Lo, I have seen the open hand of God[46];
And in it nothing, nothing, save the rod
Of mine affliction, and the eternal hate,
Beyond all lands, chosen and lifted great
For Troy!  Vain, vain were prayer and incense-swell
And bulls’ blood on the altars!...  All is well. 
Had He not turned us in His hand, and thrust
Our high things low and shook our hills as dust,
We had not been this splendour, and our wrong
An everlasting music for the song
Of earth and heaven!

Go, women:  lay our dead
In his low sepulchre.  He hath his meed
Of robing.  And, methinks, but little care
Toucheth the tomb, if they that moulder there
Have rich encerement.  ’Tis we, ’tis we,
That dream, we living and our vanity!

[The Women bear out the dead Child upon the shield, singing, when presently flames of fire and dim forms are seen among the ruins of the City.

CHORUS.
Some Women.

Woe for the mother that bare thee, child,
  Thread so frail of a hope so high,
That Time hath broken:  and all men smiled
  About thy cradle, and, passing by,
  Spoke of thy father’s majesty. 
      Low, low, thou liest!

Others.

Ha!  Who be these on the crested rock? 
Fiery hands in the dusk, and a shock
Of torches flung!  What lingereth still,
O wounded City, of unknown ill,
    Ere yet thou diest?

TALTHYBIUS (coming out through the ruined Wall).

Ye Captains that have charge to wreck this keep
Of Priam’s City, let your torches sleep
No more!  Up, fling the fire into her heart! 
Then have we done with Ilion, and may part
In joy to Hellas from this evil land. 
  And ye—­so hath one word two faces—­stand,
Daughters of Troy, till on your ruined wall
The echo of my master’s trumpet call
In signal breaks:  then, forward to the sea,
Where the long ships lie waiting.

And for thee,
O ancient woman most unfortunate,
Follow:  Odysseus’ men be here, and wait
To guide thee....  ’Tis to him thou go’st for thrall.

HECUBA.

Ah, me! and is it come, the end of all,
The very crest and summit of my days? 
I go forth from my land, and all its ways
Are filled with fire!  Bear me, O aged feet,
A little nearer:  I must gaze, and greet
My poor town ere she fall.

     Farewell, farewell! 
O thou whose breath was mighty on the swell
Of orient winds, my Troy!  Even thy name
Shall soon be taken from thee.  Lo, the flame
Hath thee, and we, thy children, pass away
To slavery....  God!  O God of mercy!...  Nay: 
Why call I on the Gods?  They know, they know,
My prayers, and would not hear them long ago. 
  Quick, to the flames!  O, in thine agony,
My Troy, mine own, take me to die with thee!

[She springs toward the flames, but is seized and held by the Soldiers.