Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/382

364 I prayed the war earned praises of his sire, His royal grandsire's prime of years and strength: But God hath scorned my prayers. Thou shalt not live To wield the scepter in the royal courts Of ancient Troy, to make thy people's laws, And send beneath thy yoke the conquered tribes; Thou shalt not fiercely slay the fleeing Greeks, Nor from thy car in retribution drag Achilles' son; the dart from thy small hand Thou ne'er shalt hurl, nor boldly press the chase Of scattered beasts throughout the forest glades; And when the sacred lustral day is come, Troy's yearly ritual of festal games, The charging squadrons of the noble youth Thou shalt not lead, thyself the noblest born; Nor yet among the blazing altar fires, With nimble feet the ancient sacred dance At some barbaric temple celebrate, While horns swell forth swift-moving melodies. Oh, mode of death, far worse than bloody war! More tearful sight than mighty Hector's end The walls of Troy must see. Ulysses: Now stay thy tears, For mighty grief no bound or respite finds. Andromache: Small space for tears, Ulysses, do I ask; Some scanty moments yet, I pray thee, grant, That I may close his eyes though living still, And do a mother's part. [To Astyanax.] Lo, thou must die, For, though a child, thou art too greatly feared. Thy Troy awaits thee: go, in freedom's pride, And see our Trojans, dead yet unenslaved. Astyanax: O mother, mother, pity me and save! Andromache: My son, why dost thou cling upon my robes, And seek the vain protection of my hand? As when the hungry lion's roar is heard, The frightened calf for safety presses close