The Fall of Troy [46]
day That brings death to the mother who hath nursed The fatherless child; so wailed he, ever wailed His great death-stricken brother, creeping slow Around the corpse, and uttering his lament: "O Aias, mighty-souled, why was thine heart Distraught, that thou shouldst deal unto thyself Murder and bale? All, was it that the sons Of Troy might win a breathing-space from woes, Might come and slay the Greeks, now thou art not? From these shall all the olden courage fail When fast they fall in fight. Their shield from harm s broken now! For me, I have no will To see mine home again, now thou art dead. Nay, but I long here also now to die, That so the earth may shroud me -- me and thee Not for my parents so much do I care, If haply yet they live, if haply yet Spared from the grave, in Salamis they dwell, As for thee, O my glory and my crown!"
So cried he groaning sore; with answering moan Queenly Tecmessa wailed, the princess-bride Of noble Aias, captive of his spear, Yet ta'en by him to wife, and household-queen O'er all his substance, even all that wives Won with a bride-price rule for wedded lords. Clasped in his mighty arms, she bare to him A son Eurysaces, in all things like Unto his father, far as babe might be Yet cradled in his tent. With bitter moan Fell she on that dear corpse, all her fair form Close-shrouded in her veil, and dust-defiled, And from her anguished heart cried piteously: "Alas for me, for me now thou art dead, Not by the hands of foes in fight struck down, But by thine own! On me is come a grief Ever-abiding! Never had I looked To see thy woeful death-day here by Troy. Ah, visions shattered by rude hands of Fate! Oh that the earth had yawned wide for my grave Ere I beheld thy bitter doom! On me No sharper, more heart-piercing pang hath come -- No, not when first from fatherland afar And parents thou didst bear me, wailing sore Mid other captives, when the day of bondage Had come on me, a princess theretofore. Not for that dear lost home so much I grieve, Nor for my parents dead, as now for thee: For all thine heart was kindness unto me The hapless, and thou madest me thy wife, One soul with thee; yea, and thou promisedst To throne me queen of fair-towered Salamis, When home we won from Troy. The Gods denied Accomplishment thereof. And thou hast passed Unto the Unseen Land: thou hast forgot Me and thy child, who never shall make glad His father's heart, shall never mount thy throne. But him shall strangers make a wretched thrall: For when the father is no more, the babe Is ward of meaner men. A weary life The orphan knows, and suffering cometh in From every side upon him like a flood. To me too thraldom's day shall doubtless come, Now thou hast died, who wast my god on earth."
Then in all kindness Agamemnon spake: "Princess, no man on earth shall make thee thrall, While Teucer liveth yet, while yet I live. Thou shalt have worship of us evermore And honour as a Goddess, with thy son, As though yet living were that godlike man, Aias, who was the Achaeans' chiefest strength. Ah that he had not laid this load of grief On all, in dying by his own right hand! For all the countless armies of his foes Never availed to slay him in fair fight."
So spake he, grieved to the inmost heart. The folk Woefully wafted all round. O'er Hellespont Echoes of mourning rolled: the sighing air Darkened around, a wide-spread sorrow-pall. Yea, grief laid hold on wise Odysseus' self For the great dead, and with remorseful soul To anguish-stricken Argives thus he spake: "O friends, there is no greater curse to men Than wrath, which groweth till its bitter fruit Is strife. Now wrath hath goaded Aias on To this dire issue of the rage that filled His soul against me. Would to God that ne'er Yon Trojans in the strife for Achilles' arms Had crowned me with that victory, for which Strong Telamon's brave son, in agony Of soul, thus perished by his own right hand! Yet blame not me, I pray you, for his wrath: Blame the dark dolorous Fate that struck him down. For, had mine heart foreboded aught of this, This desperation
So cried he groaning sore; with answering moan Queenly Tecmessa wailed, the princess-bride Of noble Aias, captive of his spear, Yet ta'en by him to wife, and household-queen O'er all his substance, even all that wives Won with a bride-price rule for wedded lords. Clasped in his mighty arms, she bare to him A son Eurysaces, in all things like Unto his father, far as babe might be Yet cradled in his tent. With bitter moan Fell she on that dear corpse, all her fair form Close-shrouded in her veil, and dust-defiled, And from her anguished heart cried piteously: "Alas for me, for me now thou art dead, Not by the hands of foes in fight struck down, But by thine own! On me is come a grief Ever-abiding! Never had I looked To see thy woeful death-day here by Troy. Ah, visions shattered by rude hands of Fate! Oh that the earth had yawned wide for my grave Ere I beheld thy bitter doom! On me No sharper, more heart-piercing pang hath come -- No, not when first from fatherland afar And parents thou didst bear me, wailing sore Mid other captives, when the day of bondage Had come on me, a princess theretofore. Not for that dear lost home so much I grieve, Nor for my parents dead, as now for thee: For all thine heart was kindness unto me The hapless, and thou madest me thy wife, One soul with thee; yea, and thou promisedst To throne me queen of fair-towered Salamis, When home we won from Troy. The Gods denied Accomplishment thereof. And thou hast passed Unto the Unseen Land: thou hast forgot Me and thy child, who never shall make glad His father's heart, shall never mount thy throne. But him shall strangers make a wretched thrall: For when the father is no more, the babe Is ward of meaner men. A weary life The orphan knows, and suffering cometh in From every side upon him like a flood. To me too thraldom's day shall doubtless come, Now thou hast died, who wast my god on earth."
Then in all kindness Agamemnon spake: "Princess, no man on earth shall make thee thrall, While Teucer liveth yet, while yet I live. Thou shalt have worship of us evermore And honour as a Goddess, with thy son, As though yet living were that godlike man, Aias, who was the Achaeans' chiefest strength. Ah that he had not laid this load of grief On all, in dying by his own right hand! For all the countless armies of his foes Never availed to slay him in fair fight."
So spake he, grieved to the inmost heart. The folk Woefully wafted all round. O'er Hellespont Echoes of mourning rolled: the sighing air Darkened around, a wide-spread sorrow-pall. Yea, grief laid hold on wise Odysseus' self For the great dead, and with remorseful soul To anguish-stricken Argives thus he spake: "O friends, there is no greater curse to men Than wrath, which groweth till its bitter fruit Is strife. Now wrath hath goaded Aias on To this dire issue of the rage that filled His soul against me. Would to God that ne'er Yon Trojans in the strife for Achilles' arms Had crowned me with that victory, for which Strong Telamon's brave son, in agony Of soul, thus perished by his own right hand! Yet blame not me, I pray you, for his wrath: Blame the dark dolorous Fate that struck him down. For, had mine heart foreboded aught of this, This desperation