_Andromache:_ Now kindly night had passed her middle goal, And their bright zenith had the Bears o'ercome. Then came to my afflicted soul a calm 440 Long since unknown, and o'er my weary eyes, For one brief hour did drowsy slumber steal If that be sleep--the stupor of a soul Forespent with ills: when suddenly I saw Before mine eyes the shade of Hector stand; Not in such guise as when, with blazing torch He strove in war against the Grecian ships, 445 Nor when, all stained with blood, in battle fierce Against the Danai, he gained true spoil From that feigned Peleus' son; not such his face All flaming with the eager battle light; But weary, downcast, tear-stained, like my own, All covered o'er with tangled, bloody locks. 450 Still did my joy leap up at sight of him; And then he sadly shook his head and said: "Awake from sleep and save our son from death, O faithful wife. In hiding let him lie; Thus only can he life and safety find. Away with tears--why dost thou mourning make For fallen Troy? I would that all had fall'n. 455 Then haste thee, and to safety bear our son, The stripling hope of this our vanquished home, Wherever safety lies." So did he speak, And chilling terror roused me from my sleep. Now here, now there I turned my fearful eyes. Forgetful of my son, I sought the arms Of Hector, there to lay my grief. In vain: For that elusive shade, though closely pressed, 460 Did ever mock my clinging, fond embrace. O son, true offspring of thy mighty sire, Sole hope of Troy, sole comfort of our house, Child of a stock of too illustrious blood, Too like thy father, thou: such countenance My Hector had, with such a tread he walked, With such a motion did he lift his hands, Thus stood he straight with shoulders proudly set, And thus he oft from that high, noble brow Would backward toss his flowing locks.--But thou, O son, who cam'st too late for Phrygia's help, Too soon for me, will that time ever come, That happy day, when thou, the sole defense, 470 And sole avenger of our conquered Troy, Shalt raise again her fallen citadel, Recall her scattered citizens from flight, And give to fatherland and Phrygians Their name and fame again?--Alas, my son, Such hopes consort not with our present state. Let the humble captive's fitter prayer be mine-- 475 The prayer for life. Ah me, what spot remote Can hold thee safe? In what dark lurking-place Can I bestow thee and abate my fears? Our city, once in pride of wealth secure, And stayed on walls the gods themselves had built, Well known of all, the envy of the world, Now deep in ashes lies, by flames laid low; 480 And from her vast extent of temples, walls