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They tell me Helenus is king
Of Pyrrhus' realm with Pyrrhus' spouse,
And sad Andromache restored
Once more to a compatriot lord.
At once I burn with strong desire
To greet them, and the tale enquire:
So from the port I take my way,
And leave my vessels in the bay.
It chanced Andromache that day
There in a grove without the wall
Beside a mimic Simois' wave
Was making funeral festival
At Hector's counterfeited grave,
Raised by her hands, a grassy heap,
With altars twain, whereat to weep.
When as she saw my near advance
And marked our Trojan cognizance,
Awhile distracted and amazed
She stood, and stiffened as she gazed:
The life-blood leaves her cheeks:
She faints: at last from earth upraised
In faltering tones she speaks:
'Real, is it real, the face I view,
A harbinger of tidings true?
Say, are you living? or if dead,
Then where is Hector?' so she said,
And tears in copious torrent shed,
And filled the air with cries:
Thus as her tide of passion flows,
Few broken words I interpose:
'Aye, I am living, living still
Through all extremity of ill:
No dream your sense belies.
But say, alas! what new estate
Receives you, fallen from such a mate?