Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/355



Hecuba: Whoe'er in royal power has put his trust, And proudly lords it in his princely halls; Who fears no shifting of the winds of fate, But fondly gives his soul to present joys: Let him my lot and thine, O Troy, behold. For of a truth did fortune never show In plainer wise the frailty of the prop That doth support a king; since by her hand Brought low, behold, proud Asia's capitol, The work of heavenly hands, lies desolate. From many kinds the warring princes came To aid her cause: from where the Tanaïs His frigid waves in seven-fold channel pours; And that far land which greets the newborn day, Where Tigris mingles with the ruddy sea His tepid waves; and where the Amazon, Within the view of wandering Scythia Arrays her virgin ranks by Pontus' shores. Yet here, o'erthrown, our ancient city lies, Herself upon herself in ruins laid; Her once proud walls in smouldering heaps recline, Mingling their ashes with our fallen homes. The palace flames on high, while far and near The stately city of Assaracus Is wrapped in gloomy smoke. Yet e'en the flames Keep not the victor's greedy hands from spoil; And Troy, though in the grasp of fiery death, Is pillaged still. The face of heaven is hid By that dense, wreathing smoke; the shining day, As if o'erspread by some thick, lowering cloud, Grows black and foul beneath the ashy storm. The victor stands with still unsated wrath, Eyeing that stubborn town of Ilium, And scarce at last forgives those ten long years Of bloody strife. Anon, as he beholds