Philoctetes

Son of Achilles, Neoptolemus,
Sprung from the noblest of the Grecian host,
This is the beach of Lemnos, sea-girt isle,
A land untrod, untenanted, where once,
As bidden by the chiefs, I put ashore
The Malian, son of Poeas, grievously
Afflicted by his foot’s envenomed wound.
For us there was no peace at sacrifice
Or at libations, but the whole camp rang
With his discordant screams and savage yells,
Moaning and groaning. But what skills it now
To tell this tale? No time for large discourse
That might betray our presence and undo
The plot I’ve laid to catch him presently.
To work! it rests with thee to play thy part,
And help me to discover hereabouts
A cave with double mouth by nature made
To catch on either side the winter sun,
Or by the breeze that through the archway blows
Invite in summer’s heat to gentle sleep;
And lower down, a little to the left,
A spring, if still it flows, thou art like to find.
Go warily to work and bring me word,
Whether he still is there or further gone.
That done, thy part will be to listen, mine
To instruct, that both may gain our common end.

No distant quest, my lord Odysseus, this;
Here, if I err not, is the cave thou seek’st.

Above me or below? I see it not.

Up there; but not a footfall can I hear.

Look if he be not gone within to rest.

The chamber’s empty; no man is within.

And no provision for a man’s abode?

Litter of trodden leaves as for a couch.

And is that all⁠—no other sign of life?

A cup of uncouth handiwork, rough hewn
From out a log; some tinder, too, I see.

These are his household treasures.

Faugh! and here
Spread in the sun to dry, are filthy rags
Dank with the ooze of some malignant sore.

This clearly is his dwelling-place, and he
Hard by, for how could any travel far
Thus maimed and hobbled by an ancient wound?
Either in quest of food, or else to find
Some simples known to him as anodynes,
He’s gone abroad, and shortly will return;
So post thy henchman there to watch the path,
Lest he surprise me. I of all the Greeks
Am the one foe he liefest here would catch.

Guard shall be kept; my man is on his way;
And now if thou hast more to say, say on. Exit Attendant.

Son of Achilles, not in thews alone
Or prowess must thou prove thy breed to-day.
If tasks be set thee that seem strange, no less
Thou must perform them; therefore wast thou sent.

What is thy hest?

Thou must cajole and cheat
The soul of Philoctetes by fair words,
And when he asks thee who and whence thou art,
“Achilles’ son,” make answer; hide not this.
But add, “I am sailing homewards and have left
The fleet in dudgeon, wroth against the chiefs
Who first prevailed on me to quit my home,
Because without me Troy could ne’er be taken,
And then upon my coming basely spurned
My righteous title to Achilles’ arms,
And gave them to Odysseus.” At my name
Heap on me every scoff and scorn and taunt;
It will not hurt me, but if thou should’st fail
’Twill sorely vex the Argives one and all.
This man’s artillery we needs must have;
No hope to capture Troy-town otherwise.
Why thou canst hold free converse with the man
Securely and I cannot, thou shalt learn.
Thou wast not bound by oath or pledge to sail
Nor wast thou with the fleet that first embarked;
But naught of this, if taxed, can I deny.
Therefore, if, bow in hand, he counters me,
I die, and shall involve thee in my death.
How to possess us of those matchless arms⁠—
There is the puzzle; set thy wits to that.
I know, my son, thy honest nature shrinks
From glozing words and practice of deceit;
But (for ’tis sweet to snatch a victory)
Be bold to-day and honest afterwards.
For one brief hour of lying follow me;
All time to come shall prove thy probity.

Son of Laertes, what upon my ear
Grates in the telling, I should hate to do.
Such is my nature; any taint of guile
I loathe, and such, they tell me, was my sire.
But I am ready, not by fraud, but force,
To bring the man; for, crippled in one foot,
Against our numbers he can prove no match.
Nathless, since I was sent to aid thee, prince,
I fear to seem a laggard; yet prefer
To fail with honour than succeed by fraud.

Son of a gallant sire, I too in youth
Was slow of tongue and forward with my hand;
But I have learnt by trial of mankind
Mightier than deeds of puissance is the tongue.

It comes to this that thou would’st have me lie.

Entangle Philoctetes by deceit.

Why not persuade him rather than deceive?

Persuasion’s vain, and force of no avail.

What arms hath he of such miraculous might?

Unerring arrows, tipp’d with instant death.

Might not a bold man come to grips with him?

No, as I told thee, guile alone avails.

Thou deem’st it, then, no shame to tell a lie?

Not if success depends upon a lie.

With what face shall one dare to speak such words?

If thou wouldst profit thou must have no qualms.

What gain to me, should he be brought to Troy?

Without these arms Troy-town cannot be sacked.

Ye told me I should take it. Was that false?

Not thou apart from these nor these from thee.

The quarry’s worth the chase, if this be so.

Know that success a double meed shall win.

Make plain this twofold prize and I’ll essay,

Thou wilt be hailed as wise no less than brave.

I’ll do it⁠—here’s my hand⁠—and risk the shame.

Good. My instructions⁠—thou rememberest them?

I have consented; trust me for the rest.

Stay here then and await his coming, whilst,
Lest I should be espied, I go away
And send back to the ship our sentinel;
But if ye seem to dally overmuch,
He shall return, the same man, but disguised
Past recognition, as a sailor clad.
When he accosts thee, mark each word, my son,
To catch the hid significance, for he
Will speak in riddles. This I leave to thee
And seek the vessel. Hermes aid us both,
Who sent us on our way, the God of cunning,
And she who never failed me yet, my queen,
Athenè Polias, queen of victory! Exit Odysseus.

What, O my master, what must I conceal
And what reveal,
In a strange land a stranger, by what wile
His shrewd suspects beguile?

Instruct me; for his art all art excels
With whom there dwells
The sovereignty of Zeus, the Kingly Crown
That hath to thee come down,

My son, by immemorial right divine;
Such skill is thine;
So teach me, master, how I best may speed
Thy present need.

First to find his lair, no doubt,
Ye are keen; so boldly scout.
When the wild man ye have spied
Who within this cave doth bide,
Watch the motions of my hand,
Prompt to act as I command.

Now, as at all times, Prince, I gladly heed,
And serve thy need.
But first to learn his common haunts ’twere well;
I pray thee tell,
Lest he should light upon me unaware,
His track, his lair.
Say, if within his den he will be found,
Or roaming round.

See you that two-mouthed cavern? There
His rocky dwelling-place.

And where
Is the sad inmate of the grot?

I doubt not somewhere near the spot,
Gone forth in search of daily food,
Dragging his steps through wold or wood;
For so, ’tis said, by toilsome pains
A painful sustenance he gains,
Shooting whatever living thing
Comes within reach of his dread bow.
The years go by and never bring
A leach to heal his woe.

Nothing strange I see in this
By heaven ordained (if not amiss
I augur) comes this punishment,
By the unpitying Chrysè1 sent;
And what he suffers now must be
Designed by some wise deity,
Lest too soon ’gainst Troy should go
The arrows of his wizard bow,
For when the fated hour has come
By them must Troy-town find its doom.

Hush, my son!

Wherefore?

Back.

Bethink thee, Prince.

Of what?

Some fresh device;
For now the man approaches very near.
This is no shepherd-swain who homeward hies,
No melody of pastoral pipe I hear;
But as he stumbles ’mid the jagged stones
He rends the air with far resounding groans,
Or as he eyes the sea without a sail,
He utters (hear his voice!) a hideous wail.

Sirs, who are ye and whence, who have landed here
Upon this harbourless and desolate shore?
What countrymen and of what race? If I
Might make conjecture by your garb and mien,
Ye are Greeks⁠—a sight most welcome to my eyes;
But I would hear your voices. Shrink not back
In horror at my savage aspect; speak;
Pity a lonely, friendless, stricken man
Thus stranded; if indeed as friends ye come,
Make answer, I entreat ye; fair reply
I may expect from you, as you from me.

Well, I will answer first thy question, Sir;
Thou hast conjectured rightly, we are Greeks.

O welcome utterance! Ah, how good to hear
Those accents, long unheard, from one like thee!
What quest, my son, what venture brought thee here,
What breeze compelled thy canvas? Happy breeze!
Speak, tell me all, that I may know my friend.

My home’s the wave-lapped Scyros, and I sail
Homewards; my name is Neoptolemus,
My sire Achilles. Now thou knowest all.

Son of a sire most dear, and land most dear,
Old Lycomedes’ foster-child, what quest
Has brought thee hither, from what port didst sail?

Hither I sailed direct from Ilium.

From Ilium? Surely thou wast not on board
When first our expedition sailed for Troy.

What, wert thou partner in that enterprise?

Dost thou not know with whom thou speak’st, my son?

How should I know a man ne’er seen before?

Know’st thou not e’en my name? hast never heard
How I was wasting inch by inch away?

Of all thou questionest I nothing know.

O what a heaven-forsaken wretch am I,
Of whose disastrous plight no rumour yet
Hath reached my home or any Grecian land!
But they, the godless knaves who cast me forth,
Laugh and are mute. My malady the while
Rankles, and daily grows from bad to worse.
O boy, O son sprung from Achilles’ loins,
I am that man, of whom thou mayst have heard,
Heritor of the bow of Heracles,
The son of Poeas, Philoctetes, whom
The Atridae and the Cephallenian prince
Cast forth thus shamelessly, a derelict,
Plague-stricken, wasting slowly, marked for death
By a man-slaying serpent’s venomous fangs.
Thus plagued, my son, they left me here, what time
Their fleet from sea-girt Chrysè touched this shore.
Tired with long tossing I had fallen asleep
Beneath a rock upon the beach; they laughed
To see me witless, laughed and sailed away,
Flinging me, as they went, some cast-off rags,
A beggar’s alms, and scraps of food. God grant
That they may some day come to fare like me!
Picture, my son, when I awoke and found
All gone, what waking then was mine; what tears,
What lamentations, when I saw the ships
In which I sailed all vanished; not a soul
To share my solitude or tend my wound.
All ways I gazed and nothing found but pain,
Pain, and of pain, God wot, enow, my son.
So passed the crawling hours, day upon day,
Year after year. I shifted for myself
Beneath this homeless, solitary roof.
To sate my hunger with this bow I shot
The wingèd doves and ever when my bolt
Sped from the taut string to the mark, I crawled
Thither my lamed foot trailing painfully.
And if of water I had need, or when
In winter time the ground was hoar with frost,
And firewood must be fetched, forth would I creep
Somewise to compass this. I had no fire,
But from the hard rock striking flint on flint
Brought forth the hidden spark that keeps me alive.
For, look ye, a bare roof and fire withal
Serve all my needs, save healing of my sore.

Now let me tell thee of this isle, my son.
No mariner sails hither of his will,
For anchorage is none, nor mart whereat
He may find lodging and exchange his wares
For profit; prudent men sail not this way.
Yet a stray visitor⁠—such accidents
Must happen in long years⁠—puts in perforce.
From such, my son, when they do come, I get
Kind words of pity and perchance an alms
Of food or raiment, but at the first hint
Of passage home, they one and all refuse.
So here for ten long years I linger on,
Consumed with hunger, dying inch by inch;
Only the worm that gnaws me dieth not.
To the Atridae and Odysseus, boy,
I owe this misery. God in heaven requite
In kind the wrongs that they have done to me!

O son of Poeas, I too pity thee
No less methinks than did those visitors.

And I myself am witness that thy tale
Is true; for I have proved the villainy
Of the Atridae, and Odysseus too.

What have those cursed Atridae wrongèd thee?
Art thou too stirred to anger by some wrong?

O that my wrath might vent itself in deeds!
Mycenae then and Sparta both would learn
That Scyros too is mother of brave sons.

Well said, my son! But I would know the grounds
Of thy resentment, what the charge thou bring’st,
Why thou art here.

I scarce know how, O son
Of Poeas, yet I’ll tell the tale of wrongs
I suffered on my coming at their hands.
When by the doom of Fate Achilles died⁠—

Woe’s me! No more; first tell me, is he dead,
The son of Peleus?

He is dead indeed,
Slain by no man but by a god; a shaft
Pierced him; by Phoebus sped, so runs the tale.

Noble alike the slayer and the slain!
I know not whether first, my son, to make
Inquiry of thy woes or weep for him.

Thou hast enough of thine own pains, poor soul,
Without lamenting for another’s woe.

True, true indeed! So tell me once again
From the beginning how they outraged thee.

To fetch me in a gay decked galley came
Odysseus and my father’s foster-sire.2
They told me (if the tale was true or feigned
I know not) that, my father having fallen,
No hand but mine could take the Citadel.
Thus urged I did not dally or delay.
Forthwith I sailed. Chiefly I longed to see
My father whom in life I had not seen,
Before his burial, and in part, I own,
The promise fair that I should take Troy-town
Flattered my pride. Well, on the second day,
With oars and breeze to speed us, we had reached
Sigeum (hateful name) and when I landed
The whole host pressed to greet me, and they swore
They saw Achilles come to life again.
There lay my sire in death, and I, poor fool,
When I had mourned for him a while, betook me
To the Atridae as my natural friends,
Claiming my sire’s arms and what else was his.
O ’twas a sorry answer that they made:
“Child of Achilles, all that was thy sire’s
Is thine and welcome⁠—all except his arms;
These to Laertes’ son have been assigned.”
I wept, I started to my feet in wrath,
And bitterly I spake, “O tyrannous men,
How dare ye give these arms, my own by right,
My leave unasked, to any man but me?”
Then said Odysseus who was standing by,
“Yes, boy, and rightly are they given to me,
Who rescued both their master and his arms.”3
I boiled with rage, I hurled at him abuse
The bitterest tongue could frame, I cursed the man
Who would defraud me of my rightful arms.
He, though not choleric, challenged thus direct,
Stung to the quick by my retort, replied:
“Thou wast not with us, a malingerer thou!
Take this for answer to thy blustering boasts:
To Scyros with these arms thou ne’er shalt sail.”
Thus flouted and abused I left the host,
And now am sailing homewards, robbed by him,
Odysseus, the base villain, basely born.
Yet is he less to blame than those who rule;
For like a commonwealth each armèd host
Perforce is subject to authority,
And all the lawless doings in the world
Spring from ill teaching. All my tale is told.
But whoso hates the Atridae, as do I,
May he find Heaven, no less than me, his friend!

O mother Earth, enthronèd on the hills,
Mother of Zeus himself, who feedest all;
From thee Pactolus draws his brimming rills,
His golden sands; Mother, to thee I call,
As once I called when, flushed with upstart pride,
The fierce Atridae ’gainst my master raged,
(O lady who on yokèd lions doth ride,
Their bloody ravening by thee assuaged,)
What time the tyrants to Laertes’ son
The guerdon gave, those arms his sire had won.

Good sirs, ye bring me as a talisman,
A common grief; a plaint attuned to mine.
Full well I recognise in this your tale
The Atridae and Odysseus. He, I warrant,
Would have a hand and lend his tongue to abet
Any conspiracy, any deep-laid plot,
If he could compass some dishonest end.
This is not wonderful; but was indeed
The greater Ajax by, to see and brook it?

Ajax, my friend, was dead; had he been living
They would not thus have robbed me and despoiled.

What say’st thou, boy? is he too dead and gone?

Yea he hath left the light.

Alas, alas!
But not the son of Tydeus, nor the son
Named of Laertes, bred of Sisyphus;
They die not who should never have been born.

Not they indeed, I warrant; they live on,
And in the Argive host are mighty men.

And what of him, my good old friend and true,
The Pylian Nestor, lives he not? for he
Oft by his wisdom checked their ill designs.

He is not what he once was, since he lost
His best belovèd son, Antilochus.

Alas! thou tell’st me of a double loss,
The two men whom of all I least could spare.
Ah me! What hope is there when two such men
Are taken and Odysseus lives, whose death
Instead of theirs thou hadst by rights announced?

A cunning gamester, but the cunningest,
O Philoctetes, are full often thrown.

But tell me, prithee, where was he the while,
Patroclus, once thy father’s bosom friend?

Dead like the rest, for this in sooth is true:
War never slays an evil man by choice,
But still the good.

In that I’ll bear thee out.
By the same token, I would ask of one,
A worthless wight, but shrewd and glib of tongue.

Thou mean’st Odysseus, surely?

Not of him
I asked, but of Thersites, one whose tongue
Was ever wagging most when wanted least,
An empty babbler. Know’st thou if he lives?

I saw him not, but heard he was alive.

I thought as much; for evil never dies,
Fostered too well by gods who take delight,
Methinks, to turn back from the gates of hell
All irredeemable rascality,
But speed the righteous on their downward way.
What should I deem of this, how justify
The ways of Heaven, finding Heaven unjust?

For my part, son of an Oetean sire,
I shall take heed henceforward to behold
Troy and the two Atridae from afar.
Where villainy to goodness is preferred,
And virtue withers, and the base hold sway,
Such company I never will frequent.
Enough for me henceforth my native rocks,
My island home in Scyros; there I’ll bide.
Now to the ships. Farewell, a fond farewell,
O son of Poeas; may the gods fulfil
Thy heart’s desire and heal thee of thy wound!
Now we must leave thee and prepare to sail
Whene’er the gods shall send a favouring breeze.

So soon, my son, departing?

’Tis high time,
Not here, but from the strand to watch the tide.

Oh! in thy father’s, in thy mother’s name,
By all the sanctities of home, my son,
Leave me not, I adjure thee, here alone,
Abandoned to such ills as thou hast seen
And others worse whereof thou hast been told.
Think of me as a stowaway! well I know
The irksomeness of such a passenger.
Bear it! to true nobility of soul
All shame is shameful, honour honourable.
And it would smirch thine honour to decline
This task, my son; to do it, bring thee fame
And glory, if ye carry me alive
To Oeta. Come, ’tis but a day’s annoy.
Take heart of courage; stow me where thou wilt⁠—
The hold, the bows, the stern, no matter where⁠—
Wherever I shall least offend my mates.
By Zeus, the god of suppliants, O consent,
O hearken! at thy knees I fall, albeit
A cripple maimed and helpless. Leave me not
An outeast in a land where no man dwells;
But either take me safe to thine own home,
Or to Euboea and Chalcodon’s realm,
Whence I may cross to Oeta (’tis not far)
And the Trachinian passes and the stream
Of broad Spercheius, and behold once more
My father. Ah! these weary years I’ve feared
He must be dead, for messages full oft
I sent by those who passed my way, entreating
That he would fetch me in his own ship home.
But either he is dead, or, like enough,
My envoys (’tis the way of envoys) recked
Little of my concerns and hastened home.
But now to thee, my messenger at once
And saviour, I appeal; save, pity me,
Seeing upon how slippery a place
Fortune for mortals and misfortune stand.
Therefore the man that lives at ease should look
For rocks ahead, and when he prospers most
Watch lest he suffer shipwreck unawares.

Pity, my chief!
Pity a tale of agonizing grief!
Pray God no friend
Of mine may ever come to such an end!
O pity him!
I know thou hatest, prince, the Atridae grim;
Turn to his gain
The villainy they plotted for his bane.
O take him home!
With him let our brave vessel cleave the foam;
There would he be;
Thus from the dread Avengers shall we flee.

See that your present kindliness be not
A passing mood, lest after, when ye come
In closer contact with his malady,
Ye falter and belie these promises.

No, I shall ne’er be open to such charge.

’Twere shame indeed should I less zealous prove
Than thou to help a stranger in his need.
So, if you please, we’ll sail; let him aboard;
Our ship methinks will not refuse her aid.
Only may heaven convey us from this shore
Safe to the haven whither we would sail!

O gladdest day, O dearest, dearest friend,
And ye, kind sailors, would that I could prove
By acts my heartfelt gratitude! My son,
Let us be going, but before I go
Salute this homeless home, that thou mayst learn
How hard my life, how great my hardihood.
I think scarce any other man than I,
Had he but seen it once, could have endured;
But I was schooled by hard necessity. Neoptolemus is about to enter the cave with him.

Stay, for I see two men approach, the one
A sailor from thy ship, and one a stranger.
First let us learn their errand, then go in.

Son of Achilles, finding I was moored
In the same roadstead as thyself (by chance
Not of intent), I asked thy shipmate here,
Who with two other hands was left aboard
On guard, to tell me where thou might’st be found.
For I, the captain of a single craft,
Was on my way from Ilium, homeward bound,
To Peparethus, for its vintage famed;
And learning that the crew I met ashore
Were all thy fellow-voyagers, I thought
It would be well, before I sailed away,
To have a word with thee and earn my dues.
I doubt thou knowest naught of thy concerns⁠—
What new designs the Argives have upon thee:
Designs, say I? Nay rather, plots full hatched.

I shall remember, sir, thy zealous care
On my behalf; I am no graceless churl.
But tell me more precisely: let me learn
These strange designs against me of the Greeks.

Old Phoenix has embarked with Theseus’ sons
On a war galley in pursuit of thee.

To bring me back by force or of my will?

I know not; I report but what I heard.

Are Phoenix and his co-mates fired with zeal
To pleasure the Atridae? can this be?

’Tis no surmise of mine; they are on the way.

How came it that Odysseus had no mind
To sail on his own business? Was he afraid?

He and the son of Tydeus were engaged
In quest of yet another, when I sailed.

Another? Who this second man for whom
Odysseus sailed himself?

A certain one⁠ ⁠…
Stay, who is this beside thee? tell me first
His name, and breathe it softly in my ear.

This, sir, is Philoctetes of world fame.

Stop not for further questioning! Remove!
Fly with all speed thou mayest from this land.

What says he, boy? What does he whisper thee,
As though I were a piece of merchandise.

I know not yet, but he shall tell his tale
Aloud, for thee and me and these to hear.

Child of Achilles, charge me not to the host
For blabbing secrets. I’m a poor man and
Greatly beholden to the generals,
Who’ve paid me for my service handsomely.

The Atridae are my enemies, and this man
Because he hates them is my dearest friend.
And, if indeed thou comest as a friend,
Thou art bound to tell me all that thou hast learnt.

Take heed, boy, what thou’rt asking.

I have heeded.

Then thou must bear the consequence.

Say on.

Hear then: the two I named, Odysseus and
The son of Tydeus now are hither bound
To fetch this man, and they have sworn an oath
To bring him by persuasion or by force.
This by Odysseus plainly was professed
In presence of the host; for he, more bold
Than his co-partner, staked his credit on it.

But wherefore now, after the lapse of years
Should the Atridae be concerned about
A man they had abandoned and forgot?
Was it compassion touched them, or the dread
Of retribution and the avenging gods?

A matter that perchance to thee is strange
I will unfold. There was a high born seer,
A son of Priam, Helenus was his name.
Him that vile wretch⁠—what epithet can match
His utter villainy?⁠—that sly old fox,
Odysseus, on a nightly prowl waylaid,
Bound, and displayed him to the Argive host,
A goodly prize. Much else of grave import
The prophet uttered, and he spake this word:
“Ne’er can ye take the citadel of Troy
Till by persuasion ye have won him over
And brought him from the island where he bides.”
Hearing the prophet’s word, Odysseus straight
Engaged himself to bring the man away
And show him to the host. “Willing” (he said),
“I hope, but at the worst, against his will.”
He staked his head on the venture; any one
Who chose might be his headsman if he failed.
Thou hast heard all, my son; be warned in time;
Take heed for thine own safety and thy friend’s.

Ah me! did that arch-felon swear indeed
To bring me by persuasion to the Greeks?
As soon by prayers shall I be brought again
From death, as was his father,4 to the light.

That’s not for me to say, I must be going
To join my ship. Farewell, and may the gods
Be with you both and order all things well.

What say’st thou, boy? That he, Laertes’ son,
Should think to wheedle me aboard his ship,
And make a show of me to the Greek host!
Is it not monstrous? Sooner would I heed
My mortal foe, the snake that crippled me.
But he⁠—no word, no practice is too vile
For him to stick at. He will come for sure.
Haste thee, my son, and put a many leagues
Of ocean ’twixt Odysseus and our ship.
Bestir ye! Who in season labours best,
His labours ended, has the sweetest rest.

All in good time; soon as the headwind drops
We will weigh anchor; now ’tis in our teeth.

To those who fly from ill all winds are fair.

But this wind’s contrary for them no less.

For pirates no wind’s adverse, when there’s chance
Of pillaging or robbery under arms.

Well, as thou will’st, we’ll sail; but from the cave
Take anything thou needest or dost prize.

My store is scant, but certain things I need.

What that thou wilt not find on board my ship?

A herb of wondrous virtue wherewithal
I use to mollify and lull my wound.

Then bring it with thee. What else wouldst thou take?

Some shafts, that may have dropped by accident,
Lest a chance-comer find them, I would fetch.

Is that then in thy hands the famous bow?

This and none other is the famous bow.

May I have leave to gaze upon it close,
Handle it, aye adore it as a god?

Right willingly, my son, and aught beside
That I can do to profit thee, command.

I have this longing, I confess, but if
My longing seem not lawful, let it be.

A pious scruple; but this privilege,
My son, is thine by right, for thou alone
Hast given me to behold the light of day,
And Oeta, and my aged sire, and friends;
For when I lay beneath my enemies’ heel,
’Twas thou upliftedst me above their heads,
It shall be thine to handle and return;
Fear not, and thou shalt boast that thou alone
Of mortals, for thy worth, hast handled it.
’Twas for a service done it came to me.5

’Tis pleasant to have found and proved a friend;
For him who good for good returns I hold
A friend more precious than unnumbered gold.
Now go within.

That will I, and entreat
Thine escort, for my ailment craves thine aid.

Be moving if it please thee⁠ ⁠… Why, what means
This sudden silence, this amazedness?

Ah me! Ah me!

What is it?

A mere nothing, boy; go on.

Thou feelest thine old malady again?

No, a mere twinge; I think ’tis passing now⁠—
O God!

Why groan aloud and call on God?

To save me and deliver me.⁠ ⁠… Ah me!

What ails thee? Wilt not tell me? Wilt not speak?
That something troubles thee is very plain.

My son, I am lost, undone! Impossible
To hide it longer from you; lost, undone!
It stabs me, stabs me through and through and through.
Ah me! ah me! ah me!
For heaven’s sake, if thou hast a sword at hand,
Draw it, my son, strike swiftly, at a stroke
Cut off this foot, no matter if it kill me;
Quick, quick, my son!

What is this sudden fit
That makes thee moan so and bewail thyself?

Thou knowest, boy.

What is it?

Thou knowest.

Nay,
What ails thee?

Knowest thou not? Ah me! Ah me!

The burden of thy pain is terrible.

Yea, terrible, past words. O pity me.

What shall I do?

Fear me not, leave me not:
My ailment loves to play the truant, stray
Awhile, and then come home again, belike
Tired with its holiday.

Alas! poor wretch,
Wretched indeed in all thy suffering proved.
Wilt lean on me? Shall I take hold of thee?

Nay touch me not, I beg, but take this bow
Which thou didst crave to handle, and until
The spasm that now disables me is gone,
Keep it and guard it well; for when the fit
Passes, a drowsiness comes over me;
And sleep’s the only medicine that gives ease.
So let me slumber undisturbed, and if
They come the while, I charge thee, boy, by heaven,
Let them not have it, yield not up the bow,
Willing or nilling, or by force or fraud;
Lest thou should’st prove a double murderer,
And slay thyself and me thy suppliant.

I will be vigilant, fear not; none shall have it
But thou and I alone; so give it to me.
Good luck attend it!

Take it then, my son,
But first propitiate the Jealous God,
Lest it should prove to thee a bane, as erst
To me and to its former lord it proved.

Heaven grant this prayer to both of us, and grant
A fair and prosperous voyage whithersoe’er
Our destined course is set and heaven ordains!

Alas, my son! I fear thy prayers are vain;
For once again upwelling from the wound
The black blood trickles auguring a relapse.
Out, out upon thee, damnèd foot! Alack!
What plague hast yet in store for me? Alack!
It prowls, it stalks amain, ready to spring.
Woe! Now ye know my torture, leave me not!
Ah me! Ah me!
Would God, O Cephallenian, through thy breast
This spasm might pass and hold thee in its grip!
Woe’s me and woe once more! Ye generals twain,
Menelaus, Agamemnon, might this worm
Devour your vitals no less time than mine!
O Death, Death, Death! how is it that invoked
Day after day, thou canst not heed my call?
Boy, noble boy, of thy nobility
Take me and in yon fires, as Lemnian famed,
Consume me: even as when myself I dared
To do like service for the son of Zeus,
And won for meed the bow thou bearest now.
Speak! answer! why thus absent, O my son?

My heart was heavy, musing on thy woes.

Nay, be of better cheer, my son; this pain,
As in its onset sudden, so departs.
Only, I pray thee, leave me not alone.

Take heart; we’ll stay.

Thou wilt?

In sooth I will.

It were not meet to bind thee with an oath.

I am bound in honour not to leave thee here.

Thy hand upon it.

Here’s my hand in pledge.

Then yonder, let me yonder⁠—

Whither then?

Up higher⁠—

Art thou wandering once again?
Why starest at the firmament on high?

Let me go.

Whither?

Let me go, I say.

Thou shalt not.

Touch me not, ’twould be my death.

Well, I release thee. Thou art calmer now.

Take me, O Earth, a dying man, so near
His end with sickness that he cannot stand.

Methinks in no long time he’ll be asleep;
For, see, his head sinks backward, and o’er all
His body, look you, trickle beads of sweat,
And from an artery in his wounded foot
The black blood spurts. So let us leave him, friends
In peace and quiet till he fall asleep.

Sleep immune of cares,
Sleep that knows not cumber,
Breathe thy softest airs,
Prince of painless slumber!
O’er his eyes alway
Let thy dream-light play;
Healer come, we pray.

My son, bethink thee how
Thou standest, and what next
Thou purposest; not now
The time to halt perplexed.
Why longer here remain?
Ever occasion ta’en
At the full flood brings gain.

We might escape and steal his bow indeed
(He hears us not); but little should we speed
Without the man. Himself he must be brought,
So the God bade; he is the prize we sought;
He crowns our triumph, and ’twere double shame
Falsely a fraud-won victory to claim.

Far things with Heaven lie,
Look thou to what is near,
And, when thou mak’st reply,
Low breathe it in my ear:
Sleepless the sick man’s sleep,
Quick-eared to catch each sound;
His eyes, though closed, yet keep
Sharp watch around.

Wherefore explore in stealth, my son,
How what thou dost may best be done.
If thy plan be still the same,
What it is I need not name,
Plain to one who looks before
Are his troubles vast and sore.

The breeze sets fair, sets fair, my son,
And there outstretched he lies
As one who hath nor ears nor eyes.
(How good to sleep i’ the sun!)
Of hand or foot, no motion has he, none
More than the dead who in Earth’s bosom rest.
Then look, my son, look that thou utterest
Sane counsels. If a plain man might advise
Thy wisdom, the discreetest way is best.

Silence, and keep your wits; his eyes begin
To open and he raises now his head.

O sweet to wake to the broad day and find,
What least I hoped, my kindly guardians by.
For this, my son, I never had presumed
To hope, that thou would’st thus compassionately
Wait to attend my woes and minister.
The Atridae, those brave captains never showed
Courage to bear them patiently. But thou
By nature noble as by birth, my son,
Mad’st light of all the sores to eye and ear,
And nostrils, that my malady inflicts.
But now at last, ’twould seem, a lull has come,
A respite and oblivion of my ills;
Raise me thyself, boy, set me on my feet,
That, when the attack has wholly spent itself,
We may aboard and instantly set sail.

Right glad am I to see thee breathing still,
Alive, beyond all hope, and freed from pain;
For to appearance thou didst bear the seal
And signature of death. Now raise thyself,
Or if thou choosest, these shall carry thee;
Such service will they readily perform,
Since thou and I alike are thus resolved.

I thank thee, son, and, if it pleaseth thee,
Raise me thyself and spare thy men this task,
Lest they be sickened with my fetidness
Before the time; they’ll have enough to bear
With me for messmate when we are aboard.

So be it; now, stand up, lay hold of me.

Fear not, long use and wont has taught me how.

Ye Gods! What now remains for me to do?

What is it, my son, what mean these whirling words?

I speak perplextly, know not how to speak.

What can perplex thee? say not so, my son.

Too deep involved, I cannot otherwise.

What! the offensiveness of my complaint
Will stay thee now from taking me aboard?

All is offensive when a man is false
To his true self and, knowing right, does wrong.

But thou dost naught in word or deed to shame
Thy birth in succouring a worthy man.

I shall be proved a rogue; this tortures me.

Not in thy deeds⁠—thy words do give me pause.

God help me now! Must I appear twice base,
Hide what I should not and my shame reveal?

The youth, if I misjudge him not, intends
To play me false and leave me stranded here.

Leave thee? Not so, but what will irk thee more,
Convey thee hence. ’Tis this that tortures me.

Thy words are dark, I cannot catch their drift.

I will be plain and round with thee. To Troy
Thou sailest, to the Atridae and the host.

Alas! What say’st thou?

Murmur not but hear me.

Hear me, quoth he! what wilt thou do with me?

First from this misery rescue thee, and then,
With thee to aid me, ravage Ilium.

Wilt thou indeed do this?

Necessity
Leaves me no choice; so take it not amiss,

Me miserable! I am undone, betrayed
How hast thou used me, sir! I charge thee straight
Give back my bow!

That cannot be, for I
By policy and duty both am bound
To obey my chiefs.

Thou fire, thou utter monster,
Abhorrèd masterpiece of knavery,
How hast thou served me, cheated me, abused?
Art not ashamed to look on me, thou wretch,
Thy suppliant, thy bedesman? Robbing me
Of this my bow thou robbest me of life.
Restore it, I beseech thee, O my son,
Oh, an thou lov’st me, give me back my bow;
Rob me not, by thy gods I pray, of life!
Ah me! he turns away, he will not speak;
His silence says he will not give it back.

Ye creeks, ye promontories, dens and lairs
Of mountain beasts, ye cliffs precipitous,
To you⁠—none else will heed me⁠—I appeal,
On you, familiars of my woes, I call;
Hear what I suffer from Achilles’ son!
He swore to bring me home again, and now
To Troy he takes me; on his plighted troth
I gave, he keeps my bow, the sacred bow
That erst to Zeus-born Heracles belonged,
To flout it ’fore the Argive host as his;
He takes me hence his prisoner, as if
His arm had captured some great warrior,
And sees not he is slaying a dead man,
A shade, a wraith, an unsubstantial ghost;
For in my strength he had not ta’en me, no,
Nor as I am, disabled, save by guile.
But now, entrapped, ah whither shall I turn?

Have pity, give me, give me back my bow!
Be once again thy true self, even now.
What answer? None. O woe is me, I am lost!
O cave with double mouth, to thee I turn;
Stripped of my arms and lacking means of life,
Here shall I wither in this lonely cell.
No bird of air, no beast of the upland wold
Yon bow shall slay, but dying I shall make
A feast for those who fed me when alive,
A quarry for the creatures I pursued,
My blood for their blood shed. And this I owe
To one who seemed a child in innocence.
My curse upon thee⁠—nay I will forbear,
Till first I hear whether thou wilt repent
Or not; if no, die blasted by my curse!

What shall we do, prince? ’tis for thee to say
Whether we sail or hearken to his prayer.

My heart is strangely wrought, and from the first
I have been moved with pity for the man.

In heaven’s name show mercy, let not men
Brand thee as my betrayer, O my son!

What shall I do? Would I had never left
Scyros, to fall into this desperate plight.

Thou art not base, but coming here wast schooled
To play the rogue by villains; leave that part
To others framed by nature to be rogues.
Sail hence, but ere thou sail give back my arms.

What shall we do, friends?

Wretch, what art thou at?
Back with thee, sirrah! give the bow to me.

Ah who is here? Is that Odysseus’ voice?

Odysseus, as thou seeest. Here am I.

Oh I am sold, betrayed. So it was he
Who trapped me and bereft me of my arms.

I and no other. I avow ’twas I.

Give back my bow, son, give it.

That he shall not,
E’en if he would; and what is more, thou with it
Must go, or these shall drag thee hence by force.

Thou brazen-facèd villain, shall thy knaves
Drag me by force?

Yea, if thou’lt not consent.

O Lemnian land, O all-subduing fires
Lit by Hephaestus,6 will ye suffer it,
That yonder man should hale me from your realm?

’Tis Zeus, I tell thee, Zeus who rules this land,
Zeus thus ordains; I am his minister.

O monstrous fiend, what pleas thou canst invent!
Gods thou invokest and wouldst make them liars.

Nay, they are true. But thou must march with us.

Never!

But I say yes; consent thou must.

Oh I was born to sorrow, so it seems;
No free man but a slave my sire begot.

Nay, but a peer of paladins, ordained
To storm proud Troy and lay it in the dust.

Never! not even in my utmost need,
Whilst under me I feel this steep of rock.

What would’st thou do?

Leap from the crags above
And dash my brains out on the crags below.

Lay hold of him, seize either arm, prevent him!

Oh hands, how ill ye fare, made prisoners
By that man, all for lack of my good bow.
Thou very churl, corrupt in heart and soul,
How hast thou circumvented me again,
Making this stranger boy thy stalking horse,
Fit mate for me, too good for thine ally,
Thy tool who merely did as he was bidden,
And even now is plainly penitent
Both for his error and the wrong to me.
But thou, like some vile prompter in the dark,
Wast ever by to give the cue, and though
Unapt and loth, he learnt thy villainy.
And now thou think’st to bind me hand and foot,
Monster, and take me from this shore whereon
Thou erst did’st cast me, friendless, homeless, lorn,
A living corpse. I curse thee; when have I
Not cursed thee these long years? But since the Gods
Grant nothing sweet to me, thou livest on
Exultant; and to me, with endless woes
Encompassed, life itself is misery;
Mocked as I am by thee and the two sons
Of Atreus whose abettor now thou art.
Thou of constraint and by a stratagem
Wert forced to join their flag and sail with them;7
I with my seven ships volunteered, and yet
(O miserable me!) I was cast forth
In scorn⁠—by them thou say’st, they say by thee.
And now why seize, why hale me to your ships,
Me who am naught, dead long ago to you?
How can I serve you? Heaven-abhorred wretch!
Am I not lame and noisome now as then?
How will ye render, if I sail with you,
Burnt sacrifices and drink-offerings?
That was the pretext when ye cast me forth.
My curse upon you for your wrongs to me,
And, if the gods are just, ye shall be cursed.
And they are just, I know it; never else
Would ye have sailed for such a wretch as I,
But that they pricked your heart to think of me.
My native land, ye ever-watchful gods,
Your vengeance, vengeance sure though it tarry long,
Fall on them all, if aught you pity me;
And I am piteous. Yet could I behold
Their ruin, I should half forget my plague.

His mood is bitter, bitter his reply
To thee, Odysseus; suffering tames him not.

Much could I answer, did the time permit;
One word must now suffice. I am a man
Who can adapt his humour to the hour.
When justice and plain-dealing are required,
Ye will not find a man more scrupulous.
My one concern is ever to prevail⁠—
Save in thy case; to thee right willingly
I will give way. To Sailors. Unhand him, let him go!
He may stay here. To Philoctetes. We have no need of thee,
Having thy bow, for Teucer will be there
A master archer, and myself who boast
That I can draw a bow with hand as firm
And point it with as true an eye as thine.
What use for thee then? Lemnos shall be thine.
Sole Monarch, hail! Go, pace thy bounds at peace;
We leave thee. This thy prize methinks will earn
For me the honour that were rightly thine.

Unhappy wretch, what can I do? Shalt thou
Strut like a popinjay in arms of mine?

Bandy no more words; I am going now.

Son of Achilles, wilt thou leave me thus,
Thou too in silence, deaf to my appeal?

To Neoptolemus.

To Chorus.

This stripling is our captain, and whate’er
He says, we say the same; his word is law.

I know I shall be twitted by my chief
As weak and tender-hearted; but what odds?
If our friend wills it, tarry here until
Our crew have made all tight and yare, and we
Have offered prayers, as fitting. He the while
Perchance may come to a better mind and melt.
So we will hasten forward, he and I,
And ye, make haste to follow when we call. Exeunt Odysseus and Neoptolemus.

O cavern’d rock, my cell
Now hot, now icy chill,
How long with thee it was my lot to dwell:
To thee till death I shall be constant still.
Tell me, sad lodging, haunted by my pain,
How shall I day by day my life sustain?
Ye timorous doves whose flight
Whirrs in the air o’erhead,
Now where ye will unharmed alight;
No shafts of mine henceforward need ye dread.

’Tis thou hast willed it thus, infatuate,
Thou art the author of thy sad estate;
Nor to some higher force canst thou assign
Thy woes, but, when free choice was thine,
The good thou did’st reject,
The worse elect.

Ah wretched, wretched then am I,
Consumed with utter misery,
Doomed for all time to linger on.
Without one friend, one comrade, one,
To aid me till I die.
No more my arrows fleet
Shall win my daily meat;
Poor unsuspecting fool,
A base intriguer’s tool,
By his forged legend caught!
Wretch who my ruin wrought,
Would I might see him pine
Long years like me in agony like mine!

By destiny, by destiny ’twas sent.
To treachery my hand was never lent;
Point not at me thy baleful curse, for fain
Thy friend, as heretofore, I would remain.

Ah me! he’s sitting now
Upon the grey sea sands,
And laughs at me, I trow;
My bow is in his hands,
The bow that was my life, the bow
That never lord save me did know.

My bow, my matchless bow of yew,
If thou canst feel, how must thou grieve,
Thus wrested from thy master true,
Constrained his loving hands to leave,
Thy master who, through Hellas famed,
The friend of Heracles was named.

Now art thou handled by a knave,
Past master in each cunning art,
Must do his bidding, as a slave,
In all his misdeeds take thy part.
And aid the unrelenting foe,
The source and spring of all my woe.

A man should aye his rightful cause maintain,
But from malign and venomous taunts refrain;
And he but serves the common interest,
Speaks for the host, obeying their behest.

Ye feathered tribes, my prey,
Ye bright-eyed beasts who roam
The hills, start not away
Scared from the hunter’s home.
Stray where ye will, secure, unharmed;
Why shun a helpless man unarmed?

Gone is the mighty bow;
Flock hither without dread,
Why should ye fear a foe
So weak, so ill bestead.
Draw near ycur gluttonous mouths to fill,
Mangle my carrion flesh at will.

Here shall I waste away,
Soon will ye eye me dead;
Who can survive one day
By airs of heaven fed?
Of all that Earth affords each son,
Herb, root and fruit, possessing none.

If thou regardest a well-wishing friend,
Draw near and to his kindly rule attend.
Think well; from this intolerable bane,
That thou dost feed, and aggravate thy pain,
With thee it rests deliverance to gain.

O why recall my ancient grief once more,
Kindest of all who e’er have touched this shore?
Why twice undo a wretch undone before?

What meanest thou?

I mean that thou wast fain
To take me to the Troy I hate again.

’Tis for thy good.

O leave me then, begone!

Thanks for that word. We will be off anon,
Back to the ship, and each man to his oar.

O leave me not, for God’s sake, I implore.

Calm thyself.

Stay, O stay!

Why should we wait?

O woe is me! Out on my fate, my fate!
Accursed foot, what shall I make of thee?
Iam undone! O friends, come back to me.

What would’st thou? First thou bid’st us go, and then
In the same breath thou biddest us remain.

O be not wrath if one distraught with pain
Blurts out discordant words beside the mark.

Come then, unhappy man, with us embark.

Never, no never, though the King of Heaven
Should threat to blast me with his fiery leven.
No, perish rather Ilium, perish all
The Achaean host that batter at its wall;
Hard hearts who cast me forth as halt and maim.
From you, my friends, one parting boon I claim.

What would’st thou ask?

An axe, a spear, a brand,
No matter what⁠—the weapon first to hand.

Wherefore! What deed of violence wouldst thou do?

Hack, mangle, limb by limb my body hew;
My thoughts are bloody.

Wherefore?

I would go
To seek my father.

In what land?

Below;
For I shall find him nowhere on this earth.
My native land, fair land that gave me birth,
Might I but see thee! Wherefore did I roam
And leave the sacred stream that guards my home?
To help the Greeks those stormy seas I crossed,
My mortal foes, by them undone, lost, lost!

I should have left thee long ago and now
Be near my ship, but that I saw Odysseus
Advancing towards us and Achilles’ son.

Wilt thou not tell me why thou hurriest back
In such hot haste and on what errand bound?

I come to expiate all former wrongs.

A strange reply. What wrong did’st thou commit?

When in obedience to the host and thee⁠—

Prithee, what did’st thou that beseemed thee not?

I snared a man by base deceit and guile.

What man? Thou hast not something rash in hand?

Naught rash, but to the son of Poeas I⁠—

What wilt thou do? My soul forbodes some ill.

From whom I took the bow, to him again⁠—

Great Zeus! What meanest thou? Not give it back?

Yes, for I got it basely, shamefully.

In Heaven’s name, say’st thou this to mock at me?

If it be mockery to speak the truth.

What now? What meanest thou, Achilles’ son?

Must I repeat the same words twice and thrice?

Far better had I never heard them once.

Rest well assured I have nothing more to add.

There is, I tell thee, one to stay thy hand.

Who prithee? who to stay me or prevent?

The whole Achaean host, and I for one.

Thy words lack wisdom though thou lack’st not wits.

Unwisdom marks thy words and actions both.

If just, ’tis better than unjust and wise.

Can it be justice to give back the prize
Won by my policy?

Shameful was my fault,
And I will try to make amends for it.

Hast thou no terror of the Achaean host?

A bugbear this with justice on my side.

[Justice must yield if I resort to force.]

Not even thou canst force me ’gainst my will.

Then not with Trojans must we war, but thee.

So be it, if it must be.

See’st my hand
Upon my sword-hilt?

Me too shalt thou see
Ready to follow suit and keen to draw

Well, I will leave thee, but I shall report
To the whole army. They shall punish thee.

A wise discretion. Keep this prudent mind,
So mayest thou henceforth with a whole skin live. Exit Odysseus.
Ho! Philoctetes, son of Poeas, leave
The shelter of thy rocky home; come forth!

What means this hubbub at my cave again?
Why summon me, what would ye with me, Sirs?

Ha! I mislike the look of it. Are ye come
As heralds of new woes to crown the old?

Take heart and listen to the news I bring.

I am afraid. ’Thou camest once before;
I trusted thy fair words and ill I sped.

May not a man repent him?

Such thou wast,
No less fair-spoken, when thou wert about
To steal my bow, black treachery in thy heart.

But now another man, who fain would learn
Whether thou still persistest to stay here,
Or wilt embark with us.

Stop, say no more!
All that thou sayest will be wasted breath.

Art resolute?

More resolute than words can tell.

Well, I would gladly have persuaded thee
By argument, but if thou wilt not heed,
Why, I have done.

Thou needs must speak in vain.
How canst thou win me o’er to friendliness,
Thou who didst rob me of my life by fraud,
And then dost come to counsel me? Base son
Of noblest sire! Perdition on you all;
The Atridae first, Odysseus then, and thee!

Forbear thy curses. Take from me thy bow.

What say’st thou? Am I tricked a second time?

No, by the name of Zeus most high, I swear it.

O comfortable words, if they be true.

The deed shall follow to attest this truth
Reach hither thy right hand and take thy bow.

Hold! I protest ’fore Heaven, and in the name
Of the Atridae and the host forbid it.

Who spake, my son, was that Odysseus’ voice
I heard?

None other; and he’s hard at hand,
Ready to take thee back to Troy by force,
Whether it please Achilles’ son or no.

But at thy peril, if this shaft fly straight.

Hold, hold! in heaven’s name let not fly thy shaft!

Let go my hand in heaven’s name, dearest son!

I will not.

Why, O why didst thou prevent me
From slaying with my bow the man I hate?

That were dishonourable for thee and me. Exit Odysseus.

Well of one thing thou may’st be sure, the chiefs,
Those lying heralds of the Achaean host,
Are brave in words and cowards in the fight.

So be it. The bow is thine again, and now
Thou hast no grief or quarrel against me.

None, my brave boy, for thou hast proved this day
Thy race and lineage, not of Sisyphus,
But of Achilles, noblest once of men
In life, and now the noblest of the dead,

Sweet to my ears the praises of my sire,
And of myself; but now I crave of thee
A boon. What fates the gods allot to men
They needs must bear, but whoso hug their griefs,
As thou dost⁠—who can pity or condone
Such self-tormentors? Thou, inexorable,
Wilt tolerate no counsel, deemest him
Who would admonish thee in love a foe;
Yet will I speak the truth, so help me Zeus!
Write on the table of thy memory
These words: thy sore plague is a heaven-sent doom;
With foot profane, in Chrysè’s roofless shrine,
Thou didst insult her tutelary snake.
For this sin wast thou stricken, and no relief
Canst win from thy affliction, whilst the sun
Shall run from East to West his daily course,
Before of thy free will thou com’st to Troy.
There shalt thou find our famed Asclepidae,
And healed by them, with thy bow’s aid and mine,
Shalt take and sack the towers of Ilium.
Thou askest how I know all this. Attend:
We have a Trojan prisoner, Helenus,
Chiefest of seers, who plainly prophesied
All I have told thee, and revealed besides
That, ere this summer passes, Troy must fall;
His life the forfeit if his word proved false.
Now that thou know’st this, yield with a good grace.
How fair a vision⁠—to be singled out
As bravest of the host, and, first made whole
By healing hands, as conqueror of Troy,
Woe-wearied city, win undying fame!

O hateful life that keep’st me lingering on
In this vile world and wilt not let me join
The world of shades! Ah me! What can I do?
How turn a deaf ear to the kindly words
Of one who counsels well and seeks my good?
Shall I then yield? How, having yielded, face
The public gaze? Will not all turn from me?
Ye eyes, so long the witness of my wrongs,
How will ye brook to see me once again
Consorting with my torturers, the sons
Of Atreus and Odysseus, the arch-fiend?
’Tis not resentment for the past that stings,
But a prevision of the ills to come;
For when a mind is warped it takes the ply,
And evil-doers will be evil still.
Thee too, my son, I marvel much at thee;
Never should’st thou have gone thyself to Troy,
Nor sought to bring me thither. How could’st thou,
When they had robbed thee of thy father’s meed
And flouted thee?8 How can’st thou after that
Fight at their side thyself, or bid me fight?
Not so, my son, but do as thou hast sworn,
Convey me home; thyself in Scyros bide;
Leave those ill-doers to their evil doom.
Thus shalt thou win a double thanks from me
And from my sire; nor will men say of thee:
Abetting base men he himself is base.

Thy words are reasonable; natheless I
Would have thee trust my promise and the god’s,
And confidently sail with me, thy friend.

What! to the plains of Troy, to him I loathe,
The son of Atreus, with this cursèd foot?

Nay, but to kind physicians who will treat
Thy ulcered limb and heal thee of thy hurt.

O wondrous weird! What means this mystery?

One fraught with happy issue for us both.

Hast thou no fear of heaven, thus to speak?

Why should a man feel fear who helps his friends?

Help for the sons of Atreus, or for me?

For thee, as these my words attest, thy friend.

A friend, when thou would’st hand me to my foes?

O let not suffering make thee truculent.

I know thou would’st undo me pleading thus.

Not I, but thou thyself, who wilt not learn.

Do I not know the Atridae cast me forth?

’Tis true, but now they would deliver thee.

Not with my will, if first I must to Troy.

What must I do, if all persuasion fails
To make thee budge an inch? ’Twere easier
To cease from words and leave thee here to live,
As thou hast lived, a hopeless castaway.

Well, let me dree my weird; but thou, my son,
Perform the promise made with clasp of hands,
Take me straight home, and talk no more of Troy.
My cup of lamentations I have drained.

As thou wilt then; let us forward.

Nobly spoken, let us go.

Forward! plant thy footsteps firmly.

To my utmost will I so.

But the wrath of the Achaeans will pursue me.

Never care.

What if they lay waste my borders?

Never fear, I shall be there.

What assistance canst thou render?

Heracles, his mighty bow⁠—

Say’st thou?

Will prevent their landing.

Kiss the earth and let us go.

Voice for which I long have yearned,
Form, long visioned, now discerned!
Thee I cannot disobey.

I too obey.

Then to work! No time to spare;
Seize the hour; the wind sets fair.

Yet ere I part I fain would bid farewell.
Home of my vigils, rocky cell,
Nymphs of the streams and grass-fringed shore,
Caves where the deep-voiced breakers roar,
When through the cavern’s open mouth,
Borne on the wings of the wild South,
E’en to my dwelling’s inmost lair,
The rain and spray oft drenched my hair;
And oft responsive to my groan
Mount Hermaeum made his moan;
O Lycian fount, O limpid well,
I thought with you all time to dwell;
And now I take my last farewell.
Sea-girt Lemnos, hear my prayer,
Bid thy guest a voyage fair
Speed him to the land where he,
Borne by mighty Destiny,
And the god at whose decree
All was ordered, fain would be.

Let us to the Sea Nymphs pray
To waft us on our Troy-ward way.
Mariners, attend my call;
Let us voyage, one and all.