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THE PARTING OF

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

FROM POPE'S HOMER'S ILIADO

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He said, and past with fad presaging heart
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part;
At home he sought her, but he fought in vain:
She, with one maid of all her menial train,
Had thence retir'd; and with her second joy,
The young Aftyanax, the hope of Troy.
Pensive the stood on Ilion's tow'ry height,
Beheld the war, and ficken'd at the fight;
There her fad eyes in vain her lord explore,
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore.
But he who found not whom his soul defir'd,
Whose virtue charmd him as her beauty fir'd,
Stood in the gates, and ask'd what way the bent:
Her parting step? If to the fane fhe went,
Where late the mourning matrons made refort;
Or fought her sisters in the Trojan court
Not to the court, (reply'd th' attendant train) }
Nor, mix'd with matrons, to Minerva's fane:
To Ilion's steepy tow'r she bent her way,
To mark the fortunes of the doubtful day.
Troy Aed, she heard, before the Grecian sword;
She heard, and trembled for her abfent lord;

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Distracted with surprise, she seem'd to fly,
Fear on her cheek, and sorrow in her eye.
The nurse attended with her infant boy,
The young Aftyanax, the hope of Troy.

Hector, this heard, return'd without delay;
Swift ugh the town he trod his former way,
Through streets of palaces, and walks of state;
And met the mourner at the Scæan gate.
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir
(Cilician Thebè great Aëtion sway'd,
And Hippoplacus' wide extended Thade):
The nurse stood near, in whose embraces prest,
His only hope hung smiling at her breast,
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream;
Astyanax the Trojans call’d the boy,
From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warriour smil'd, and pleas’d, resign’d.
To tender passions all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bofom labour'd with a boding figh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and fon!

And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow 1, an helpless orphan he!
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's facrifice.
Greece in her fingle heros (trove in vain :
Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be Nain!
Oh, grant me, God! ere Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of Heav'n, an early tomb!

So Thall my days in one fad tenour run,
And end with forrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my griefs to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and New my warlike fire!
His fate compassion in the viétor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preserv'd from hostile spoil,
And laid him decent on the fun‘ral pile;
Then rais'da mountain where his bones were burn'd:
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d,
Jove's filvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

By the same arm my sev'n brave brothers fell
In one sad day beheld the gates of hell :
While the far herds and snowy flocks they fed;
Amid their fields the hapless heroś bled !
My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands,
The queen of Hippoplacia's filvaa lands:

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Redeem's too late, the scarce beheld again
Her pleasing empire and her native plain,
When, ah ! opprest by life-consuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector still survives; I see
My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon' wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy:
'Thou, from this tow'r defend th' important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv'n,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from Heav'n,
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay, my Hector, here, and guard his Troy.

The chief reply'd : that post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the Attaint the lustre of my former name,

ground, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? My early youth was bred to martial pains, My soul impels me to the embattled plains :

Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories and my own.

Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!)
The day when thou, imperial Troy ! must bend,
And see thy warriours fall, thy glories end. '
And yet no dire presage so wounds iny mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the Thore;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread;
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led !
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which fo large a part was thiae!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, behold the mighty Hector's wife!
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,
Embitters all-thy woes, by naming me.
The thoughts of glory past, and present Thame,
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name!
May I lie cold before that dreadful day,
Press'd with a load'of monumental clay! !
Thy Hector wrapt in everlasting fleep,
Shall neither hear thee figh, nor see thee weep

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