And Crathis of the burning tresses
Makes red the happy vale, and blesses
With gold of fountains spirit-haunted
Homes of true men and brave!
Leader.
But lo, who cometh: and his lips
Grave with the weight of dooms unknown:
A Herald from the Grecian ships.
Swift comes he, hot-foot to be done
And finished. Ah, what bringeth he
Of news or judgment? Slaves are we,
Spoils that the Greek hath won!
[Talthybius, followed by some Soldiers, enters from the left.
Talthybius.
Thou know'st me, Hecuba. Often have I crossed
Thy plain with tidings from the Hellene host.
'Tis I, Talthybius. . . . Nay, of ancient use
Thou know'st me. And I come to bear thee news.
Hecuba.
Ah me, 'tis here, 'tis here,
Women of Troy, our long embosomed fear!
Talthybius.
The lots are cast, if that it was ye feared.
Hecuba.
What lord, what land. . . . Ah me,
Phthia or Thebes, or sea-worn Thessaly?
Talthybius.
Each hath her own. Ye go not in one herd.
