens pallente maestum protulit vultu diem; suique victor operis exemplum horruit didicitque Achilles et dea natos mori. tum saeva Amazon ultimus cecidit metus.
You owe it to Achilles, if you weigh his deserts justly — even if he should ask a maiden out of Mycenae and Argos. Is there hesitation? Do you now, all at once, disapprove what was approved, and think it savage to sacrifice Priam’s daughter to Peleus’s grandson? Yet you, her father, sacrificed your own daughter to Helen: I ask only what is now custom and already done.
debes Achilli, merita si digne aestimas, et si ex Mycenis virginem atque Argis petat. dubitatur et iam placita nunc subito improbas Priamique natam Pelei nato ferum mactare credis? at tuam natam parens Helenae immolasti: solita iam et facta expeto.
It is the fault of youth to be unable to govern its drive; in others this first fever of their age sweeps them off, in Pyrrhus his father’s. Once I bore, unmoved, the spirit and the threats of the swollen Aeacid: the more you can do, the more patiently you should bear. Why with dire slaughter spatter the noble shade of a famous chief? This first you ought to learn — what a victor should do, and a vanquished suffer. No one has held a violent rule for long; the moderate endure. And the higher Fortune has raised and lifted up the powers of men, the more it befits the fortunate to hold himself in, and to tremble at the shifting turns, fearing the gods when they favor too much. That greatness is overthrown in a moment, conquering has taught me.
Iuvenile vitium est regere non posse impetum; aetatis alios fervor hic primus rapit, Pyrrhum paternus, spiritus quondam trucis minasque tumidi lentus Aeacidae tuli: quo plura possis, plura patienter feras. Quid caede dira nobiles clari ducis aspergis umbras? noscere hoc primum decet, quid facere victor debeat, victus pati. violenta nemo imperia continuit diu, moderata durant: quoque Fortuna altius evexit ac levavit humanas opes, hoc se magis supprimere felicem decet variosque casus tremere metuentem deos nimium faventes. magna momento obrui
Does Troy make us too swollen and fierce? We Greeks stand on the very spot from which she fell. Once, I confess, I carried myself too high, ungovernable and proud in my power; but that spirit was broken by the very thing that could have given the same pride to others — Fortune’s favor. You, Priam, make me proud; you make me afraid. Should I think a scepter anything but a name draped in empty glitter, the hair adorned with a false fillet? A brief chance will snatch all this, and perhaps with no thousand ships, no ten years: not on all men does fate hang so slow.
vincendo didici. Troia nos tumidos facit nimium ac feroces? stamus hoc Danai loco, unde illa cecidit, fateor, aliquando impotens regno ac superbus altius memet tuli; sed fregit illos spiritus haec quae dare potuisset aliis causa, Fortunae favor, tu me superbum, Priame, tu timidum facis. ego esse quicquam sceptra nisi vano putem fulgore tectum nomen et falso comam vinclo decentem? casus haec rapiet brevis, nec mille forsan ratibus aut annis decem: non omnibus fortuna tam lenta imminet.
For my part I will confess — and by your leave, land of Argos, let me have said it — I wished the Phrygians beaten and conquered; to ruin them and level them with the ground, would that I had prevented it! But a burning enemy, and anger, and victory committed to the night cannot be reined. Whatever could seem to anyone shameful or savage, this the grief and the darkness did — through which fury goads itself on — and the sword too lucky, whose lust, once bloodied, runs mad. Let whatever can survive of overthrown Troy survive: enough of punishment has been exacted, and beyond enough. That a royal maiden should fall and be given as a gift to a tomb, and drench the ash, and that they should call the foul deed of murder a marriage — I will not allow it. The blame for all comes back on me: who does not forbid the sin, when he can, commands it.
equidem fatebor (pace dixisse hoc tua, Argiva tellus, liceat) affligi Phrygas vinci que volui: ruere et aequari solo utinam arcuissem. sed regi frenis nequit et ira et ardens hostis et victoria commissa nocti quicquid indignum aut ferum cuiquam videri potuit, hoc fecit dolor tenebraeque, per quas ipse se inritat furor, gladiisque felix, cuius infecti semel vecors libido est. quicquid eversae potest superesse Troiae, maneat: exactum satis poenarum et ultra est. regia ut virgo occidat tumuloque donum detur et cineres riget et facinus atrox caedis ut thalamos vocent? non patiar, in me culpa cunctorum redit: qui non vetat peccare, cum possit, iubet.
Shall Achilles’ shade then carry off no reward?
Nullumne Achillis praemium manes ferent? 1
It shall, and all men will sing him with praises, and lands unknown will hear his great name. But if ash is soothed by blood poured out upon it, let the fat necks of Phrygian herds be slaughtered, and let blood flow that no mother will weep. What custom is this? When was a human being ever spent as a human’s funeral-due? Take from your father the ill-will and the hatred, whom you bid be worshipped by a punishment.
Ferent, et illum laudibus cuncti canent magnumque terrae nomen ignotae audient. quod si levatur sanguine infuso cinis, opima Phrygii colla caedantur greges fluatque nulli flebilis matri cruor. quis iste mos est, quando in inferias homo est impensus hominis? detrahe invidiam tuo odiumque patri, quem coli poena iubes.
O swollen one — while the standing of good fortune exalts your spirit, and timid the moment fear has rattled, you tyrant of kings! Do you still bear a breast inflamed with love’s heat and a new passion? Will you alone, so often, carry off spoils from us? With this hand I will render Achilles his victim. But if you refuse and keep her, I will give a greater, worthier than Pyrrhus’s giving; and far too long has my hand stood idle from a royal slaughter — and Priam demands his equal.
O tumide, rerum dum secundarum status extollit animos, timide cum increpuit metus, regum tyranne! etiamne flammatum geris amoris aestu pectus ac veneris novae? solusne totiens spolia de nobis feres? hac dextra Achilli victimam reddam suam. quam si negas retinesque, maiorem dabo dignamque quam det Pyrrhus; et nimium diu a caede nostra regia cessat manus paremque poscit Priamus,
I do not deny it — that this is Pyrrhus’s greatest glory in the war, that Priam lies slain by your savage sword, the suppliant of your father.
Haud equidem nego hoc esse Pyrrhi maximum in bello decus, saevo peremptus ense quod Priamus iacet, supplex paternus,
Suppliants of our father, and his enemies, we have known to be the same men. Yet Priam asked in person; you, faint with heavy fear, not brave enough even to ask, hand your prayers to Ajax and the Ithacan, shut in your tent and shaking at the foe.
Supplices nostri patris hostesque eosdem novimus. Priamus tamen praesens rogavit; tu gravi pavidus metu, nec ad rogandum fortis, Aiaci preces Ithacoque mandas clausus atque hostem tremens.
But your father felt no fear then, I confess — amid the slaughter of Greece and the burning ships he lay idle, careless of war and forgetful of his arms, strumming the tuneful lyre with a light quill.
At non timebat tunc tuus, fateor, parens, interque caedes Graeciae atque ustas rates segnis iacebat belli et armorum immemor, levi canoram verberans plectro chelyn.
Then great Hector, scorning your weapons, feared the songs of Achilles, and in all that terror there was deep peace for the Thessalian ships.
Tunc magnus Hector, arma contemnens tua, cantus Achillis timuit, et tanto in metu navalibus pax alta Thessalicis fuit.
No doubt at those same Thessalian ships there was deep peace again — for Hector’s father.
Nempe isdem in istis Thessalis navalibus pax alta rursus Hectoris patri fuit.
It is for a high king to grant a king his life.
Est regis alti spiritum regi dare.
Why then did your hand tear a king’s life away?
Cur dextra regi spiritum eripuit tua?
The merciful will often grant death in place of life.
Mortem misericors saepe pro vita dabit.
And now, in mercy, you seek a maiden for a tomb?
Et nunc misericors virginem busto petis?
Do you now believe it a sin to sacrifice maidens?
Iamne immolari virgines credis nefas?
A king should set his country before his children.
Praeferre patriam liberis regem decet.
No law spares a captive or stays the penalty.
Lex nulla capto parcit aut poenam impedit.
What the law does not forbid, shame forbids to be done.
Quod non vetat lex, hoc vetat fieri pudor.
Whatever has pleased him to do, the victor may.
Quodcumque libuit facere victori licet.
He to whom much is permitted should will the least.
Minimum decet libere cui multum licet.
Do you fling such words at men whom Pyrrhus loosed from the heavy yoke of a ten years’ bondage?
His ista iactas, quos decem annorum gravi regno subactos Pyrrhus exsolvit iugo? caret.
Does Scyros give these airs?
Hos Scyrus animos?
— which is clean of a brother’s crime, girt round by the flood —
Scelere quae fratrum Inclusa fluctu—
— of a kindred sea, no doubt:
Nempe cognati maris:
You, got on a maiden by a furtive rape, and born of Achilles — but not yet a man —
virginis concepte furtivo stupro et ex Achilles nate, sed nondum viro—
— of that Achilles who by his lineage holds the world, spread through all the realm of the gods on high: the sea is his by Thetis, the shades by Aeacus, the sky by Jove.
Illo ex Achille, genere qui mundum suo sparsus per omne caelitum regnum tenet: Thetide aequor, umbras Aeaco, caelum Iove.
— of that Achilles who lies dead by Paris’s hand.
Illo ex Achille, qui manu Paridis iacet.
— whom not even a god went against at close quarters.
. Quem nec deorum comminus quisquam petit.
I could indeed have checked your words and tamed your insolence; but my sword knows to spare even captives. Rather let Calchas, interpreter of the gods, be called: if the fates require it, I will give her.
Compescere equidem verba et audacem malo * poteram domare: sed meus captis quoque scit parcere ensis, potius interpres deum Calchas vocetur: fata si poscent, dabo.
You who loosed the bonds of the Pelasgian fleet and the delays of war, who by your art unlock the sky, to whom the secrets of the entrails, to whom the world’s thunder and the star drawing the long trail of its path give the signs of fate, whose utterances cost me a vast price: declare what the god commands, Calchas, and govern us with your counsel.
Tu qui Pelasgae vincla solvisti rati morasque bellis, arte qui reseras polum, cui viscerum secreta, cui mundi fragor et stella longa semitam flamina trahens dant signa fati, cuius ingenti mihi mercede constant ora: quid iubeat deus effare, Calchas, nosque consilio rege.
The fates grant the Greeks their road at the wonted price: a maiden must be slaughtered at the Thessalian chief’s tomb; but in the dress in which Thessalian brides are wed, or the daughters of Ionia, or the brides of Mycenae, let Pyrrhus hand the bride over to his father: so will she be given in due rite. Yet this is not the only cause that holds our ships: a nobler blood than yours, Polyxena, is owed — the blood the fates seek; let Priam’s grandson, Hector’s son, fall from the top of the tower and meet his death. Then let the fleet fill the straits with a thousand sails.
Dant fata Danais quo solent pretio viam: mactanda virgo est Thessali busto ducis; sed quo iugari Thessalae cultu solent Ionidesve vel Mycenaeae nurus, Pyrrhus parenti coniugem tradat suo: sic rite dabitur, non tamen nostras tenet haec una puppes causa: nobilior tuo, Polyxene, cruore debetur cruor, quem fata quaerunt, turre de summa cadat Priami nepos Hectoreus et letum oppetat. tum mille velis impleat classis freta.
Is it true, or does a tale beguile the fearful — that the shades live on when the body is buried, once a wife has laid her hand upon the eyes and the last day has barred the sun, and the grim urn has shut in the ashes? Is it of no use to hand the soul to the grave — does there remain for the wretched a longer living-on? Or do we die entire, and no part of us stays, when the breath, with fleeting exhalation, mingled with the mists, has passed into the air, and the torch set beneath has touched the naked flank?
Verum est an timidos fabula decipit umbras corporibus vivere conditis, cum coniunx oculis imposuit manum supremusque dies solibus obstitit et tristis cineres urna cohercuit? non prodest animam tradere funeri, sed restat miseris vivere longius? an toti morimur nullaque pars manet nostri, cum profugo spiritus halitu immixtus nebulis cessit in aera et nudum tetigit subdita fax latus?
Whatever the rising sun, whatever the setting sun knows, whatever Ocean with its blue straits, coming and fleeing twice, washes — time will snatch it away with the gallop of Pegasus. With the whirl by which the twice-six signs fly, with the course by which the lord of the stars hastens to roll the ages, in the manner Hecate hurries to run her slanting turns, by this we all make for our fates; and no longer, once a man has touched the lake the gods above swear by, is he anywhere. As smoke from hot fires vanishes, foul for a brief stretch; as the clouds we saw heavy just now, the blast of northern Boreas scatters: so this breath, by which we are ruled, will flow away.
Quicquid sol oriens, quicquid et occidens novit, caeruleis Oceanus fretis quicquid bis veniens et fugiens lavat,, aetas Pegaseo corripiet gradu. quo bis sena volant sidera turbine, quo cursu properat volvere saecula astrorum dominus, quo properat modo obliquis Hecate currere flexibus: hoc omnes petimus fata nec amplius, iuratos superis qui tetigit lacus, usquam est: ut calidis fumus ab ignibus vanescit, spatium per breve sordidus, ut nubes, gravidas quas modo vidimus, arctoi Boreae dissicit impetus: sic hic, quo regimur, spiritus effluet.
After death there is nothing, and death itself is nothing, the last marker of a swift-run course. Let the greedy lay down their hope, the anxious their fear: greedy time and chaos devour us. Death is indivisible, deadly to the body and not sparing the soul. Taenarus, and the kingdom under a harsh lord, and Cerberus the warden besetting the threshold of the door that yields not easily — empty rumors and idle words, a tale like an anxious dream. Do you ask in what place you will lie after death? Where the unborn lie.
post mortem nihil est ipsaque mors nihil, velocis spatii meta novissima; spem ponant avidi, solliciti metum: tempus nos avidum devorat et chaos. mors individua est, noxia corpori nec parcens animae: Taenara et aspero regnum sub domino limen et obsidens custos non facili Cerberus ostio rumores vacui verbaque inania et par sollicito fabula somnio. quaeris quo iaceas post obitum loco? quo non nata iacent.—
Why, grieving throng of Phrygia, do you tear your hair and, beating your breast, drench your wretched cheeks with streaming tears? We have endured but light things, if what we suffer is only to be wept. For you Ilium has fallen just now; for me it fell long ago, when the savage one with his racing chariot dragged those limbs of mine, and the Peliac axle groaned with a heavy sound, shuddering under Hector’s weight. Then, overwhelmed and overthrown, whatever befalls I bear numb with woes and stiff, past feeling. Snatched from the Greeks, I would already follow my husband, did not this child hold me: he subdues my spirit and forbids me to die; he forces me still to ask the gods for something — he has added time to my grief. He has stripped me of the greatest fruit of my woes — to fear nothing: every room for good fortune is taken from me; the dread things have their way in. Most wretched it is to fear, when you can hope for nothing.
Quid, maesta Phrygiae turba, laceratis comas miseramque tunsae pectus effuso genas fletu rigatis? levia perpessae sumus, si flenda patimur. Ilium vobis modo, mihi cecidit olim. cum ferus curru incito mea membra raperet et gravi gemeret sono Peliacus axis pondere Hectoreo tremens. tunc obruta atque eversa quodcumque accidit torpens malis rigensque sine sensu fero. iam erepta Danais coniugem sequerer meum, nisi hic teneret: hic meos animos domat morique prohibet; cogit hic aliquid deos adhuc rogare— tempus aeramnae addidit, hic mihi malorum maximum fructum abstulit, nihil timere: prosperis rebus locus ereptus omnis, dira qua veniant habent, miserrimum est timere, cum speres nihil.
What sudden fear has shaken you in your affliction?
Quis te repens commovit afflictam metus?
Some greater evil rises out of the great one; the doom of falling Ilium has not yet come to rest.
Exoritur aliquod maius ex magno malum, nondum mentis Ilii fatum stetit.
And what new disasters will the god find, if he should wish them?
Et quas reperiet, ut velit, clades deus?
The bars of deep Styx and the dark cavern are loosed, and — lest terror be wanting to the overthrown — the enemy buried in the depths of Dis comes forth. Is the road back passable for the Greeks alone? Surely death is even-handed. That common terror troubles and harries all the Phrygians; but this one frightens my mind in particular — the sleep of a dreadful night.
Stygis profundae claustra et obscuri specus laxantur et, ne desit e versis metus, hostes ab imo conditi Dite exeunt— solisne retro pervium est Danais iter? certe aequa mors est— turbat atque agitat Phrygas communis iste terror, hic proprie meum exterret animum, noctis horrendae sopor.
What visions do you bring? Bring your fears into the open.
Quae visa portas? effer in medium metus.
Kindly night had nearly passed two of its watches, and the seven stars had turned their bright yoke; an unknown rest came at last to me in my affliction, and a brief sleep crept over my weary eyes — if that is sleep, the stupor of a thunderstruck mind: when suddenly Hector stood before my eyes, not as when, carrying war against the Argives unprompted, he made for the Greek ships with the torches of Ida, nor as when, raging with much slaughter on the Greeks, he took real spoils from a counterfeit Achilles — his face not then flashing its fiery radiance, but weary and cast down, heavy with weeping, like a mourner, his hair matted and unkempt. Yet it was a joy to have seen him; then, shaking his head: “Drive off your sleep,” he said, “and snatch our son away, O faithful wife: let him hide — this is the only safety. Cease your weeping — do you groan that Troy has fallen? Would she lay wholly fallen. Make haste, carry off anywhere the little offshoot of our house.” An icy horror and a trembling drove sleep from me, and turning my eyes now here, now there in fear, forgetful of my son, in my misery I sought Hector: the deceiving shade slipped through my very embrace.
Partes fere nox alma transierat duas clarumque septem verterant stellae iugum; ignota tandem venit afflictae quies brevisque fessis somnus obrepsit genis, si somnus ille est mentis attonitae stupor: cum subito nostros Hector ante oculos stetit, non qualis ultro bella in Argivos ferens Graias petebat facibus Idaeis rates, nec caede multa qualis in Danaos furens vera ex Achille spolia simulato tulit, non ille vultus flammeum intendens iubar, sed fessus ac deiectus et fletu gravis similisque maesto, squalida obtectus coma. iuvat tamen vidisse; tum quassans caput: ’dispelle somnos’ inquit et natum eripe, o fida coniunx: lateat, haec una est salus. omitte fletus— Troia quod cecidit gemis? utinam iaceret tota. festina, amove quocumque nostrae parvulam stirpem domus.’ mihi gelidus horror ac tremor somnum expulit, oculosque nunc huc pavida, nunc illuc ferens oblita nati misera quaesivi Hectorem: fallax per ipsos umbra complexus abit.
O son, sure offspring of a great father, the one hope of the Phrygians, the only hope of a stricken house, scion of an old blood too renowned, and too like your father: such a face my Hector had, such was he in his gait and such in bearing, so he held his strong hands, so tall in the shoulders, so menacing with stern brow, shaking back the hair flung loose across his neck — O son born too late for the Phrygians, too soon for your mother, will there be that time, that happy day, when, defender and avenger of the Trojan soil, you raise Pergamum up again, and bring back the citizens scattered in flight, and give her own name back to the fatherland and the Phrygians? But, mindful of my own fate, I fear so great a prayer — let us live: that is enough for captives.
O nate, magni certa progenies patris, spes una Phrygibus, unica adflictae domus, veterisque suboles sanguinis nimium inclita nimiumque patri similis: hos vultus meus habebat Hector, talis incessu fuit habituque talis, sic tulit fortes manus, Sic celsus umeris, fronte sic torva minax cervice fusam dissipans iacta comam— o nate sero Phrygibus, o matri cito, eritne tempus illud ac felix dies quo Troici defensor et vindex soli recidiva ponas Pergama et sparsos fuga cives reducas, nomen et patriae suum Phrygibusque reddas? sed mei fati memor tam magna timeo vota— quod captis sat est, vivamus, heu me, quis locus fidus meo erit timori quave te sede occulam?
Alas, what place will be faithful to my fear, or in what seat shall I hide you? That citadel, mighty in wealth and in walls the gods had raised, renowned among all nations and weighed down with envy, is now deep dust; all has been leveled by fire, and of the vast city there does not survive so much as could hide an infant. What place shall I choose for the deception? There is a great tomb, sacred to my dear husband, to be feared by the enemy, which his father built with immense mass and great wealth, a king not sparing toward his own grief: best that I trust the boy to his father. A cold sweat runs down all my limbs: wretched, I tremble at the omen of that deadly place.
arx illa pollens opibus et muris deum, gentes per omnes clara et invidiae gravis, nunc pulvis altus, strata sunt flamma omnia superestque vasta ex urbe ne tantum quidem, quo lateat infans, quem locum fraudi legam,1? est tumulus ingens coniugis cari sacer, verendus hosti, mole quem immensa parens opibusque magnis struxit, in luctus suos rex non avarus: optime credam patri, sudor per artus frigidus totos cadit: omen tremesco misera feralis loci.
Let the desperate man seize protection; the carefree may choose.
Miser occupet praesidia, securus legat.
What of this — that he cannot hide without great fear of betrayal?
Quid quod latere sine metu magno nequit?
Lest someone betray it, remove the witnesses of the trick.
Ne prodat aliquis, amove testes doli.,
And if the enemy asks for him?
Si quaeret hostis?
He perished in the overthrown city. This one cause has kept many from destruction: to be believed already dead.
Vrbe in eversa perit. haec causa multos una ab interitu arcuit: credi perisse,
Scarcely any hope is left: what good to have hidden, when he must come back into their hands?
Vix spei quicquam est super: quid proderit latuisse redituro in manus?
The victor’s fierce assaults come at the first.
Victor feroces impetus primos habet.
His great nobility weighs on him a heavy burden. What place, what secluded, trackless region will set you safely away? Who will bring help to the fearful, who will shield us? You who always — even now — Hector, guard your own: keep the secret of a loyal wife, and in your faithful ashes receive him who is to live. Go down into the tomb, my son — why do you shrink back? Do you scorn the hiding-place as base? I know your nature: you are ashamed to be afraid. Lay aside your great pride and your old courage; take on the spirit that circumstance has dealt. See, look what a band we are who survive: a tomb, a boy, a captive woman. We must yield to our woes. Come, dare to enter the holy seat of your buried father; if the fates help the wretched, you have your safety; if the fates deny you life, you have your tomb.
Grave pondus illum magna nobilitas premit; quis te locus, quae regio seducta, invia tuto reponet? quis feret trepidis opem? quis proteget? qui semper, etiam nunc tuos, Hector, tuere: coniugis furtum piae serva et fideli cinere victurum excipe, succede tumulo, nate— quid retro fugis? turpisne latebras spernis? agnosco indolem: pudet timere, spiritus magnos fuga animosque veteres, sume quos casus dedit, en intuere, turba quae simus super: tumulus, puer, captiva: cedendum est malis, sanctas parentis conditi sedes age aude subire, fata si miseros iuvant, habes salutem; fata si vitam negant, habes sepulchrum.
The barriers hide the one entrusted to them; and lest your own fear bring him into the open, withdraw far from here and take yourself to the other side.
Claustra commissum tegunt; quem ne tuus producat in medium timor, procul hinc recede teque diversam amove.
He who fears nearer usually fears less; but, if you wish, let us carry our step elsewhere.
Levius solet timere, qui propius timet; sed, si placet, referamus hinc alio pedem.
Hold back your speech a while and choke down your laments: the lord of the Cephallenians is bringing his accursed steps this way.
Cohibe parumper ora questusque opprime: gressus nefandos dux Cephallanum admovet.
Yawn open, earth; and you, my husband, tear the ground wrenched from its lowest cavern, and in the deep fold of Styx hide away what I have laid in trust. Ulysses is here — and with hesitant step and look: he is knotting cunning in his crafty breast.
Dehisce tellus tuque, coniunx, ultimo specu revulsam scinde tellurem et Stygis sinu profundo conde depositum meum. adest Vlixes, et quidem dubio gradu vultuque: nectit pectore astus callido.
Servant of a hard lot, this first I ask: that, though the words are spoken by my mouth, you not believe them mine. It is the voice of all the Greeks and their chiefs, whom Hector’s offspring keeps from seeking their long-delayed homes: him the fates demand. An anxious faith in an uncertain peace will always hold the Greeks; fear at their backs will always force them to look round for their arms, and will not let them be laid down, so long as your son, Andromache, gives spirit to the broken Phrygians. The augur Calchas chants this; and even if Calchas the augur were silent on it, Hector still used to say it — whose very stock I dread.
Durae minister sortis hoc primum peto. ut, ore quamvis verba dicantur meo, non esse credas nostra: Graiorum omnium procerumque vox est, petere quos seras domos Hectorea suboles prohibet: hanc fata expetunt. sollicita Danaos pacis incertae fides semper tenebit, semper a tergo timor respicere coget arma nec poni sinet, dum Phrygibus animos natus eversis dabit, Andromacha, † vester, augur haec Calchas canit; et, si taceret augur haec Calchas, tamen dicebat Hector, cuius et stirpem horreo.
Noble seed springs up to its own origins: so that small companion of a great herd, not yet breaking the skin with his first horns, suddenly high in the neck and lofty in the brow, leads his father’s herd and lords it over the cattle; the tender shoot that stood from a felled trunk in a short time grows level with its mother, and gives back shade to the earth and a grove to the sky; so the ash ill-left from a great fire takes back its strength. Grief, to be sure, is an unjust appraiser of things; yet if you reckon with yourself, you will grant pardon that, after ten winters and as many harvests, the now-aged soldier dreads fresh wars, fresh disasters, and a Troy never well laid low.
generosa in ortus semina exsurgunt suos: sic ille magni parvus armenti comes primisque nondum cornibus findens cutem cervice subito celsus et fronte arduus gregem paternum ducit ac pecori imperat; quae tenera caeso virga de trunco stetit, par ipsa matri tempore exiguo subit umbrasque terris reddit et caelo nemus; sic male relictus igne de magno cinis vires resumit. est quidem iniustus dolor rerum aestimator: si tamen tecum exigas, veniam dabis, quod bella post hiemes decem totidemque messes iam senex miles timet aliasque clades rursus ac numquam bene
A great thing moves the Greeks — a Hector still to come: free the Greeks of their fear. This one cause holds the launched ships, on this the fleet sticks fast. And do not think me cruel, that, bidden by the lot, I seek Hector’s son: I would have sought Orestes too. Endure what the victor has brought.
Troiam iacentem, magna res Danaos movet, futurus Hector: libera Graios metu. haec una naves causa deductas tenet, hac classis haeret, neve crudelem putes, quod sorte iussus Hectoris natum petam: petissem Oresten. patere quod victor tulit.
Would, my son, that you were in your mother’s hand, and that I knew what fate held you, snatched from me, or in what region — never, with my breast pierced by enemy spears, nor my hands bound tight by cutting chains, nor both my flanks ringed round with fierce flame, would I ever have stripped off a mother’s faith. My son, what place now holds you, what fortune owns you? Do you wander straying over the trackless fields? Has the vast smoke of your country caught your limbs? Has the savage victor made his sport with your blood? Or, killed by the bite of some huge beast, do you feed the birds of Ida?
Vtinam quidem esses, nate, materna in manu, nossemque quis te casus ereptum mihi teneret, aut quae regio— non hostilibus confossa telis pectus aut vinclis manus secantibus praestricta, non acri latus utrumque flamma cincta maternam fidem umquam exuissem. nate, quis te nunc locus, fortuna quae possedit? errore avio vagus arva lustras? vastus an patriae vapor corripuit artus? saevus an victor tuo lusit cruore? numquid immanis ferae morsu peremptus pascis Idaeas aves?
Away with your feigned words; it is not easy for you to deceive Ulysses: I have beaten the tricks of mothers, even of goddesses. Put away your empty schemes: where is your son?
Simulata remove verba; non facile est tibi decipere Vlixen: vicimus matrum dolos etiam dearum. cassa consilia amove; ubi natus est?
Where is Hector? Where are all the Phrygians? Where is Priam? You ask for one: I ask for all.
Vbi Hector? ubi cuncti Phryges? ubi Priamus? unum quaeris: ego quaero omnia.
Forced, you will say what of your own will you refuse to tell.
Coacta dices sponte quod fari abnuis.
She is safe who can, and ought, and longs to die.
Tuta est, perire quae potest debet cupit.
Death brought close shakes the grand words out.
Magnifica verba mors prope admota excutit.
If you wish, Ulysses, to compel Andromache by fear, threaten her with life: for to die is my one prayer.
Si vis, Vlixe, cogere Andromacham metu, vitam minare: nam mori votum est mihi.
By lashes, fire, death, and torture, pain will drive you, unwilling, to speak out whatever you hide, and will dig from your inmost breast its buried secrets: necessity tends to have more power than love.
Verberibus igni t morte cruciatu eloqui quodcumque celas adiget invitam dolor et pectore imo condita arcana eruet: necessitas plus posse quam pietas solet.
Set out your flames, your wounds, the dire arts of cruel pain, and hunger and savage thirst, and plagues of every kind from every side, and a blade driven into these vitals, the rot of a blind dungeon, and whatever an angry, frightened victor dares: a spirited mother lets in no fears.
Propone flammas, vulnera et diras mali doloris artes et famem et saevam sitim variasque pestes undique, et ferrum inditum visceribus istis, carceris caeci luem, et quicquid audet victor iratus timens:
Foolish is the loyalty that hides what it will straightway betray. This very love, in which you now stand defiant, warns the Greeks to take thought for their little children.
Stulta est fides celare quod prodas statim. animosa nullos mater admittit metus. Hic ipse, quo nunc contumax perstas, amor consulere parvis liberis Danaos monet.
After arms drawn out so long, after ten years, I would fear less the fears that Calchas makes, if I feared for myself: it is wars for Telemachus you prepare. Unwilling, Ulysses, I will give the Greeks a joy: it must be given. Confess, grief, the sorrows you press down. Rejoice, sons of Atreus; and you, gladdening as ever, carry word to the Greeks: Hector’s offspring is dead.
post arma tam longinqua, post annos decem minus timerem quos facit Calchas metus, si mihi timerem: bella Telemacho paras. Invita, Vlixe, gaudium Danais dabo: dandum est; fatere quos premis luctus, dolor. gaudete, Atridae, tuque laetifica, ut soles, refer Pelasgis: Hectoris proles obit.
And by what proof do you assure the Greeks this is true?
Et esse verum hoc qua probas Danais fide?
So may the worst the victor can threaten befall me, and may the fates release me by an early, easy death, and bury me in my own soil, and may my native earth press lightly upon Hector — as surely as the boy has lost the light: he lies among the dead, and, lifeless, given to a tomb, has taken what was due.
Ita quod minari maximum victor potest contingat et me fata maturo exitu facilique solvant ac meo condant solo et patria tellus Hectorem leviter premat, ut luce caruit: inter extinctos iacet datumque tumulo debita exanimis tulit.
The fates are fulfilled, the stock of Hector taken off, and I will gladly bring a settled peace to the Greeks — What are you doing, Ulysses? The Greeks will believe you: but you — believe whom? The mother. Yet does any mother invent this, and not dread the omen of a death foretold? They dread omens who fear nothing greater. She has bound her faith by an oath: if she swears falsely, what worse can she have to fear? Now summon your cunning, my soul, now your frauds, your tricks, now all of Ulysses; truth never perishes. Search the mother: she mourns, she weeps, she groans; but she carries her anxious steps this way and that, and catches with a worried ear the words let fall: this woman fears more than she mourns. There is need of wit. Other parents one ought to address in grief: but you must be congratulated, poor woman, on losing your son, whom a savage death awaited, hurled headlong from the tower — the one tower left of the fallen walls.
Expleta fata stirpe sublata Hectoris solidamque pacem laetus ad Danaos feram— quid agis, Vlixe? Danaidae credent tibi: tu cui? parenti— fingit an quisquam hoc parens, nec abominandae mortis auspicium pavet? auspicia metuunt qui nihil maius timent. fidem alligavit iure iurando suam— si peierat, timere quid gravius potest? nunc advoca astus, anime, nunc fraudes, dolos. nunc totum Vlixen; veritas numquam perit. scrutare matrem, maeret, illacrimat, gemit; sed et huc et illuc anxios gressus refert missasque voces aure sollicita excipit: magis haec timet, quam maeret. ingenio est onus. Alios parentes alioqui in luctu decet: tibi gratulandum est. misera, quod nato cares. quem mors manebat saeva praecipitem datum e turre, lapsis sola quae muris manet.
My spirit has left my limbs: they shake, they sink, and the blood, bound by cold frost, goes numb.
Reliquit animus membra, quatiuntur, labant torpetque vinctus frigido sanguis gelu.
She has trembled: here, on this side, I must search; fear has uncovered the mother: I will repeat the fright. Go, go, be quick — the enemy hidden by a mother’s trick, the last plague of the Pelasgian name, wherever he lurks, drag him out and set him in the open. Good: he is caught. On, hurry, drag him here — why do you look back and tremble? Now surely he is lost.
Intremuit: hac, hac parte quaerenda est mihi; matrem timor detexit: iterabo metum.— ite, ite celeres, fraude materna abditum hostem, Pelasgi nominis pestem ultimam, ubicumque latitat, erutam in medium date. bene est: tenetur, perge, festina, attrahe— quid respicis trepidasque? iam certe perit.
Would that I were afraid. Fear has long been my habit: the mind unlearns to know what it long has known.
Vtinam timerem, solitus ex longo est metus: dediscit animus †scire quod didicit diu.
Since the boy, the lustral offering owed to the walls, has gone before the rite and cannot follow the seer, snatched off by a kinder fate — Calchas says the returning ships can be purified only thus: if the ash of scattered Hector appeases the waves and the whole tomb is leveled to the lowest ground. Now, since the boy has escaped the death he owed, a hand must be laid to that sacred resting-place.
Lustrale quoniam debitum muris puer sacrum antecessit nec potest vatem sequi meliore fato raptus, hoc Calchas ait modo piari posse redituras rates, si placet undas Hectoris sparsi cinis ac tumulus imo totus aequetur solo. nunc ille quoniam debitam effugit necem, erit admovenda sedibus sacris manus.
What do I do? A double terror tears my mind: on this side my son, on that my sacred husband’s ash — which side will win? I call to witness the pitiless gods, and the gods that are true, my husband’s shade: nothing in my son pleases me, Hector, but you. Let him live, that he may bring your face back — but shall the ash, torn from the tomb, be drowned? Shall I allow the bones to be scattered, flung apart on the vast waves? Then rather let the boy meet death. Can you, his mother, look on him given to an unspeakable death? Can you bear to see him hurled, spun from the high battlements? I can, I will endure it, I will bear it — so long as my Hector is not, after death, flung about by the victor’s hand. Yet this one can feel his own punishment; that one the fates already set in safety — why do you waver? Decide whom you save from the worst. Ungrateful, do you hesitate? On that side is your Hector — you err: on both sides Hector. This one, alive and able to feel, perhaps one day the avenger of his slain father — both cannot be spared. What now do you do? Save, my soul, of the two the one the Greeks fear.
Quid agimus? animum distrahit geminus timor: hinc natus, illinc coniugis sacri cinis, pars utra vincet? testor immites deos, deosque veros coniugis manes mei: non aliud, Hector, in meo nato mihi placere quam te. vivat, ut possit tuos referre vultus— prorutus tumulo cinis mergetur? ossa fluctibus spargi sinam disiecta vastis? potius hic mortem oppetat.— poteris nefandae deditum mater neci videre? poteris celsa per fastigia missum rotari? potero, perpetiar, feram, dum non meus post fata victoris manu iactetur Hector.— hic suam poenam potest sentire, at illum fata iam in tuto locant— quid fluctuaris? statue, quem poenae extrahas. ingrata, dubitas? Hector est illinc tuus— erras: utrimque est Hector; hic sensus potens, forsan futurus ultor extincti patris— utrique parci non potest: quid iam facis? serva e duobus, anime, quem Danai timent.
I will carry out the oracle: I will tear the tomb up from its roots.
Responsa peragam: funditus busta eruam.
What you sold back for ransom?
Quae vendidistis?
I will go on, and from the top of the mound drag down the sepulchre.
Pergam et e summo aggere traham sepulchra,
I call on the faith of the gods and the faith of Achilles: Pyrrhus, guard your father’s gift.
Caelitum appello fidem fidemque Achillis: Pyrrhe, genitoris tui munus tuere.
This tomb will lie flat at once over the whole plain.
Tumulus hic campo statim toto iacebit.
This was a sin wholly undared by the Greeks. You have violated temples, and gods even friendly to you; but fury had passed the tombs by. I will resist, I will offer unarmed hands against armed men; anger will give me strength — such as the fierce Amazon who laid the Argive squadrons low, or as the Maenad, struck by the god, who with inspired step terrifies the woods, armed with the thyrsus, and, beside herself, deals a wound and does not feel it — into their midst I will rush, and fall, the comrade of the ash, defending the tomb.
Fuerat hoc prorsus nefas Danais inausum. templa violastis, deos etiam faventes: busta transierat furor. resistam, inermis offeram armatis manus, dabit ira vires, qualis Argolicas ferox turmas Amazon stravit, aut qualis deo percussa Maenas entheo silvas gradu armata thyrso terret atque expers sui vulnus dedit nec sensit, in medios ruam. tumuloque cineris socia defenso cadam.
Do you hold back? Does a woman’s tearful outcry and empty frenzy move even you? Carry out my orders, and quickly.
Cessatis.et vos flebilis clamor movet furorque cassus feminae? iussa ocius peragite.
Me, me strike down here first with the sword. I am thrust back, alas. Break the delays of fate, heave up the earth, Hector: to subdue Ulysses, even as a shade you are enough — he has shaken his arms in his hand, he hurls fire — do you see him, Greeks, Hector? Or do I alone see him?
Me, me sternite hic ferro prius. repellor, heu me. rumpe fatorum moras, molire terras, Hector: ut Vlixen domes, vel umbra satis es— arma concussit manu, iaculatur ignes— cernitis, Danai, Hectorem? an sola video?
I will tear it all up from the foundations.
Funditus cuncta eruam.
What are you doing? With one ruin do you lay low at once both son and husband? Perhaps with prayer you can appease the Greeks. The huge weight of the tomb will at once crush the hidden child — let the poor boy die anywhere else instead, lest the father crush the son and the son weigh down the father. I fall at your knees, a suppliant, Ulysses, and the hand that no man’s feet have ever known, I lay against your feet. Pity a mother, and calmly, patiently receive her holy prayers; and the higher the gods have raised you, the more gently press the fallen: whatever is given to a wretch is given to Fortune. So may the bed of your chaste wife see you again, and may Laertes draw out his years until he receives you; so may your young son welcome you, and, outrunning your every prayer, in his happy gifts surpass his grandfather in age, his father in wit. Pity a mother: he is the only comfort left to me in my affliction.
Quid agis? ruina pariter et natum et virum prosternis una? forsitan Danaos prece placare poteris, conditum illidet statim: immane busti pondus— intereat miser ubicumque potius, ne pater natum obruat prematque patrem natus.— Ad genua accido supplex, Vlixe, quamque nullius pedes novere dextram pedibus admoveo tuis. miserere matris et preces placidus pias patiensque recipe, quoque te celsum altius superi levarunt, mitius lapsos preme: misero datur quodcumque, fortunae datur. sic te revisat coniugis sanctae torus, annosque, dum te recipit, extendat suos Laerta; sic te iuvenis excipiat tuus, et vota vincens vestra felici indole aetate avum transcendat, ingenio patrem. miserere matris: unicum adflictae mihi solamen hic est.
Produce your son, and then entreat.
Exhibe natum et roga.
Come forth here from your hiding-place, tearful theft of your wretched mother. This is he, this is the terror, Ulysses, to a thousand keels. Lower your hands, and prostrate, with suppliant right hand adore the master’s feet; and think nothing base that fortune bids the wretched do. Put from your mind your royal forefathers and the laws of the great old man, renowned through all the lands; let Hector slip away. Bear yourself a captive, and on bended knee, if you do not yet feel your own doom, copy your mother’s weeping. Troy of old, too, saw a boy-king’s tears, and little Priam bent the threats of fierce Alcides. That one, that fierce one, to whose vast strength all beasts gave way, who, the threshold of Dis broken through, opened the blind road back, was conquered by a little enemy’s tears: “Take up the reins, ruler,” he said, “and sit high on your father’s throne; but hold the scepter with a better faith.” This it was to be taken captive by that conqueror: learn the gentle wraths of Hercules. Or do only the arms of Hercules please you? There lies before your feet a suppliant no less than that suppliant, and begs for life — let Fortune carry the kingdom of Troy wherever she will.
Huc e latebris procede tuis, flebile matris furtum miserae. hic est, hic est terror, Vlixe, mille carinis. submitte manus dominique pedes supplice dextra stratus adora nec turpe puta quicquid miseros fortuna iubet. pone ex animo reges atavos magnique senis iura per omnis incluta terras j excidat Hector, gere captivum positoque genu, si tua nondum funera sentis, matris fletus imitare tuae. Vidit pueri regis lacrimas et Troia prior, parvusque minas trucis Alcidae flexit Priamus. ille, ille ferox, cuius vastis viribus omnes cessere ferae, qui perfracto limine Ditis caecum retro patefecit iter, hostis parvi victus lacrimis: ’suscipe’ dixit ’rector habenas patrioque sede celsus solio; sed sceptra fide meliore tene.’ hoc fuit illo victore capi: discite mites Herculis iras. an sola placent Herculis arma? iacet ante pedes non minor illo supplice supplex vitamque petit— regnum Troiae quocumque volet Fortuna ferat.
The grief of the thunderstruck mother does move me; yet the mothers of Greece move me more, for whose great mourning that boy is growing up.
Matris quidem me maeror attonitae movet, magis Pelasgae me tamen matres movent, quarum iste magnos crescit in luctus puer.
These, these ruins of a city given to ash will he raise up? Will these hands set Troy on her feet again? Troy has no hopes, if these are the hopes she has. We Trojans do not lie so fallen that we could be a fear to anyone. Did his father give him spirit? But Hector was dragged in the dust; even he, the father, after Troy, would have laid his spirit down — great evils break it. If punishment is sought (and what heavier could be sought?), let him put the slave’s yoke on his noble neck, let him be allowed to serve. Does anyone deny this to a king?
Has, has ruinas urbis in cinerem datae hic excitabit? hae manus Troiam erigent? nullas habet spes Troia, si tales habet. non sic iacemus Troes, ut cuiquam metus possimus esse. spiritus genitor fecit? sed nempe tractus, ipse post Troiam pater posuisset animos, magna quos frangunt mala. si poena petitur, (quae peti gravior potest?) famulare collo nobili subeat iugum, servire liceat, aliquis hoc regi negat?
Not Ulysses denies it to you, but Calchas.
Non hoc Vlixes, sed negat Calchas tibi.
O contriver of deceit and craftsman of crimes, by whose war-valor no man has fallen, but by whose tricks and the cunning of a malign mind even Greeks lie dead — do you hold up the seer and the guiltless gods as your screen? This is the crime of your own heart. Soldier of the night, brave for a boy’s murder, now at last you dare something alone, and in broad daylight.
O machinator fraudis et scelerum artifex, virtute cuius bellica nemo occidit, dolis et astu maleficae mentis iacent etiam Pelasgi, vatem et insontes deos praetendis? hoc est pectoris facinus tui. nocturne miles, fortis in pueri necem iam solus audes aliquid et claro die.
The valor of Ulysses is well enough known to the Greeks, and too well to the Phrygians. There is no time to wear out the day on empty words: the fleet weighs anchor.
Virtus Vlixis Danaidis nota est satis nimisque Phrygibus. non vacat vanis diem conterere verbis: ancoras classis legit.
Grant a brief delay, while I, his mother, pay my son the last service, and with a final embrace glut my hungry grief.
Brevem moram largire, dum officium parens nato supremum reddo et amplexu ultimo avidos dolores satio.
Would that I were free to pity you. Yet what alone is allowed, I will give: time and delay, to fill at your own discretion with tears: weeping eases hardship.
Misereri tui utinam liceret, quod tamen solum licet, tempus moramque dabimus, arbitrio tuo implere lacrimis: fletus aerumnas levat.
O sweet pledge, O glory of a fallen house and last funeral of Troy, O terror of the Greeks, O your mother’s vain hope — for whom, out of my mind, I prayed your father’s warlike praises, your grandfather’s years, out of my mind: the god has dashed my prayers. You will not handle your father’s arms with a tender hand, nor boldly hunt the beasts scattered through the broad glades; nor, on the fixed day of the lustral feast, bringing back the solemn rite of the Trojan Game, will you, a noble boy, lead the galloping squadrons; nor, swift on nimble foot among the altars, while the curved horn sounds back its quickened measures, will you keep the temples with the old barbaric dance. You will not, mighty in the royal hall, bear the Trojan scepter, nor give laws to peoples, nor send conquered nations under your yoke; you will not cut down Greek backs in flight, nor drag Pyrrhus. O kind of death sadder than dire war! Something more to be wept than great Hector’s killing the walls shall see.
O dulce pignus, o decus lapsae domus summumque Troiae funus, o Danaum timor, genetricis o spes vana, cui demens ego laudes parentis bellicas, annos avi demens precabar, vota destituit deus. non arma tenera patria tractabis manu sparsasque passim saltibus latis feras audax sequeris nec stato lustri die, solemne referens Troici lusus sacrum, puer citatas nobilis turmas ages; non inter aras mobili velox pede, reboante flexo concitos cornu modos, barbarica prisco templa saltatu coles. Iliaca non tu sceptra regali potens gestabis aula, iura nec populis dabis victasque gentes sub tuum mittes iugum, non Graia caedes terga, non Pyrrhum trahes. o Marte diro tristius leti genus! flebilius aliquid Hectoris magni nece muri videbunt,
Break off your weeping now, mother: great grief makes for itself no end.
Rumpe iam fletus, parens: magnus sibi ipse non facit finem dolor.
Small is the delay we beg for tears, Ulysses; patiently grant that with my own hand I may close his living eyes. You die a small child, indeed, but already to be feared. Your Troy awaits you: go, depart free, and look on the free Trojans.
Lacrimis, Vlixe, parva quam petimus mora est; concede patiens, ut mea condam manu viventis oculos, occidis parvus quidem, sed iam timendus. Troia te expectat tua: i, vade liber, liberos Troas vide.
Have pity, mother.
Miserere, mater.
Why do you cling to my bosom and seize your mother’s hands, those empty defenses? As, when the lion’s roar is heard, the tender calf presses its frightened flank to its mother, but the savage lion, the mother thrust aside, holding the lesser prey in his huge jaws, crushes it and comes on — so from our bosom the enemy will snatch you. Take my kisses and my tears, boy, and my torn hair, and, full of me, go to meet your father; carry too a few words of a mother’s complaint: “If the shades keep their former cares, and love does not die in the flames, do you let Andromache serve a Greek husband, cruel Hector? Do you lie idle and slack? Achilles comes again.” Take now once more my hair, and take my tears, whatever is left to me from my husband’s wretched death — take the kisses to give back to your father. Leave this robe for your mother’s comfort: my tomb has touched it, and my dear dead. If any ash hides here, I will search it out with my lips.
Quid meos retines sinus manusque matris cassa praesidia occupas? fremitu leonis qualis audito tener timidum iuvencus applicat matri latus, at ille saevus matre summota loco praedam minorem morsibus vastis tenens frangit venitque: talis e nostro sinu te rapiet hostis, oscula et fletus, puer, lacerosque crines excipe et plenus mei occurre patri; pauca maternae tamen perfer querelae verba: ’si manes habent curas priores nec perit flammis amor, servire Graio pateris Andromachen viro, crudelis Hector? lentus et segnis iaces? redit Achilles.’ sume nunc iterum comas et sume lacrimas, quicquid e misero viri funere relictum est, sume quae reddas tuo Oscula parenti, matris hanc solacio relinque vestem: tumulus hanc tetigit meus manesque cari. si quid hic cineris latet, scrutabor ore.
There is no measure to her weeping: tear away at once this drag upon the Argive fleet.
Nullus est flendi modus: abripite propere classis Argolicae moram.
What dwelling calls the captives to live in it? The Thessalian mountains and shadowy Tempe, or Iolcos, tamer of the vast sea? Little Gortyn and barren Tricca, or Mothone, thick with its gliding streams, or Phthia, the land fitter to breed warlike men and better in its offspring, or stony Trachis of the strong herds, which, hidden beneath the Oetaean woods, sent more than once the bows deadly to Troy’s ruin? Olenos, dwelt in with scattered roofs; Pleuron, foe to the virgin goddess; or Troezen, winding by the wide sea? Pelion, the proud kingdom of Prothous, the third step toward heaven? — here, reclining, spacious in the cave of the hollowed mountain, Chiron, the teacher of the boy soon to be savage, striking the ringing strings with his quill, even then was whetting his giant wraths by singing of wars.
Quae vocat sedes habitanda captas? Thessali montes et opaca Tempe, an maris vasti domitrix Iolcos? parva Gortynis sterilisque Tricce, an frequens rivis levibus Mothone, an viros tellus dare militares aptior Phthie meliorque fetu fortis armenti lapidosa Trachin, quae sub Oetaeis latebrosa silvis misit infestos Troiae ruinis non semel arcus? Olenos tectis habitata raris, virgini Pleuron inimica divae, an maris lati sinuosa Troezen? Pelion regnum Prothoi superbum, tertius caelo gradus? (hic recumbens montis exesi spatiosus antro iam trucis Chiron pueri magister, tinnulas plectro feriente chordas, tunc quoque ingentes acuebat iras bella canendo)
Or Carystos, rich in veined marble; Crete, broad with its hundred cities; or Chalcis, that presses the shore of the restless sea with the ever-hurrying Euripus? The Calydnae, easy with any wind; or Gonoessa, never free of wind, and Enispe, that dreads the North Wind? Peparethos, hanging on the Attic shore; or Eleusis, glad in its silent rites? The true Salamis of Ajax, or Calydon notorious for its savage beast, and the lands the Titaressus floods with its sluggish waters, soon to pass beneath the sea? Bessa and Scarphe, or aged Pylos? Pharis, or Pisa, or Elis bright with Jove’s crowns?
An ferax varii lapidis Carystos, urbibus centum spatiosa Crete, an premens litus maris inquieti semper Euripo properante Chalcis? quolibet vento faciles Calydnae, an carens numquam Gonoessa vento quaeque formidat Borean Enispe? Attica pendens Peparethos ora, an sacris gaudens tacitis Eleusin? * numquid Aiacis Salamina veram aut fera notam Calydona saeva, quasque perfundit subiturus aequor segnibus terras Titaressos undis? Bessan et Scarphen, Pylon an senilem? Pharin an Pisas Iovis et coronis Elida claram?
Let the grim storm send the wretched women anywhere, and grant them to whatever land, so long as Sparta — she who brought so great a plague to Troy and the Achaeans — be far off, far, and Argos, and Mycenae of savage Pelops, and little Neritos, smaller than Zacynthos, and Ithaca, dangerous with its treacherous rocks. What fate awaits you, and what master will lead you to be looked upon, Hecuba, and in what lands? In whose kingdom will you die?
Quolibet tristis miseras procella mittat et donet cuicumque terrae, dum luem tantam Troiae atque Achivis quae tulit, Sparte, procul absit, absit Argos et saevi Pelopis Mycenae, Neritos parva brevior Zacyntho et nocens saxis Ithace dolosis. Quod manet fatum dominusque quis te, aut quibus terris, Hecuba, videndam ducet? in cuius moriere regno?
Whatever marriage is funereal, joyless — holding laments, slaughter, blood, and groans — is worthy of Helen as its sponsor. Even now I am forced to harm the Phrygians, overthrown as they are: I am bidden to recount Pyrrhus’s false marriage-bed, I to give the Greek dress and adornment. By my art she will be caught, by my deceit the sister of Paris will fall. Let her be deceived; I think it lighter so for her: the death to wish for is to die without the fear of death. Why do you delay to do as bidden? The blame for a crime done under compulsion goes back to its author. Noble maiden of the Dardanian house, a kinder god has begun to look on the afflicted, and prepares to dower you with a happy marriage. Such a match neither Troy herself, unfallen, nor Priam would give you: for the greatest glory of the Pelasgian race, to whom the broad realms of the Thessalian plain lie open, seeks you for the holy rights of a lawful bed. Great Tethys, and all the goddesses of the sea, and Thetis, calm power of the swelling deep, will call you their own; given to Pyrrhus, Peleus will call you daughter, and Nereus daughter. Put off your squalid garb, take festal dress; unlearn your captivity; smooth down the bristling hair, and let your locks be parted by a skilled hand. Perhaps this fall will set you higher on a throne: to many it has been gain to be taken captive.
Quicumque hymen funestas, inlaetabilis lamenta caedes sanguinem gemitus habet est auspice Helena dignus, eversis quoque nocere cogor Phrygibus: ego Pyrrhi toros narrare falsos iubeor, ego cultus dare habitusque Graios. arte capietur mea meaque fraude concidet Paridis soror, fallatur; ipsi levius hoc equidem reor: optanda mors est sine metu mortis mori. quid iussa cessas agere? ad auctorem redit sceleris coacti culpa.— Dardaniae domus generosa virgo, melior afflictos deus respicere coepit teque felici parat dotare thalamo; tale coniugium tibi non ipsa sospes Troia, non Priamus daret. nam te Pelasgae maximum gentis decus, cui regna campi lata Thessalici patent, ad sancta lecti iura legitimi petit. te magna Tethys teque tot pelagi deae placidumque numen aequoris tumidi Thetis suam vocabunt, te datam Pyrrho socer Peleus nurum vocabit et Nereus nurum. depone cultus squalidos, festos cape. dedisce captam; deprime horrentis comas crinemque docta patere distingui manu. hic forsitan te casus excelso magis solio reponet. profuit multis capi.
This one evil was lacking to the ruined Phrygians — to rejoice. Pergamum lies leveled, ablaze on every side: O fitting time for a wedding! Would anyone dare refuse? Would anyone go in doubt to the marriage Helen urges? Plague, ruin, pestilence of both peoples, do you see these tombs of chieftains, and the bare bones that lie scattered, unburied, over all the fields? These your marriage strewed. For you the blood of Asia flowed, the blood of Europe flowed, while you, unmoved, looked on at the fighting men, unsure which way to wish. Go on, make ready the marriage. What need of torches, or of the ceremonial brand? What of fire? Troy lights the way for this new wedding. Celebrate, women of Troy, the marriage of Pyrrhus, celebrate it fittingly: let dirge and groaning sound.
Hoc derat unum Phrygibus eversis malum, gaudere— flagrant strata passim Pergama: o coniugale tempus! an quisquam audeat negare? quisquam dubius ad thalamos eat. quos Helena suadet? pestis exitium lues utriusque populi, cernis hos tumulos ducum et nuda totis ossa quae passim iacent inhumata campis? haec hymen sparsit tuus. tibi fluxit Asiae, fluxit Europae cruor, cum dimicantes lenta prospiceres viros, incerta voti— perge, thalamos appara. taedis quid opus est quidve solemni face? quid igne? thalamis Troia praelucet novis. celebrate Pyrrhi, Troades, conubia, celebrate digne: planctus et gemitus sonet.
Though great grief lacks reason, and refuses to bend, and sometimes hates the very partners of its mourning, still before a hostile judge I can defend my cause, having suffered worse. Andromache mourns Hector, and Hecuba Priam: Paris alone must Helen mourn — and in secret. Is it dreadful and hateful and hard to bear slavery? That yoke I have borne long since, a captive these ten years. Is Ilium laid low, the household gods overturned? It is hard to lose one’s country, harder to live in fear for it. You the company of so great an evil relieves: against me both victor and vanquished rage. Which woman each man should drag off as his slave hung long on uncertain chance; me my master took at once, without a lot. Was I the cause of the wars and of so great a ruin for the Trojans? Suppose it true — if a Spartan ship cut your seas; but if I was a prize seized by Phrygian oarsmen, and the victorious goddess gave me as a gift to her judge — forgive a woman carried off. My cause will face an angry judge: those verdicts await Menelaus. Now, Andromache, your laments set aside a moment, I turn this girl — I can scarcely hold back my tears.
Ratione quamvis careat et flecti neget magnus dolor sociosque nonnumquam sui maeroris ipsos oderit: causam tamen possum tueri iudice infesto meam, graviora passa, luget Andromacha Hectorem et Hecuba Priamum: solus occulte Paris lugendus Helenae est. dirum et invisum et grave est servitia ferre? patior hoc olim iugum, annis decem captiva, prostratum Ilium est, versi penates? perdere est patriam grave, gravius timere, vos levat tanti mali comitatus: in me victor et victus furit, quam quisque famulam traheret incerto diu casu pependit, me meus traxit statim sine sorte dominus, causa bellorum fui tantaeque Teucris cladis? hoc Verum puta. Spartana puppis vestra si secuit freta; sin rapta Phrygiis praeda remigibus fui deditque donum iudici victrix dea. ignosce raptae, iudicem iratum mea habitura causa est: ista Menelaum manent arbitria, nunc hanc luctibus paulum tuis, Andromacha, omissis flecto— vix lacrimas queo retinere,
How great an evil it is, that Helen weeps. But why does she weep? Tell what tricks the Ithacan, what crimes she is weaving. Is the maiden to be flung from the ridges of Ida, or sent down from the high rock of the lofty citadel? Or rolled into the vast sea over these cliffs which Sigeum, gazing out over the shallow bay with its riven flank, lifts up? Speak, tell whatever you cover with that crafty face. All evils are lighter than this — Pyrrhus the son-in-law of Priam and Hecuba. Tell what punishment you prepare, bring it out, and take from our disasters this one thing, to be deceived: you see us ready to endure death.
Quantum est Helena quod lacrimat malum. cur lacrimat autem? fare quos Ithacus dolos, quae scelera nectat; utrum ab Idaeis iugis iactanda virgo est, arcis an celsae edito mittenda saxo? num per has vastum in mare volvenda rupes, latere quas scisso levat altum vadoso Sigeon spectans sinu? dic, fare, quicquid subdolo vultu tegis. leviora mala sunt cuncta, quam Priami gener Hecubaeque Pyrrhus, fare, quam poenam pares exprome et unum hoc deme nostris cladibus falli: paratas perpeti mortem vides.
Would that the interpreter of the gods bade me too break with the sword the lingering of this hated light, or fall before Achilles’ tomb by Pyrrhus’s raging hand, sharing your fate, pitiable Polyxena — you whom Achilles bids be handed over to him and slaughtered before his ashes, that he may be your husband in the Elysian field.
Vtinam iuberet me quoque interpres deum abrumpere ense lucis invisae moras vel Achillis ante busta furibunda manu occidere Pyrrhi, fata comitantem tua, Polyxene miseranda, quam tradi sibi cineremque Achilles ante mactari suum,, campo maritus ut sit Elysio, iubet.
See how her great spirit has heard of death with gladness. She asks for the becoming adornment of a royal robe, and lets the hand be set to her hair. That she thought death; this she thinks a marriage. But the wretched mother, at hearing it, is stunned; her shaken mind has given way. Rise up, lift your spirit, and steady, poor woman, your failing breath. On how slight a bond the thin life hangs — it is the smallest thing that can make Hecuba happy. She breathes, she has revived: the first death flees the wretched.
Vide ut animus ingens laetus audierit necem. cultus decoros regiae vestis petit et admoveri crinibus patitur manum. mortem putabat illud, hoc thalamos putat. at misera luctu mater audito stupet; labefacta mens succubuit. assurge, alleva animum et cadentem, misera, firma spiritum. quam tenuis anima vinculo pendet levi— minimum est quod Hecubam facere felicem potest. spirat, revixit, prima mors miseros fugit.
Does Achilles still live to punish the Phrygians? Does he still wage war? O too-light hand of Paris! His very ash and tomb thirst for our blood. Lately a happy throng ringed my sides; I was worn out dividing a mother among so many kisses, so great a flock; now she alone is left — my prayer, my companion, my solace, the rest of an afflicted woman; she is the whole brood of Hecuba, by her voice alone am I now called mother. Come, hard and luckless life, slip away; spare me at last this one funeral. Tears water my cheeks, and a sudden rain falls from my beaten face.
Adhuc Achilles vivit in poenas Phrygum? adhuc rebellat? o manum Paridis levem, cinis ipse nostrum sanguinem ac tumulus sitit, modo turba felix latera cingebat mea, lassabar in tot oscula et tantum gregem dividere matrem; sola nunc haec est super votum, comes, levamen, afflictae quies; haec totus Hecubae fetus, hac sola vocor iam voce mater, dura et infelix age elabere anima, denique hoc unum mihi remitte funus, inrigat fletus genas imberque victo subitus e vultu cadit.
It is we, Hecuba, we, we who must be wept, whom the moving fleet will carry scattered here and there; but her the dear earth will cover in her father’s land.
Nos Hecuba, nos, nos, Hecuba, lugendae sumus, quas mota classis huc et huc sparsas feret; hanc cara tellus sedibus patriis teget.
You will envy her the more, when you learn your own lot.
Magis invidebis, si tuam sortem scies.
Is any part of my punishment still unknown to me?
An aliqua poenae pars meae ignota est mihi?
The whirled urn has dealt the captives their masters.
Versata dominos urna captivis dedit.
To whom am I handed as a slave? Tell me: whom do I call master?
Cui famula trador? ede; quem dominum voco?
You, by the first lot, the youth of Scyros took.
Te sorte prima Scyrius iuvenis tulit.
Happy Cassandra, whom her frenzy and Phoebus take out of the lot.
Cassandra felix, quam furor sorti exim it Phoebusque.
The greatest ruler of kings holds her.
Regum hanc maximus rector tenet.
Rejoice, be glad, my daughter. How Cassandra would wish your marriage, how Andromache would wish yours. Is there anyone who would have Hecuba called his own?
Laetare, gaude, nata. quam vellet tuos Cassandra thalamos, vellet Andromache tuos. estne aliquis, Hecubam qui suam dici velit?
To the Ithacan you fell, a brief and unwanted prize.
Ithaco obtigisti praeda nolenti brevis.
Who, so ungoverned and harsh, so savage a drawer of the unjust urn, gave kings to kings? What god so malign divides the captives? What arbiter, cruel and heavy on the wretched, knows not how to choose masters, and with savage hand deals unjust fates to the wretched? Who mingles the mother of Hector with the arms of Achilles? To Ulysses I am summoned: now conquered, now captive, now beset, I seem to myself, by every disaster — it is the master that shames me, not the slavery. Shall he carry off the spoil of Hector, who carried off the spoil of Achilles? A barren land, hemmed in by savage seas, has no room for my tomb — Lead on, lead, Ulysses, I do not hold back, I follow my master; my own fates will follow me: no calm rest will come to the sea, the sea will rage with winds, and wars, and fires, and my woes, and Priam’s. And until those come, this meanwhile stands for punishment: I have seized your lot, I have snatched your prize from you.
Quis tam impotens ac durus et iniquae ferus sortitor urnae regibus reges dedit? quis tam sinister dividit captas deus? quis arbiter crudelis et miseris gravis eligere dominos nescit et saeva manu dat iniqua miseris fata? quis matrem Hectoris armis Achillis miscet? ad Vlixen vocor: nunc victa, nunc captiva, nunc cunctis mihi obsessa videor cladibus— domini pudet, non servitutis. Hectoris spolium feret qui tulit Achillis? sterilis et saevis fretis inclusa tellus non capit tumulos meos— duc, duc, Vlixe, nil moror, dominum sequor; me mea sequentur fata: non pelago quies tranquilla veniet, saevi et ventis mare, * et bella et ignes et mea et Priami mala. dumque ista veniant, interim hoc poenae loco est: sortem occupavi, praemium eripui tibi.—
But see, Pyrrhus rushes up with hurried step and grim face. Pyrrhus, why do you delay? Come, cut open my breast with the sword, and join the parents-in-law of your Achilles; on, slaughterer of old men, this blood too befits you: drag me off, torn away. Stain the gods above with deadly slaughter, stain the shades below — what shall I pray for you? I pray for seas worthy of these rites: let this befall the whole Pelasgian fleet, let it befall the thousand ships — and for whatever ship I sail on, I will pray it too.
Sed en citato Pyrrhus accurrit gradu vultuque torvo. Pyrrhe, quid cessas? age recludo ferro pectus et Achillis tui coniunge soceros, perge, mactator senum, et hic decet te sanguis: abreptam trabe. maculate superos caede funesta deos, maculate manes— quid precer vobis? precor his digna sacris aequora: hoc classi accidat toti Pelasgae, ratibus hoc mille accidat meae precabor, cum vehar, quicquid rati.
Sweet to the mourner is a people of grievers, sweet that whole nations should ring with laments; more gently do grief and tears bite when a like crowd throngs them with weeping. Always, forever, grief is spiteful: it is glad that its fate is sent down on many, and that it alone was not singled out for punishment. The lot that all endure, no one refuses to bear.
Dulce maerenti populus dolentium, dulce lamentis resonare gentes; lenius luctus lacrimaeque mordent, turba quas fletu similis frequentat. semper a semper dolor est malignus: gaudet in multos sua fata mitti seque non solum placuisse poenae. ferre quam sortem patiuntur omnes, nemo recusat.
Take away the fortunate: though she be wretched, no one will believe herself so; take away those rich with much gold, take away the men who break a hundred opulent fields with oxen: the poor man’s fallen spirits will rise — no one is wretched but by comparison. Sweet it is, set amid measureless ruin, that no one has worn a glad face. He laments and bewails his lot who, cutting the wave in a lone boat, fell naked into the harbor he sought; more evenly has he borne the wreck and the gales who saw a thousand keels go down together in the sea, and came back to land on a plank from the wreck, while the sea, its waves driven shoreward, the north-wester holds at bay.
Tolle felices: miseram, licet sit, nemo se credet; removete multo divites auro, removete centum * rura qui scindunt opulenta bubus: pauperi surgent animi iacentes— est miser nemo nisi comparatus. dulce in immensis posito ruinis, nemiuem laetos habuisse vultus: ille deplorat queriturque fatum, qui secans fluctum rate singulari nudus in portus cecidit petitos; aequior casum tulit et procellas, mille qui ponto pariter carinas obrui vidit tabulaque latus naufraga, terris mare dum coactis fluctibus Coras prohibet, revertit.
Phrixus mourned that Helle had fallen, when the leader of the flock, with his radiant golden fleece, bore brother and sister together on his back and threw her off in mid-sea; but Deucalion and Pyrrha held back their complaints, when they saw the sea, and saw nothing but sea, the only people left on earth.
questus est Hellen cecidisse Phrixus, cum gregis ductor radiante villo aureo fratrem simul ac sororem sustulit tergo medioque iactum fecit in ponto; tenuit querelas et vir et Pyrrha, mare cum viderent, et nihil praeter mare cum viderent unici terris homines relicti.
This complaint, and our tears, the fleet, driven this way and that, will scatter, when, bidden by the trumpet to give sail, the sailors, with the wind and the hurrying oar at once, have caught the deep, and the shore flees away. What state of mind for the wretched, when all the land shrinks and the sea swells, when lofty Ida hides far off? Then the boy to his mother, the mother to her son, pointing out in what region Troy is burning, will speak and mark it far with the finger: “There is Ilium, there, where the smoke creeps high into the sky and the foul mists.” By this sign the Trojans will see their fatherland.
Solvet hunc ’questum lacrimasque nostras sparget huc illuc agitata classis, cum tuba iussi dare vela nautae et simul ventis properante remo prenderint altum fugietque litus, quis status mentis miseris, ubi omnis terra decrescet pelagusque crescet, celsa cum longe latitabit Ide? tum puer matri genetrixque nato, Troia qua flagret regione, monstrans dicet et longe digito notabit: Ilium est illic, ubi fumus alte serpit in caelum nebulaeque turpes.’ Troes hoc signo patriam videbunt.
O hard fates, savage, pitiable, horrible! What crime so fierce, so grievous has Mars seen in twice five years? What shall I tell of first and groan over — your griefs, old woman, or yours?
O dura fata, saeva miseranda horrida! quod tam ferum, tam triste bis quinis scelus Mars vidit annis? quid prius referens gemam, tuosne potius, an tuos luctus, anus?
Whatever griefs you weep, you will weep mine; each man’s own disaster alone presses him, but me the disaster of all: for me everything perishes; whoever belongs to Hecuba is wretched.
Quoscumque luctus fleveris, flebis meos: sua quemque tantum, me omnium clades premit; mihi cuncta pereunt: quisquis est Hecubae est miser.
The maiden has been sacrificed, the boy thrown from the walls; but each bore death with a noble spirit.
Mactata virgo est, missus e muris puer; sed uterque letum mente generosa tulit.
Set out the sequence of the killing, and follow through the double horror; great grief takes joy in handling all its troubles whole: tell, and recount it all.
Expone seriem caedis, et duplex nefas persequere: gaudet magnus aerumnas dolor tractare totas, ede et enarra omnia.
There is one great tower left of Troy, familiar to Priam, from whose top and highest battlements he used to sit, the arbiter of the war, and direct the lines; in this tower, cherishing his grandson in his fond lap, while Hector with sword and fire drove the Greeks, turned in heavy terror, the old man would show the boy his father’s wars. This tower, once famed and the glory of the wall, now a savage crag, is ringed on every side by a throng of chiefs and common folk poured round it; the whole crowd gathers, the ships left behind. For some a hill far off gives an unobstructed view in an open place, for others a high cliff, on whose peak the crowd stood balanced on the tips of their toes. This one a pine bears up, that one a laurel, this a beech, and the whole wood trembles with the people hung upon it.
Est una magna turris e Troia super, assueta Priamo, cuius e fastigio summisque pinnis arbiter belli sedens regebat acies, turre in hac blando sinu fovens nepotem, cum metu versos gravi Danaos fugaret Hector et ferro et face, paterna puero bella monstrabat senex haec nota quondam turris et muri decus, nunc saeva «cautes, undique adfusa dueum plebisque turba cingitur; totum coit ratibus relictis vulgus, his collis procul aciem patenti liberam praebet loco, his alta rupes, cuius in cacumine erecta summos turba libravit pedes. hunc pinus, illum laurus, hunc fagus gerit et tota populo silva suspenso tremit.
One makes for the edge of the sheer mountain, another perches on half-burnt roofs or on a stone that overhangs from the falling wall, and one — an outrage — a savage spectator, sits on Hector’s tomb. Through the spaces filled far and wide, with lofty step the Ithacan advances, dragging by the right hand the little grandson of Priam; and with no sluggish step the boy goes on toward the high walls. When he stood at the top of the tower, he turned his keen looks this way and that, fearless in spirit. As the small and tender cub of a huge beast, not yet strong enough to rage with the tooth, yet already lifts its threats and tries its empty bites and swells with spirit: so that boy, gripped in the enemy’s hand, fierce and proud, had stirred the crowd and the chiefs and Ulysses himself.
extrema montis ille praerupti petit, semusta at ille tecta vel saxum imminens muri cadentis pressit, atque aliquis (nefas) tumulo ferus spectator Hectoreo sedet. per spatia late plena sublimi gradu incedit Ithacus parvulum dextra trahens Priami nepotem, nec gradu segni puer ad alta pergit moenia, ut summa stetit pro turre, vultus huc et huc acres tulit intrepidus animo, qualis ingentis ferae parvus tenerque fetus et nondum potens saevire dente— iam tamen tollit minas morsusque inanes temptat atque animis tumet: sic ille dextra prensus hostili puer ferox t superbe, moverat vulgum ac duces
Of the whole crowd, the one who is wept does not weep. And while Ulysses recites the words and prayers of the prophetic seer, and calls the savage gods to the rite, of his own will the boy leapt down into the midst of Priam’s realm.
ipsumque Vlixen. non fiet e turba omnium qui fletur; ac, dum verba fatidici et preces: concipit Vlixes vatis et saevos ciet ad sacra superos, sponte desiluit sua in media Priami regna.—...
What Colchian, what Scythian of no fixed seat committed this — what lawless nation bordering the Caspian sea has dared it? No blood of boys ever spattered the altars of cruel Busiris, nor did Diomedes set small limbs before his herds to feast on. Who will gather your limbs and give them to a tomb?
Quis Colchus hoc, quis sedis incertae Scytha commisit, aut quae Caspium tangens mare gens iuris expers ausa? non Busiridis puerilis aras sanguis aspersit feri, nec parva gregibus membra Diomedes suis epulanda posuit, quis tuos artus leget tumuloque tradet?
What limbs, indeed, has the headlong place left? Bones scattered and crushed by the heavy fall; the marks of his noble body, the face, and those high features of his father, the weight, dashed to the lowest ground, has confounded; the neck broken at the stone’s impact, the head — the brain dashed clean out — he lies, a shapeless body.
Quos enim praeceps locus reliquit artus? ossa disiecta et gravi elisa casu; signa clari corporis, et ora et illas nobiles patris notas, confudit imam pondus ad terram datum; soluta cervix silicis impulsu, caput, raptum cerebro penitus expresso— iacet deforme corpus,
Even so, he is like his father.
Sic quoque est similis patri.
When the boy had fallen headlong from the high walls, and the crowd of Achaeans wept the horror it had done, that same people turns back to another crime, to the tomb of Achilles — whose far side the Rhoetean shallows beat with a gentle wave; the opposite side a plain rings, and a valley, raised on a gentle slope, enclosing the middle ground, swells in the manner of a theater. A thronging crowd filled all the shore: some think the fleet’s delay is loosed by this death, some rejoice that the enemy’s stock is cut down; a great part of the fickle crowd hates the crime — and watches it. The Trojans no less attend their own funeral, and, quaking with fear, look on the last scene of Troy’s destruction,
Praeceps ut altis cecidit e muris puer flevitque Achivum turba quod fecit nefas, idem ille populus aliud ad facinus redit tumulumque Achillis. cuius extremum Litus Rhoetea leni verberant fluctu vada; adversa cingit campus et clivo levi erecta medium vallis includens locum crescit theatri more. concursus frequens implevit omne litus:n hi classis moram hac morte solvi rentur, hi stirpem hostium gaudent recidi. magna pars vulgi levis odit scelus spectatque; nec Troes minus suum frequentant funus et pavidi metu partem mentis ultimam Troiae vident:
when suddenly, in a wedding’s manner, the torches go before, and Tyndareus’s daughter as matron-of-honor, her sad head bowed. “So may Hermione be married,” the Phrygians pray, “so may Helen, disgraced, be given back to her husband.” Terror holds both peoples thunderstruck. She herself bears a face cast down with shame, yet her cheeks shine, and her beauty at the end gleams more than its wont, as the light of Phoebus is wont to be sweeter when now he is setting, when the stars resume their courses and the doubtful day is pressed by the night close at hand.
cum subito thalami more praecedunt faces et pronuba illi Tyndaris, maestum caput demissa. ’tali nnbat Hermione modo’ Phryges precantur?sic viro turpis suo reddatur Helena.’ terror attonitos tenet utrosque populos, ipsa deiectos gerit vultus pudore, sed tamen fulgent genae magisque solito splendet extremus decor, ut esse Phoebi dulcius lumen solet iamiam cadentis, astra cum repetunt vices premiturque dubius nocte vicina dies. stupet omne vulgus— et fere cuncti magis peritura laudant, hos movet formae decus, hos mollis aetas, hos vagae rerum vices; movet animus omnes fortis et leto obvius.
All the crowd is amazed, and nearly all praise the more what is about to perish. Some the glory of her beauty moves, some her tender age, some the wandering turns of things; the brave spirit, facing death, moves all. She walks before Pyrrhus; the hearts of all tremble, they wonder and they pity. When first she reached the height of the steep mound and stood on the high-raised crest of the young man’s father’s tomb, the bold maiden did not draw her step back; turned to meet the blow, she stands, fierce, with savage face. So brave a spirit strikes the hearts of all, and a new portent it is — Pyrrhus slow to the slaughter.
Pyrrhum antecedit; omnium mentes tremunt, mirantur ac miserantur, ut primum ardui sublime montis tetigit atque alte edito iuvenis paterni, vertice in busti stetit, audax virago non tulit retro gradum; conversa ad ictum stat truci vultu ferox. tam fortis animus omnium mentes ferit, novumque monstrum est Pyrrhus ad caedem piger.
When his right hand had buried the blade driven home, the sudden blood, as death came on, burst out through the huge wound; yet even dying she does not lay her spirit down: she fell, to make the earth heavy upon Achilles, face down and with an angry rush. Both assemblies wept; but the Phrygians sent up a timid groan, the victor groaned the louder. This was the order of the rite: the shed blood did not stand or run on the surface of the ground — at once the savage tomb drew it in and drank it all.
ut dextra ferrum penitus exactum abdidit, subitus recepta morte prorupit cruor per vulnus ingens, nec tamen moriens adhuc deponit animos: cecidit, ut Achilli gravem factura terram, prona et irato impetu. uterque flevit coetus; at timidum Phryges misere gemitum, clarius victor gemit. hic ordo sacri, non stetit fusus cruor humove summa fluxit: obduxit statim saevasque totum sanguinem tumulus bibit.
Go, go, you Greeks, make now for your homes in safety; let the carefree fleet cut the longed-for seas with spreading sails: the maiden and the boy have fallen; the war is done. Where shall I carry my tears? Where spit out this old woman’s lingering death? Shall I weep my daughter or my grandson, my husband or my country? Or all of them, or myself alone? Death, my one prayer, you come in violence to infants and to maidens, everywhere you hurry, savage one: me alone you fear and shun; sought all night long amid the swords and the spears and the torches, you flee me, though I long for you. No enemy, no falling wall, no fire has consumed my limbs: how near to Priam I was standing.
Ite, ite, Danai, petite iam tuti domos; optata velis maria diffusis secet secura classis: concidit virgo ac puer; bellum peractum est. quo meas lacrimas feram? ubi hanc anilis expuam leti moram? natam an nepotem, coniugem an patriam fleam? an omnia an me sola? Mors votum meum, infantibus violenta virginibus venis, ubique properas, saeva: me solam times vitasque, gladios inter ac tela et faces quaesita tota nocte, cupientem fugis., non hostis aut ruina, non ignis meos absumpsit artus: quam prope a Priamo steti.
Make for the seas again with quick step, captive women: already the ship loosens its sails, and the fleet moves out.
Repetite celeri maria, captivae, gradu: iam vela puppis laxat et classis movet.