Tell me, ye maidens, whither went from home
Andromache the fair?[27] Went she to see 460
Her female kindred of my father’s house,
Or to Minerva’s temple, where convened
The bright-hair’d matrons of the city seek
To soothe the awful Goddess?  Tell me true. 
To whom his household’s governess discreet. 465
Since, Hector, truth is thy demand, receive
True answer.  Neither went she forth to see
Her female kindred of thy father’s house,
Nor to Minerva’s temple, where convened
The bright-haired matrons of the city seek 470
To soothe the awful Goddess; but she went
Hence to the tower of Troy:  for she had heard
That the Achaians had prevail’d, and driven
The Trojans to the walls; she, therefore, wild
With grief, flew thither, and the nurse her steps 475
Attended, with thy infant in her arms. 
So spake the prudent governess; whose words
When Hector heard, issuing from his door
He backward trod with hasty steps the streets
Of lofty Troy, and having traversed all 480
The spacious city, when he now approach’d
The Scaean gate, whence he must seek the field,
There, hasting home again his noble wife
Met him, Andromache the rich-endow’d
Fair daughter of Eetion famed in arms. 485
Eetion, who in Hypoplacian Thebes
Umbrageous dwelt, Cilicia’s mighty lord—­
His daughter valiant Hector had espoused. 
There she encounter’d him, and with herself
The nurse came also, bearing in her arms 490
Hectorides, his infant darling boy,
Beautiful as a star.  Him Hector called
Scamandrios, but Astyanax[28] all else
In Ilium named him, for that Hector’s arm
Alone was the defence and strength of Troy. 495
The father, silent, eyed his babe, and smiled. 
Andromache, meantime, before him stood,
With streaming cheeks, hung on his hand, and said. 
Thy own great courage will cut short thy days,
My noble Hector! neither pitiest thou 500
Thy helpless infant, or my hapless self,
Whose widowhood is near; for thou wilt fall
Ere long, assail’d by the whole host of Greece. 
Then let me to the tomb, my best retreat
When thou art slain.  For comfort none or joy 505
Can I expect, thy day of life extinct,
But thenceforth, sorrow.  Father I have none;
No mother.  When Cilicia’s city, Thebes
The populous, was by Achilles sack’d. 
He slew my father; yet his gorgeous arms 510
Stripp’d not through reverence of him, but consumed,
Arm’d as it was, his body on the pile,
And heap’d his tomb, which the Oreades,
Jove’s daughters, had with elms inclosed around.[29]
My seven brothers, glory of our house, 515
All in one day descended to the shades;