To whom great Hector of the glancing helm; “Think not, dear wife, that by such thoughts as these My heart has ne’er been wrung; but I should blush To face the men and long-rob’d dames of Troy, If, like a coward, I could shun the fight. Nor could my soul the lessons of my youth So far forget, whose boast it still has been In the fore-front of battle to be found, Charg’d with my father’s glory and mine own. Yet in my inmost soul too well I know, The day must come when this our sacred Troy, And Priam’s race, and Priam’s royal self Shall in one common ruin be o’erthrown. But not the thoughts of Troy’s impending fate, Nor Hecuba’s nor royal Priam’s woes, Nor loss of brethren, numerous and brave, By hostile hands laid prostrate in the dust, So deeply wring my heart as thoughts of thee, Thy days of freedom lost, and led away A weeping captive by some brass-clad Greek; Haply in Argos, at a mistress’ beck, Condemn’d to ply the loom, or water draw From Hypereia’s or Messeis’ fount, Heart-wrung, by stern necessity constrain’d. Then they who see thy tears perchance may say, ‘Lo! this was Hector’s wife, who, when they fought On plains of Troy, was Ilium’s bravest chief.’ Thus may they speak; and thus thy grief renew For loss of him, who might have been thy shield To rescue thee from slav’ry’s bitter hour. Oh may I sleep in dust, ere be condemn’d To hear thy cries, and see thee dragg’d away!” Thus as he spoke, great Hector stretch’d his arms To take his child; but back the infant shrank, Crying, and sought his nurse’s shelt’ring breast, Scar’d by the brazen helm and horse-hair plume, That nodded, fearful, on the warrior’s crest. Laugh’d the fond parents both, and from his brow Hector the casque remov’d, and set it down, All glitt’ring, on the ground; then kiss’d his child, And danc’d him in his arms; then thus to Jove And to th’ Immortals all address’d his pray’r: “Grant, Jove, and all ye Gods, that this my son May be, as I, the foremost man of Troy, For valour fam’d, his country’s guardian King; That men may say, ‘This youth surpasses far His father,’ when they see him from the fight, From slaughter’d foes, with bloody spoils of war Returning, to rejoice his mother’s heart!” Thus saying, in his mother’s arms he plac’d His child; she to her fragrant bosom clasp’d, Smiling through tears; with eyes of pitying love Hector beheld, and press’d her hand, and thus Address’d her—“Dearest, wring not thus my heart! For till my day of destiny is come, No man may take my life; and when it comes, Nor brave nor coward can escape that day. But go thou home, and ply thy household cares, The loom, and distaff, and appoint thy maids Their sev’ral tasks; and leave to men of Troy And, chief of all to me, the toils of war.”