Towards the Grecian ships; and, at the sight, Night, as of death, darkened her tearful eyes. Swooning, she fell, and scattered in her fall The ornaments that bound her captive hair, Wondrous in beauty, band, and wreath, and veil, And fillet, Golden Aphrodite’s gift, What day brave Hector led Andromache Forth from her father’s house, Eëtion. Her sisters, who were nigh, with gentle care Received her sinking form, and by her side Waited in fear lest she should wake no more. But when, at last, the parted life returned And the full sense of misery, she wept Among her kinsfolk, and, with choking sobs, Called Hector’s name: “Ah, wretched me! my Hector, Surely a cruel fate has followed us Since we were born,--thou, in this city, Troy, In Priam’s palace,--I, in far-off Thebes, Where Placus rears on high his woody crest, The hapless daughter of a hapless king! Oh! would that I had never seen the sun! For now to Pluto’s dark and drear abode Thou hast descended, leaving me alone, A mournful widow in thy empty halls. And he who was his hapless parents’ pride, Our infant son, shall see thy face no more, Nor ever more delight thy loving eyes, Since thine are closed in death. Unhappy boy! If even he escape the Grecian sword, Travail and woes must be henceforth his lot, And stranger hands shall reap his father’s fields,-- The woful day of orphanage has made His life all friendless and companionless,-- The constant prey of grief, upon his cheek The tears shall never dry,--and he must beg With suppliant mien bread from his father’s guests, Scarce heeded, or, if heeded, poorly fed. His pampered peer in age, whose ev’ry need Both parents well supply, with cruel hands Thrusting him from the feast, will rudely say: ‘Away! begone! thy father feasts not here.’ Then to his widowed mother, all in tears, My boy will come, my sweet Astyanax, Who, erstwhile, fondled on his father’s knee, Shared in the choicest titbits of the board; And when, at eve, his childish prattle ceased, Lulled by his tender nurse, his little head Reposed on downy pillow, and his cheek Glowed with the silent pleasure of his heart. Now is he doomed to pain, his father gone, Whose valour won his name Astyanax, ‘The City’s King,’--for Hector was of Troy, Its gates and lofty walls, the chief defence. And thou, my Hector, liest all unclad Far from thy kin, beside the high-prowed ships,-- Of ravenous dogs and coiling worms the prey,-- While in thy desert halls neglected lie The soft, fair garments that were wrought for thee, Alas! in vain, by hands that love had taught. These now must only deck thy funeral pyre, In mournful honour to thy cherished name--