A poor oblation mingled with her tears.
Opposed to Ilium lie the Thracian plains,
Where Polymestor safe in plenty reigns.
King Priam to his care commits his son,
Young Polydore, the chance of war to shun.
A wise precaution! had not gold, consign’d
For the child’s use, debauch’d the tyrant’s mind.
When sinking Troy to its last period drew,
With impious hands his royal charge he slew;
Then in the sea the lifeless corse is thrown;
As with the body he the guilt could drown.
The Greeks now riding on the Thracian shore,
Till kinder gales invite, their vessels moor.
Here the wide-opening earth to sudden view
Disclosed Achilles, great as when he drew
The vital air, but fierce with proud disdain,
As when he sought Briseis to regain;
When stern debate, and rash injurious strife
Unsheathed his sword, to reach Atrides’ life.
“And will ye go?” he said. “Is then the name
Of the once great Achilles lost to fame?
Yet stay, ungrateful Greeks; nor let me sue
In vain for honours to my manes due.
For this just end, Polyxena I doom
With victim rites to grace my slighted tomb.”
The phantom spoke; the ready Greeks obey’d,
And to the tomb led the devoted maid
Snatch’d from her mother, who with pious care
Cherish’d this last relief of her despair.
Superior to her sex, the fearless maid
Approach’d the altar, and around survey’d
The cruel rites, and consecrated knife,
Which Pyrrhus pointed at her guiltless life.
Then, as with stern amaze intent he stood:
“Now strike,” she said; “now spill my generous blood;
Deep in my breast or throat your dagger sheathe,
While thus I stand prepared to meet my death:
For life on terms of slavery I despise:
Yet sure no god approves this sacrifice.
Oh! could I but conceal this dire event
From my sad mother, I should die content.
Yet should she not with tears my death deplore,
Since her own wretched life demands them more.
But let not the rude touch of man pollute
A virgin victim; ’tis a modest suit.
It best will please, whoe’er demands my blood,
That I untainted reach the Stygian flood.
Yet let one short, last, dying prayer be heard,
To Priam’s daughter pay this last regard;
’Tis Priam’s daughter, not a captive, sues;
Do not the rites of sepulture refuse.
To my afflicted mother, I implore,
Free without ransom my dead corse restore:
Nor barter me for gain, when I am cold:
But be her tears the price if I am sold:
Time was she could have ransom’d me with gold.”
Thus as she pray’d, one common shower of tears
Burst forth, and stream’d from every eye but hers.
Ev’n the priest wept, and with a rude remorse
Plunged in her heart the steel’s resistless force.
Her slacken’d limbs sunk gently to the ground,
Dauntless her looks, unalter’d by the wound.
And as she fell, she strove with decent pride
To guard what modest women care to hide.
The Trojan matrons the pale corse receive,
And the whole slaughter’d race of Priam grieve.
Sad they recount the long disastrous tale,
Then with fresh tears, thee, royal maid, bewail;
Thy widow’d mother too, who flourish’d late
The royal pride of Asia’s happier state:
A captive lot now to Ulysses born,
Whom yet the victor would reject with scorn,
Were she not Hector’s mother: Hector’s fame
Scarce can a master for his mother claim!
With strict embrace the lifeless corse she view’d;
And her fresh grief that flood of tears renew’d,
With which she lately mourn’d so many dead;
Tears for her country, sons, and husband shed.
With the thick-gushing stream she bathed the wound;
Kiss’d her pale lips; then weltering on the ground,
With wanton rage her frantic bosom tore,
Sweeping her hair amid the clotted gore;
While her sad accents thus her loss deplore:
“Behold a mother’s last dear pledge of wo!
Yes, ’tis the last I have to suffer now.
Thou, my Polyxena, my ills must crown:
Already in thy fate I feel my own.
’Tis thus, lest haply of my numerous seed
One should unslaughter’d fall, even thou must bleed:
And yet I hoped thy sex had been thy guard:
But neither has thy tender sex been spared.
The same Achilles, by whose deadly hate
Thy brothers fell, urged thy untimely fate!
The same Achilles, whose destructive rage
Laid waste my realms, has robb’d my childless age.
When Paris’ shafts with Phoebus’ certain aid
At length had pierced this dreadful chief, I said,
‘Secure of future ills, he can no more:’
But see, he still pursues me as before.
With rage rekindled his dead ashes burn;
And his yet murdering ghost my wretched home must mourn.
This tyrant’s lust of slaughter I have fed
With large supplies from my too fruitful bed.
Troy’s towers lie waste; and the wide ruin ends
The public wo; but me fresh wo attends.
Troy still survives to me; to none but me;
And from its ills I never must be free.
I who so late had power, and wealth, and ease,
Bless’d with my husband, and a large increase,
Must now in poverty an exile mourn;
Ev’n from the tombs of my dead offspring torn:
Given to Penelope, who, proud of spoil,
Allots me to the loom’s ungrateful toil;
Points to her dames, and cries, with scorning mien,
‘See Hector’s mother, and great Priam’s queen!’
And thou, my child, sole hope of all that’s lost,
Thou now art slain, to soothe this hostile ghost.
Yes, my child falls an offering to my foe!
Then what am I, who still survive this wo?
Say, cruel gods! for what new scenes of death
Must a poor aged wretch prolong this hated breath?
Troy fallen, to whom could Priam happy seem?
Yet was he so; and happy must I deem
His death; for, oh, my child! he saw not thine,
When he his life did with his Troy resign.
Yet sure due obsequies thy tomb might grace;
And thou shalt sleep amid thy kingly race.
Alas, my child! such fortune does not wait
Our suffering house in this abandon’d state.
A foreign grave, and thy poor mother’s tears,
Are all the honours that attend thy hearse.
All now is lost! Yet no; one comfort more
Of life remains, my much-loved Polydore,
My youngest hope. Here on this coast he lives,
Nursed by the guardian king, he still survives.
Then let me hasten to the cleansing flood,
And wash away these stains of guiltless blood.”
Straight to the shore her feeble steps repair
With limping pace, and torn dishevell’d hair,
Silver’d with age. “Give me an urn,” she cried,
“To bear back water from this swelling tide:”
When on the banks her son in ghastly hue
Transfix’d with Thracian arrows strikes her view.
The matrons
