The leaders sat together, and the people
Stood in a ring about them. Ajax rose,
Lord of the sevenfold shield, seething with anger,
Glowering at the fleet and the Sigean waters,
And suddenly he made a gesture toward them
Crying: "So, this is where I do my pleading, here
Before these ships, and my rival is Ulysses!
Where was he, though, when Hector's torches threatened
Those very ships? Running away! But I
Stood fast, and drove the fire away. It is safer
To fight with lies than hands, no doubt of that.
I am no good at speaking, any more
Than he is good at doing. He can beat me
In talking, by as far as I can beat him
In the fierce battle-line. As for my deeds,
O Greeks, I do not think I need to name them,
You have seen them. Let Ulysses tell of his,
The feats that no man witnessed, only darkness!
The prize is great, I know, but somehow lessened
Because Ulysses claims it. There is no honor
[page 306]
For Ajax, great as the prize may be, to have
Ulysses as his rival. Why, already,
He has won reward enough; when he is beaten,
He can brag that, once in his life, he strove with Ajax.
And even if my valor were in doubt,
My birth is better than his. I am the son
Of Telamon, who took the walls of Troy
With Hercules, with Jason sailed to Clochis.
And Aeacus was his father, the lawgiver
To the silent shades where Sisyphus strains to roll
The weight of his rock, and Aeacus is son,
Acknowledged so, of Jove. So Ajax is
The third in line from Jove. No matter, Greeks,
Unless it proves me cousin to Achilles,
Therefore his rightful heir. The cheater's blood
Is in him, and by tricks and guile he proves it,
That Sisyphus, not Laertes, was his father.
The line of Aeacus is proud, too proud
To have these bastard names come near to disgrace it.
Or should I get no arms, because I took
Arms before he did, and it took no tattler
To make me join the wars? Is the better man
The one who came in last, pretending madness
To dodge his service, till a smarter fellow,
No self-promoter, either, Palamedes
Exposed his coward tricks, and dragged him out
To the arms he never wanted? Shall he get
The best because he wanted none? Shall I,
The first to fight, be robbed of what my cousin
Left me by right?
"As for his so-called madness,
A pity it was not real, and a worse pity
That we did not believe it! Philoctetes
Would not have been a castaway in Lemnos,
Shame on us all! He hides there still, his groaning
Moving the very rocks of the forest caverns,
[page 307]
Calling down curses on Laertes' son,
Richly deserved, and due, I think, for payment
If there are any gods. And there he rots;
Our comrade, sworn to fight with us, is broken
By hunger and disease, inheritor
Of Hercules' arrows, using them to shoot
At birds, for his food and clothing, and fate meant them
To bring down Troy! But still, he lives,
Not having followed Ulysses. Palamedes
Had no such luck; if he had any choice,
He would have said, Leave me behind! He would
Be living, now, or would have died, at least,
Without dishonor, but that skulking bastard,
Knowing too well who gave the game away
When he was playing mad, had his revenge,
And charged that Palamedes was a traitor,
And proved it by the gold that he had planted.
Those are his weapons, death and exile; those
He uses on the Greeks. O fearful warrior!
Suppose him even more eloquent than Nestor,
I know one thing he never could prove to me,
That his desertion of Nestor was not a crime.
He did desert him, when the poor old man,
Slow from a wound of his horse, begged him for aid.
This is no lie of mine, and Diomedes
Knows it, for he was there, and over and over
Called him by name, and gave him a sound cursing
For being such a coward. But the gods
Are fair in judging mortals. Now he needs
Help, though he never brought it; as he left
Another, so he found himself abandoned,
And rightly so; he had set a fine example.
There he was bawling for his friends; I came,
I saw him trembling, pale with fear; I hid him,
Cringing from death, below my shield; I saved it,
[page 308]
That worthless life--someone should kick me for it.
Do you want to fight, Ulysses? Go back there,
Let us go back, the two of us, and with us
The enemy again: bring back your wound,
Your usual fear, hide under my shield, and there
Put up an argument! Well, so I saved him,
Too weak to stand because of his wounds, yet somehow
Able enough to run!
"And here came Hector
Rushing to battle, and the gods came with him;
Not you alone, but even brave men, Ulysses,
Were frightened then, and as he fought, exulting
In blood and victory, I knocked him over
With a great rock, and when he made his challenge,
I was the one, the only one, who faced it.
That was your prayer, O Greeks, and the gods heard it.
Ask how the battle ended: this is certain,
He did not beat me.
"And the Trojans come
With sword and fire and Jove against the Greeks.
Where is he now, the eloquent Ulysses?
But I stood there before the thousand ships,
Their bulwark and the hope of your return.
Give me the arms for all those ships! The truth
Is that the arms claim greater glory than I do,
They share my glory: the arms are calling for Ajax,
Not Ajax for the arms. With deeds like mine
Let him compare his Rhesus and his Dolon,
His captive Helenus, Minerva's image
Stolen, and nothing done by daylight, nothing
With Diomedes absent. If you really
Bestow those arms on such cheap terms, divide them,
And give the bigger share to Diomedes.
Why give them to this Ithacan, who always
Does things by stealth, always unarmed, relying
[page 309]
On tricks to fool the foe? The helmet's shine,
The luster of that bright gold, would give away
His hiding-places, and that helmet's weight
Would be too heavy for him, and the spear
Too much for him to lift, let alone carry!
And that left hand is better at picking pockets
Than holding Achilles' shield, that great round world.
You are weak enough already, trickster, coward,
Why take on further handicap, a prize
(If--God forbid--the Greeks should give it to you)
That would invite the enemy not to fear you,
But spoil you, rather? With that burden on you,
Your only talent would be gone, the speed
You run away with. And one thing more: your shield
So rarely used in battle, has no mark,
No dent upon it; mine has a thousand places
Where spears and darts have struck; I need a new one.
Why talk? What good are words? Let us be seen
In action. Let Achilles' arms be thrown
Into the middle of the enemy,
And give the order to bring them back, and see
Who brings them back, and give the honor to him!"
So Ajax ended, and a muttering ran
Through all the crowd, until Ulysses rose.
He kept his eyes downcast, a short time only,
Then raised them to the faces of the leaders,
And broke the silence, as they knew he would,
With eloquence of speech and grace of gesture.
"O Greeks, if what we prayed for, you and I
Together, had been granted, we should have
No question of the heir in this great contest.
Achilles still would have his arms, and we
Would have Achilles. But since he has been taken"
(And here he made a gesture toward his eyes
As if to brush off tears) "by Fate's injustice,
[page 310]
Who has more title to the hero's arms
Than he who brought the hero to the Greeks?
Why should there be profit and gain for Ajax
In seeming stupid, as he is? And why
Should I be hurt because I used my wits
Always for your advantage? If I speak
With any eloquence, and plead my cause
As I have pleaded yours, envy me not
My talent; a man must use what power he has.
Now, as to race and ancestry and deeds
That men have done before us, those I call
No merit of our own. Since Ajax claims
Descent from Jove, however, I can call him
As close a sire: Laertes is my father,
Arcesius his, and he was son of Jove,
And neither of these was banished or an exile,
As Telamon was, and Peleus. Through my mother
I trace my line to Mercury; on both sides
I have divine descent. It does not matter.
That is no reason why I seek the armor.
Count worth alone. Is it through Ajax' merit
That Telamon and Peleus were brothers?
The honor of manhood is the essence of it,
Not blood-relationship. Still, if we seek
The next of kin, Achilles' son is Pyrrhus,
His father Peleus. Let the arms be taken
To Scyros, then, or Phthia. Even Teucer
Is every bit as much Achilles' cousin
As Ajax is: is Teucer seeking the arms?
Would he get them if he did? We go by deeds,
By nothing else: I have more to my credit
Than I can tell you easily, but let me
Take them in order.
"Achilles' mother Thetis
Knew of his doom, and had disguised her son
[page 311]
In a girl's dress, and fooled them all. Even Ajax!
I was the one who hid, in the women's trinkets,
Arms that would rouse a warrior. As he stood there,
Still in his dresses, and reached out his hand
Toward shield and spear, I told him: 'Son of Thetis,
Troy, doomed, is waiting for you: why delay her?'
It was my hand that sent a brave man forward
To his brave deeds; therefore, his works are mine.
I brought down Telephus with the spear, I raised him
Vanquished, imploring aid. The fall of Thebes
Stands to my credit; credit me with Lesbos,
Tenedos, Chryse, Cilla, Scyros also.
My hand, through him, battered Lyrnesus' walls,
And (to omit some others) it was I
Who gave the man to slay the warlike Hector,
Hector the glorious--I it was who slew him!
Those arms that proved Achilles' revelation
I gave him living; now that he is dead,
Give me the ones he bore.
"When one man's sorrow
Held all the Greeks, and the thousand ships at Aulis
Waited for winds that never came, or blew
Against the voyage, and the oracles
Bade Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter
To merciless Diana, and he would not,
Being a father in a king, and angry
Even at the gods, who was it soothed him? I!
I swayed that father's tender heart, I brought him
To think about us all: it was not easy,
That I confess, to plead a case like this
(Forgive me, Agamemnon! ) with a judge
Whose prejudice was great. But the common welfare,
His brother's outrage, and his own position
Led hum to make the sacrifice. Then I
Was sent to the girl's mother, obdurate
Against all argument, but not too hard
[page 312]
To fool with guile. I ask you, what if Ajax
Had gone to see her? The winds would still be blowing.
And I was an ambassador to Troy,
Still rich in heroes; I was not afraid,
And I spoke out, as all of Greece had ordered,
Denouncing Paris and demanding Helen
And all that booty; I won over Priam,
Convinced Antenor, but Paris and his brothers
And partners in his ravaging, almost tore me
To pieces, and you know it, Menelaus.
That danger was the first we shared together.
It would be wearisome to tell you all
My deeds through that long war, my services
With hand and brain. After the early battles
The Trojans hid within their city walls,
Never gave battle in the open, never.
In the tenth year we fought, but for nine years
What were you doing, Ajax? You knew nothing
Except the way to fight, so--what good were you?
But ask me what I did, and I can tell you:
Setting up ambuscades, constructing moats,
Encouraging the allies, counselling patience,
Building morale, securing food and arms,
Sent where the need was greatest.
"Agamemnon,
Deluded by a dream, thought Jove had told him
To quit the war; he had the orders ready,
Saying their source was more than ample warrant.
Does Ajax intervene? Does he demand
That Troy be beaten down? Does he even fight,
The one thing he can do? Why does he not
Stop those who head for home, take arms himself,
Rally them some how? Surely, this was nothing
For one who never talks except in bragging?
What did he do? He ran, himself. I saw him,
[page 313]
I was ashamed at what I saw, his back,
His rush to spread disgraceful sails. I cried:
'What are you doing? Are you crazy, comrades
Here's Troy already captured: with what booty
Do you go home? Ten years of this, and nothing
To show for it but disgrace!' And so I stopped them.
And Agamemnon marshaled them, still fearful,
And even then Telamon's son said nothing,
He never opened his mouth; he did not dare to!
Thersites had more nerve; that scurvy fellow
Railed at the leaders, till I beat him for it.
Aroused, I roused them all, and by my words
Woke, once again, their courage. From then on
Whatever Ajax did I lay some claim to,
Having dragged him back from flight.
"Which of the Greeks
Has ever praised you, Ajax, or sought you out
As comrade? Diomedes shares his deeds
With me, approves me, and is confident
When I am with him. It is something, surely,
For one out of so many thousand Greeks
To be the choice of Diomede. No lot
Ordered me on that errand, when we went,
Scorning the risks of enemies and darkness,
To catch the Trojan Dolon, who, like us,
Despised the risks of enemies and darkness.
He was caught and killed, but first I made him tell us
All that he knew, what tricky Troy was planning.
I might have turned back then, I had no further
Excuse for spying, I would have earned my praise,
But not content with this, I sought the tents
Of Rhesus; in his very camp I slew him
And his companions with him; so, a victor,
I brought the captured chariot home rejoicing.
Those horses were the price of one night's service,
Or so the enemy thought. Would you deny me
[page 314]
Those arms, or think that Ajax had deserved them?
Why should I mention how my sword cut down
Sarpedon's ranks, how I laid low
Alastor, Chromius, Coeranos, Alcander,
Halius, Prytanis, Noemon--why
Call that long roll? And I have wounds, my comrades.
Where I should have them; do not take my word,
See for yourselves!" (he threw his garment open)
"Here is the breast which more than once has suffered
Wounds for your cause! But Ajax never shed
One drop of blood in all these years; his body
Has not one wound upon it.
"What does it matter,
That talk of his, of standing up in arms
For the Greek fleet against the Trojan might,
The power of Jove? Of course he did; I grant it.
I would not, out of spite, cut down his glory
Nor any man's, and there were others there,
Many of you among them: give credit, Ajax,
Where it is due. Patroclus was the one
Who, in Achilles' guise, drove off the Trojans,
And thereby saved the fleet, which, otherwise,
Would have gone up in smoke with its defender.
He thinks himself the only one who dared
To face the arms of Hector; he forgets
The king, the leaders, and myself; he, Ajax,
Was ninth to volunteer, but the lot gave him
First place--and then what happened? O great hero,
Hector went off with never a wound upon him!
How painful, still, the memory of that time
When our great wall, Achilles, fell! But neither
Sorrow nor tears nor fear delayed me, lifting
His body from the ground, and on these shoulders,
These shoulders, mine, I bore Achilles' body,
[page 315]
Armor and all, arms which once more I ask
To bear: heavy they are, but I can bear them,
And I have sense enough to know their meaning,
Their full significance. Do you think that Thetis
Was so ambitious for her son that she
Would see this gift of heaven, this heavenly art,
Worn by this lout, this stupid, hulking soldier?
Ajax knows nothing of the work of this shield,
And what to him are the swing of the Pleiades,
The sea, the starry skies, the constellations,
The scattered cities, and Orion's sword?
He is claiming arms beyond his power to value.
Then, all that business, that I tried to dodge
My service, came in late, when the wars had started:
Does he not realize this reproach applies
To great Achilles also? If you call
Dissembling crime, we both were criminals,
Dissemblers both, and I the earlier.
A loving wife kept me, a loving mother
Kept back Achilles. Our first time was given
To them, the rest to you. I do not fear
A charge I share with that great-hearted hero,
But even so, I have an answer for it:
Who found Achilles out? None but Ulysses!
Who found Ulysses out? Surely not Ajax.
Let us not wonder that he pours against me
The venom of his stupid tongue; you also
Have heard his shamelessness, have suffered from it.
The case of Palamedes! I was evil
To bear false witness there, but you were surely
Decent and just to vote his condemnation!
This makes no sense, and Palamedes could not
Defend himself, the case was clear; you more
Than heard, you saw the evidence; the proof
[page 316]
Lay in the bribe.
"And I am not to blame
That Philoctetes lingers on in Lemnos.
Defend your deed--you all consented to it!
True, I advised him to; for a little while,
I said, avoid the hardships and the journey,
Rest your sore hurt. And so he did, and lives.
The advice was honest, it was fortunate, also,
Where honesty would have been enough. But now,
So say our seers, we must have Philoctetes
That Troy may fall! Well, leave me out of it,
Send Ajax back to Lemnos to persuade him,
With his great eloquence, out of that torture,
That rage of his, or let the cunning Ajax,
By some sly ruse, delude and bring him Troyward.
The Simois would flow backward first, and Ida
Stand without leaves, and Greece send aid to Troy
Before the lack-wit Ajax would be helpful
If ever Ulysses failed you. Philoctetes
Hates me with deadly hatred, hates all Greeks,
Hates Agamemnon, curses us for ever,
Rages to have me in his power, to drink
My blood, cries for revenge and retribution.
What of it? I will go and bring him back,
And if, by fortune's favor, I shall take
His arrows, I will know that things have happened
Like this before. I captured Helenus,
I learned the secrets of the oracles,
The doom of Troy, I was the one who stole
Minerva's image from the shrine. Does Ajax
Compare himself to me? The fates had told us
We could not capture Troy without the image.
Well, where was Ajax then, the loud-mouthed hero
With the big talk? Afraid? It was Ulysses
Who dared go out beyond the sentinels,
Risk darkness and the dangerous swords, and enter
[page 317]
Not only Trojan walls, but the high summit,
The citadel, the shrine, to steal the goddess,
To bring her back, and if I had not done it,
How useless and how silly would have been
The sevenfold bulls'-hide shield that Ajax carries
On that left arm of his. The war was won,
By me, that very night, and Troy was conquered
Because I made it possible.
"Your gestures,
Your mutterings, are intended to remind me
That Diomedes was my partner. Surely
He was, and has his share of praise. You too,
Ajax, were not alone when you stood holding
Your shield before the fleet. You had a thousand
Comrades in arms, and I but one, and he
Had wit enough to know a thinker always
Is better than a brave but stupid fighter
And that blind valor never merits prizes.
Were this not so, he too would be competing
Claiming this armor, so would the other Ajax,
Eurypylus, Thoas, and Meriones,
Even Menelaus, ready men, my equals
On any battlefield, but less in counsel.
Your arm is useful in the wars; your wits
Need mine to guide them. You are strong, and brainless;
I think about the future. You can fight,
We set the time for fighting, Agamemnon
And I, Ulysses. Only in the body
Are you worth anything, but I have mind,
Sense and intelligence. As a ship's captain
Is better than a rower, as a leader
Is greater than his soldier, so do I
Outrank you, Ajax; in my make-up knowledge
Governs brute force, and therein lies my talent.
But you, O leaders, give your watchful guardian
[page 318]
What he has earned through all these anxious years,
Grant me the honor due; my task is ended,
The Fates' obstruction gone. I have taken Troy
By seeing that the tall town could be taken.
Now, by our common hopes, by those doomed walls,
By the gods whom I have taken from that city,
By any further need we have of wisdom,
Of boldness, of recovery from danger,
By anything you feel may still be lacking
To bring Troy down, remember me, reward me!
Or, if you do not give those arms to me, then give them
To her!" He gestured toward Minerva's image.
So they were moved: what eloquence could do
Was evident; the eloquent man bore off
The brave man's arms. Then he, who had stood so often
Alone against great Hector, stood so often
Alone against sword and fire and Jove himself,
Could make no stand against his single anger;
Unconquered, he was conquered by his sorrow.
He snatched the sword, he cried: "This is my own
Most certainly, or does Ulysses claim it?
This I must use against myself; the sword,
So often red with Trojan blood, will redden
Now with its master's, and no man but Ajax
Will ever conquer Ajax!" And he drove
Deep in the breast which no man ever wounded
The deadly steel. No hand was strong enough
To draw that weapon out; the blood of Ajax
Flooded it loose: from the green ground, now crimson,
A crimson flower grew, like that which blossomed
>From Hyacinthus' wound, and on the petals
The markings honor man and boy together,
AIAS, they read, for Ajax, and AI AI,
Alas! for both.
[page 319]
Victorious, Ulysses
Sailed back to Lemnos, to bring back the arrows,
Once Hercules' weapons, and their master with them,
Sick Philoctetes, and the final blow
Was given, at last, to that long war. Troy fell,
And Priam fell, and the poor wife of Priam,
Who had lost everything, lost one thing more,
Her human shape, and with strange barking frightened
The alien air, where the long Hellespont
Narrows into its straits. And Troy was burning,
Burning with fire still visible, when Jove's altar
Drank up the meager blood of old king Priam.
Cassandra, dragged by the hair, reached up to Heaven
Her unavailing hands, and the Trojan women
Crowded the burning temples, holding there,
While still they could, the ancient images,
Their country's gods, till the Greek victors grabbed them,
A spoil that men might envy. And they flung
The boy Astyanax from the very tower
Where he would often sit and watch his father
Fighting for him and the ancestral kingdom,
As his mother pointed Hector out in battle.
The North-wind called, sails flapped and swelled, the masters
Gave their commands. "Farewell, O Troy, we are taken!"
The Trojan women cry, and kiss their land,
And leave the smoking ruins. Last of all,
Most pitiful, came Hecuba, hauled away
>From where the Greeks had found her, at the tombs
Of buried sons, trying to give their bones
Her farewell kisses. Only Hector's ashes
She could redeem, and bore that rescued dust
In her bosom with her, leaving, at his tomb,
Locks of her thin ray hair and the stain of tears.
[page 320]
Northward of Troy, and opposite, lay Thrace,
Land of the Bistones. There Polymestor
Held his rich court; Priam had sent a son
Named Polydorus there, hoping to keep him
Out of the wars at Troy, a resolution
Wise in itself, but Priam had been foolish
In sending a great store of treasure with him.
That put a premium on crime, inciting
The avaricious mind of Polymestor,
Who, when Troy fell, had little enough of scruple,
Cut Polydorus' throat, and flung the body
Over a cliff into the waves below,
Thinking, no doubt, there could be no charge of murder
If no one found the victim.
On this shore
The fleet was moored until the sea should quiet
Under more gentle winds, and, suddenly,
Big as he was when living, out of the earth
Achilles loomed, a threatening look upon him,
As on that day when with his sword he challenged
King Agamemnon. "So, you are departing,"
He cried, "You Greeks, forgetting me! Your thanks
Lie buried with my service under the ground.
This shall not be! My tomb shall have the honor
My life has earned. Let Polyxena slain
Appease Achilles' shade!" The Greeks obeyed him,
That pitiless ghost. Torn from her mother's arms,
Her mother's only comfort now, or nearly,
Ell-starred and brave, with more than a woman's courage,
The girl Polyxena, hostage and victim,
Was led to the tomb for sacrifice. She knew
Too well what lay before her, what grim rites,
What cruel altars, Pyrrhus standing there
[page 321]
With sword in hand and staring eyes. She spoke
In all composure: "Since my blood is noble,
Make use of it, I am ready. Let the sword
Seek breast or throat!" She bared her throat and breast
--Better that self-exposure than be slave
To any man, Polyxena knew. "No rites
Like these will ever appease the cruel godhead.
Only, I wish my mother might not know it,
This death of mine; she interferes, she lessens
My joy in death. She would not tremble at it
So much as her own life. And all of you,
If I am asking justice, that I may
Go, in all freedom, to the Stygian shades,
Keep far away, let no man lay his hands
Upon my virgin body. Whoever he is
You seek to please by killing me, more welcome
My blood will be, if freely given. Daughter
Of Priam, I, no slave, ask one thing more,
If my last words can move you--give my body
Back to my mother, with no thought of ransom.
Let her pay in tears, not gold, for the sad honor
Of burial. She used to pay in gold
When gold was hers to pay with." As she ended,
The tears were theirs, not hers. Even the priest
Wept and, unwilling, drove the weapon home,
And, as she fell, she kept her look of courage,
And even in her falling she remembered
To keep her body covered, to guard the honor
Of modesty. They lifted up her body,
The Trojan women, telling off the number
Of Priam's children, wept for, all the evils
The royal house had suffered. They wept for her,
Wept for the mother, not so long ago
Queen and queen-mother, symbol of rich Asia,
Now almost nothing, insignificant spoil,
A thing Ulysses, victor, would not covet
[page 322]
Save for one fact--she had given birth to Hector.
Yet Hector found no owner for his mother!
She held the empty shell of that great spirit,
Gave it the tears that she had shed so often
For country, sons, and husband, tears that fell
Into her daughter's wound; she kissed her face,
She beat the breasts which had known such bruising often,
Let her white hair fall in the clotted blood,
Crying, "O daughter, my last cause of grief
--What other grief is left me--O my daughter
In dust, I see your wounds, my own, your wounds
To prove no child was ever taken from me
Except by murder. Since you were a woman,
I thought no sword could harm you; you have fallen,
A woman, by the sword. That same Achilles,
Ruin of Troy and Hecuba's bereaver,
Has slain the sister as he slew the brothers.
The shafts of Paris, the arrows of Apollo,
Had brought him down, and then I thought: Now, surely,
We need not fear Achilles any longer!
I must fear him still: though he is dead and buried,
His ashes rage against us; in his tomb
We find him still an enemy. I have borne
My children to him! Lofty Troy lies low,
Disaster ends the city; it has ended
For an but me, my Troy still burns. I was
The greatest queen in all the world, a woman
Strong in my sons and daughters and my husband,
And now an exile, poor, torn from the tombs
Of those I loved, I am dragged off, a prize,
Slave-woman to Pennelope. I will sit there
Spinning the wool according to her orders
And she will tell her Ithacan ladies: That one
Is Priam's queen, Hector's illustrious mother!
So many lost and you alone were left
To ease your mother's sorrow, and you are gone,
[page 323]
An offering at an enemy's tomb; I have
Borne many victims to our enemies.
A woman of iron, I stay--and why? What for?
Why do you keep me here, O wrinkled age?
Why, cruel gods, keep an old woman living,
To see more deaths? Who would suppose that Priam
Could be called happy after Troy came down?
But he is happy; he does not see his daughter
Who lies here, murdered; he lost life and kingdom
Without that horror. And you, O royal maiden,
Will have as dower funeral rites, be buried
In your ancestral tomb? I do not think so.
Our house has no such fortune any more.
Your funeral gifts will be your mother's tears,
Your grave a hollow in a foreign sand.
We have lost everything. There still remains
Some reason, there must be, to keep me living
A little while: one son is left, my dearest,
My only one, my youngest, Polydorus,
He was sent here once, for safety, I remember.
But why do I delay to wash these wounds,
To clean her face of the ugly blood?"
She tottered
Down to the sea, and, as she went, she tore
Her thin gray hair, crying: "O Trojan women,
Give me an urn, I need to dip sea-water!"
And there she saw the body, Polydorus
Cast up on the shore, with the great gash of his wound.
The Trojan women shrieked, but Hecuba
Made never a sound; like a hard rock, she stood there,
Looked at the ground, or turned her face to Heaven,
Looked at her son, who lay there dead, and studied
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His wounds, his wounds, and in that study armored
Herself, equipped her passion. In that rage
She towered, a queen again, whose whole employment
Spelled out the images of fitting vengeance.
As, when her suckling cub is stolen from her,
A lioness goes raging, tracking down
The unseen enemy, so Hecuba,
In grief and anger, with her years forgotten,
Her aim remembered, went to Polymestor,
The murderer, and sought an audience with him.
She had a store of gold she wished to show him,
She had kept it for her son, and now would give him.
So she pretended, and the king believed her,
Lusting for gold, as always, and so he came
To the secret place, and his smooth speech was crafty
As ever: "Hurry, Hecuba, and give me
The treasure for your son! I swear by Heaven
All of it shall be his, what you give now,
What you have given before!" She watched him, glowering,
And with his perjury her wrath boiled over,
She called the captive women to her, grabbed him
Dug fingers into his Iying eyes, dug out
The eyeballs from their sockets, and kept digging,
In manic fury, with bloody fingers, scooping
The hollows where the eyes had been. The Thracians,
In fury at her deed, came after her
With spears and stones, but she,
Snarling and growling, chased the stones and bit them,
Opened her mouth for words, but what came out
Was barking. And that place today is called
Cynossema, The Bitch's Tomb, and there,
Remembering her ancient wrongs, she howled
Mournfully over the plains, and her sad lot
Moved Greeks as well as Trojans, moved the gods,
Moved even Juno, to the point of saying
That Hecuba had earned no such misfortune.
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Aurora, who had helped the Trojan armies,
Could not be moved for Hecuba, for the ruin
And fall of Troy. Her grief came closer home:
Memnon, her son, had fallen by the spear
Of great Achilles, and his shining mother
Had seen it happen on the Phrygian plain,
And those bright hues of hers, with which the morning
Reddens, grew pale, and clouds came over the skies,
And when his body was placed upon the pyre
She could not bear to look, but with hair streaming,
Just as she was, she kneeled to Jove, and, weeping,
Made prayer to him: "Though I am least of all
The gods in golden Heaven, though the world
Has built few scattered temples in my honor,
I come as goddess, asking not for shrines,
For sacred days, for sacrificial altars.
Consider my service: how, goddess, or woman,
With the new light I close the bounds of darkness,
And that deserves reward, but that is not
My errand, I ask nothing for Aurora.
I have lost Memnon, who bore brave arms, in vain,
In his uncle's service, and died young, for so
You gods have willed it, at Achilles' hand.
Grant him some honor, for my consolation,
Great ruler of the Gods, and heal the wound
Deep in a mother's heart!"
So Jove assented,
And Memnon's pyre crumbled from leaping flames
To ashes, and the hue of day was darkened
By black and rolling smoke, as rivers send
Fogs that admit no sunlight. The dark ashes
Whirled high, and in the air they massed and thickened,
Took on a form, a heat, a spirit, lightness
>From the wins of fire. It was like a bird at first,
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Then a bird really, and its pinions whirred,
And there were countless sisters whirring with it,
All from that heavenly source, and round the pyre
Three times they flew, three times their noisy clamor
Rose up to air, and then the flock divided
Into two tribes, which warred against each other
With beak and talons, wearying wing and breast
In the fierce struggle, and came fluttering down
As funeral offerings to the buried ashes,
Their father and their hero. And his name
Was given them, Daughters of Memnon; still,
Each year, they fight and die again, to honor
Their father's festival.
And so Aurora
Kept her own grief and could not join the others
To weep for Hecuba, barking, and to this day
She weeps, at times, and dews the world with tears.
And yet the Fates did not permit Troy's hopes
To perish with her walls, for Venus' son,
Aeneas, carried with him on his shoulders
Her sacred relics, and another burden,
His venerable father. His devotion
Made that one choice from all his wealth, and with them
He took his son, Ascanius. The fleet
Sailed from Antandros, north to Thrace and south,
Leaving that land of crime, where Polydorus
Lay in his blood. The winds and tides were kind,
And so they came to Delos, where the king,
Priest of Apollo, Anius, gave them welcome,
Showed them his city, the well-known shrines, the trees,
Olive and palm, to which Latona clung
To help her in her labor. They burned incense,
Poured wine, slew cattle in sacrifice, burnt entrails
In the altar-fires, then came to the high halls,
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Rested on lofty couches, took the bread
Of Ceres and the wine of Bacchus' giving,
And old Anchises spoke: "O priest of Phoebus,
Am I in error, or, when first I came here,
Did you not have four daughters, and a son?"
Anius answered sadly: "No, great hero,
You are not wrong, I once did have five children.
Now, for the things of men are always shifting,
I have almost none. My son has gone to Andros,
An island named for him, and he is king there,
Of little help to me; Apollo gave him
The power of augury, but to my daughters
Bacchus gave other gifts, beyond their power
To hope for. Let me tell you more about them.
Their touch could turn all things to corn and wine
And gray-green olive; there was richness in them.
This Agamemnon, ravager of Troy,
Found out (your storms have swept our island also),
Used force, dragged off my daughters, all unwilling,
>From their father's arms, told them to use their powers
To feed the Grecian fleet. As best they could,
They managed to escape; two sought Euboea,
Two found their brother's Andros, but the soldiers
Came after them: Give up the girls, they told him,
Or face the threat of war. His fear was greater
Than brotherly affection, you could not blame him
Too much for being timid; no Aeneas
Was here to help him, and no Hector, either,
Through whom you Trojans won ten years' endurance.
The chains were ready for their arms; those arms,
Still free, were raised to Heaven. 'Father Bacchus,
Bring help!' they cried, and Bacchus heard and helped them,
If you can call it help, in some strange fashion
To lose their human form. I never knew,
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I could not tell you, now, just how they lost it,
I know the sum and substance of my evil:
They took on wings, plumage, the color of snow,
They were doves, the birds of Venus."
With such stories.
They filled the banquet tin the feast was ended,
Rested, and rose, and went to seek Apollo
Whose oracle told them: Seek your ancient mother!
Anius sped their going: he brought presents,
A sceptre for Anchises, a robe and quiver
For young Ascanius, and for Aeneas
A bowl which once a guest of his named Therses
Had brought him from Aonia. The gift
Was Therses', but the artistry was Alcon's,
Carved with this long device: there was a city,
You could see its seven gates, and therefore know it
For Thebes; before the city funeral rites
Were visible, tombs, and blazing pyres, and women
With streaming hair and naked breasts, grief-ridden.
And the Nymphs appeared to weep in lamentation
For their dry springs, and the trees were bare and leafless,
Goats nibbled stony outcrop; in the streets
Orion's daughters stood and fell, one striking
Her own throat with the kind of wound no woman
Should kill with, and the other, with a shuttle,
Inflicting futile blows, both falling victims
For the people's sake, and borne in funeral pomp
Through the mourning town to ceremonial fires,
And then, so that the race might not be ended,
Out of the virgin ashes came to birth
The two young men whom fame has named Coroni,
Joining the solemn rites their mothers' dust
Makes due demand of. So the gleaming figures
Told, on the antique bronze, the ancient story.
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Around the lip of the bowl, rough-carved in gold,
Acanthus wove, and for such gifts the Trojans
Gave others of no less worth, a box for incense,
A saucer for libation, and a crown
Gleaming with gems and gold.
Remembering
Their race had come from Teucer, they went on
To Crete, but drought and pestilence fought against them,
They left those hundred cities, and went on
With eager spirit for the Ausonian coast
Through raging winter seas, and in one harbor,
Just at the turning point, the wingĖd harpy,
Aello, terrified them: they went on,
On past Dulichium, Samos, Ithaca,
The realm of false Ulysses, past Ambracia,
For which the gods had argued once, and where
The judge in the dispute was changed to stone
--(Apollo's temple stands there now)--beyond
Dodona with its speaking oaks, beyond
Chaonia's bay, where King Molossus' sons
Grew wings to flee from sacrilegious fires,
On to Phaeacia, where the orchards grew,
On to Buthrotum, where King Helenus
Had made his little Troy, and where he gave them
Much friendly prophecy to aid their journey.
So they came on to Sicily, whose three headlands
Face to the sea, Pachynos looking southward,
And Lilybaeum westward, and Pelorus
Facing the Bear in the north, and here they entered,
Reaching, in the dark, the sandy beach of Zancle.
Scylla was deadly on the right, Charybdis
A menace on the left: one sucks down vessels
And spews them up again, the waist of the other
Belted with savage hounds. She has the face
Of a pure virgin, and unless the poets
Have told us lies, she really was a virgin
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Once on a time, and she had many suitors,
And scorned them all, and hid among the sea-nymphs
Who loved her dearly, and she used to tell them
How she escaped her lovers. Galatea
Was there, and, sighing as she let Charybdis
Comb out her hair, began to tell a story.
"At least, dear virgin, you have men as wooers,
A not unpleasing race; you can repulse them,
And do, and have no fear, but I, whose father
Is Nereus and whose mother blue-green Doris,
Whose throng of sisters keep me safe, I could not
Flee from the passionate Cyclops without suffering."
She could say no more for weeping, but Charybdis,
White-fingered, dried her tears, offered her comfort,
"Go on, my dearest," she said, "do not conceal it,
The reason for your sorrow; you can trust me,
You know you can." The Nereid continued:
"Acis was son of Faunus and Symaethis,
A great delight to his father and his mother,
Greater to me; he loved me with all his heart.
He was sixteen, and beautiful and young,
And downy-cheeked. I must say, I pursued him,
Incessantly, incessantly the Cyclops
Kept on pursuing me. I cannot tell you
Which was the stronger in me, my love for Acis,
My hatred for that creature: both were equal.
How mighty is the power of loving Venus!
That savage, whom the very forest trembles
To look upon, whom never a stranger sees
Without being hurt, the scorner of Olympus,
He feels the power of love, a captive, burning
With terrible passion, wandering forgetful
Of flocks and caves. His name was Polyphemus
And you should have seen him, suddenly taking pains
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With his appearance, trying to cultivate
The art of pleasing, using a rake to comb
His shaggy mop, resorting to a sickle
To trim his beard, using a pool for mirror
To see his ugly features, making faces
He thought would be more winsome, all his love
For murder gone, and all his thirst for blood,
And ships sailed in and out again in safety.
And Telamus came there at the time, the son
Of Eurymus, one whom no omen ever
Had led to error, and he told the giant
That single eye in the middle of your forehead
Ulysses will take away! But Polyphemus
Mocked him and called him stupid. You are wrong,
He jeered, Another has caught my eye already!
And so he scorned the man who tried to warn him,
Clumped heavily along the shore, or lumbered
Wearily home to his dark cave at evening.
There is a hill there, wedge-shaped, running out
Into the sea, and the waves wash around it.
There Polyphemus came, and there he sat,
And all his woolly sheep came trooping after,
Obedient creatures, for he never led them.
There he laid down the pine-tree that had served him
As staff--it would have held a vessel's yardarms.
There he took out his rustic pipe; it had
A hundred reeds, and all the waves and mountains
Were bound to listen. In the shade of a rock,
Resting in Acis' arms, far off, I could hear
The words he sang, and never could forget them.
'O Galatea' (he sang) 'whiter than privet,
Bloominger than the meadows, slenderer
Than the long alder-tree, brighter than glass,
More capering than the tender kid, and smoother
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Than shells worn down by everlasting waves,
More welcome than sun in winter, shade in summer,
Lovelier than apples, more worth looking at
Than sycamores, translucenter than ice,
Sweeter than grapes when ripe, and softer even
Than swan's-down ever, or cottage cheese, more lovely
(On one condition: that you do not flee me)
Than a well-watered garden. But, Galatea,
You are more obstinate than untrained heifers,
Harder than ancient oaks, falser than waters,
Harder to bend than willow-withe and briony,
Harder to move than rocks, more violent
Than mountain torrents, vainer than a peacock
When people praise him, crueler than fire,
Sharper than thistles, deafer than the sea,
And more aggressive than a pregnant bear,
More pitiless than a trodden snake, and worst
of all, and I wish that I could stop it,
Swifter not only than the deer the hounds
Go barking after, but swifter than winds or breezes.
But if you knew me well, you would regret it,
This running off, you would come to me and seek me.
I own a part of the mountain, caves that hide
Under the living rock, where midsummer sun,
Midwinter cold, do never come. I have apples
That weight the trees down, grapes as yellow as gold
On the long vines, and purple ones; the yellow
And purple ones I have been keeping for you,
And your own hand can pick the strawberries
Sweet in the shade of the woods, and the autumn cherries,
And plums, not only the juicy purple-black ones,
But the new kind, the big ones, yellow as wax,
And there are chestnuts for you and arbute-fruit
If I can be your husband, and every tree
Is at your service.
'All this flock is mine,
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And there are many wandering the valleys
Or hiding in the woods, or in stalls in the caves,
I do not know how many, only poor men
Can count their cows, and you need not believe me
If I should praise them; you can see for yourself
How the swollen milk-bags bother them in walking,
And I have lambs, and kids, there is always plenty
Of milk like snow, and some is kept for drinking,
Some to make cheese with.
As for pets, you would not
Like something easy to get, like deer or rabbits
Or goats or doves or a nest of little birds,
I found two bear-cubs on the top of the mountain
For you to play with, you can hardly tell them
One from the other: I said, as soon as I caught them,
I'll keep these for my lady!
'Galatea,
Lift up your shining head from the blue water,
Now come, and do not scorn my gifts. I know,
Surely I know, myself; I saw me lately
In a clear pool, and liked myself. Just look
How big I am! Jove up there in the sky
--You always talk about some Jove or other
Who rules up there--he can't be any bigger.
Plenty of hair gets in my eyes and shadows
My shoulders like a grove. Don't think it ugly
If my whole body is covered thick with bristles:
A tree is ugly without its leaves, a horse
Ugly without a mane, and birds have feathers
And sheep have wool, so beards and hair on the chest
Are the sign of a man. In the middle of my forehead
I have one eye, so what? Does not the Sun
See all things here on earth from his high Heaven?
And the great Sun has only one eye.
My father
Rules in your seas, and I am giving him to you
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For father-in-law. Oh, pity me and listen!
I bow to you alone, I, who scorn Jove,
His sky, his thunderbolts, I fear you only,
Your anger is more deadly than the lightning,
And this I could endure with greater patience
If only you scorned the others, but why, oh why,
Reject a Cyclops and fall in love with Acis,
Prefer this Acis to my hugs and kisses
Let him please himself, but I wish, I wish, he did not
Please Galatea! Let him give me a chance,
He will find me just as strong as I am big,
I will tear his guts out, I will pull him to pieces,
Scatter him over the fields and over the seas,
To lie with you so! I burn, and my passion, slighted,
Rages more hotly in me; I seem to carry
All Etna in my breast, and Galatea,
You do not care at all.'
"All his complaining
(The nymph resumed) was vain, and up he rose,
I saw him, like a bull in rut, who cannot
Hold still when someone has taken a heifer from him,
But charges through the woodlands and the pasture,
And when he saw my lover and me together,
Both unsuspecting, he bellowed out, 'I see you,
I'll make this the last time you get together!'
His voice was big and terrible as a Cyclops
Should roar with in his anger, Etna heard it
And trembled, and I dove into the ocean
In panic terror, but Acis turned to run
Crying 'O help me, Galatea, help me,
Father and mother, take me to your kingdom
Before I die!' And Polyphemus chased him,
Wrenched off a piece of the mountain, flung it at him,
And though it was only the smallest edge and corner
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That struck him, that was enough to bury Acis.
But I, it was all I could do, saw that Acis
Assumed the magic of his ancestors:
Red blood came trickling from the mass, and faded,
And turned the color of a torrent swollen
By the spring rains, and then it cleared entirely,
And the bulk of the earth was split, and through the cleft
A reed grew tall, and the rock's hollow sounded
With gushing water, and, wonderful to tell,
A youth was standing there, waist-deep in the current,
Rushes around his new-formed horns, my Acis,
But larger than in life, and with the color
Of blue-green water-gods, but still my Acis,
Whose waters keep their former name."
So ended
The story, and the Nereids went their ways
Swimming the peaceful waters. Scylla only,
Fearing the far-off deeps, came wandering back
To the shore, and there she strolled along, all naked
Over the thirsty sands, or, growing weary,
Found some safe pool to swim in. But here came Glaucus,
Sounding his shell across the sea, a dweller
New-come to ocean: change had come upon him,
Not so long since, near Anthedon, in Euboea.
He saw her, and he loved her, and he said
Whatever words might make her pause to listen,
But she was frightened, and fled, and swift in her fear
Raced to the top of a mountain that hung over
The shore, one sharp high peak, whose shadow fell
Far over the water. Here she was safe, and watched him,
Monster or god, wondering at his color,
The hair that fell across his back and shoulders,
The fish-form fig-leaf at his groin. He saw her,
Leaned on a nearby mass of rock, called to her: "Maiden,
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I am no freak, no savage beast, I am
A sea-god; neither Proteus nor Triton
Nor Athamas' son Palaemon, none of these
Has greater power than I. I once was mortal,
But even then devoted to deep waters
>From which I earned my living. Thence I drew
My nets, or by the ocean side I dangled
My rod and line. I can recall a shore
That bordered on green meadows, which no cattle,
No sheep, no goats, had ever grazed, no bees
Came there for honey, and no garlands ever
Were gathered there, nor sickle plied. I first
Came there and dried my nets and lines and spread them
Along that bank, counting the fish I caught
By luck or management or their own folly.
It will sound to you, no doubt, like a fishy story,
But why should I tell you lies?--My catch, on touching
The grass, began to stir, to turn, to swim,
To jump on the land the way they did in the water.
And as I stood in wonder, they slipped down
Into their native element, and left me.
I was a long time wondering: had some god
Done this, or was there magic in the grasses?
I plucked a blade and chewed it, and its flavor
Had hardly touched my tongue, when suddenly
My heart within me trembled, and I felt
An overwhelming longing: I must change
My way of life. I could not stand against it,
'Farewell, O Earth!' I cried, 'Farewell forever!'
And plunged into the sea, whose gods received me
With every honor, and called on Oceanus
And Tethys, to dissolve my mortal nature.
They purged me of it, first with magic singing,
Nine times repeated, then with river water
Come from a hundred streams, and I remember
No more, but when my sense returned I knew I was
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A different kind of creature, body and spirit.
I saw, for the first time, this beard, dark-green,
These locks that flow behind me over long waves,
These shoulders and blue arms, these legs that trail
Into a fish-like end, and all of this
Of little good to me. Where is the profit
In being a sea-gods' sea-god, if my Scylla
Cares not at all?" There was more he would have spoken,
But Scylla fled once more, and he, in anger,
Went to the marvellous palace-halls of Circe,
The daughter of the Sun.