NEO. What?
CH. 2. Think again. He moveth nigh:
He holds the region: not with tone
Of piping shepherd's rural minstrelsy,
But belloweth his far cry,
Stumbling perchance with mortal pain,
Or else in wild amaze,
As he our ship surveys
Unwonted on the inhospitable main.
_Enter_ PHILOCTETES.
PHILOCTETES. Ho!
What men are ye that to this desert shore,
Harbourless, uninhabited, are come
On shipboard? Of what country or what race
Shall I pronounce ye? For your outward garb
Is Grecian, ever dearest to this heart
That hungers now to hear your voices' tune.
Ah! do not fear me, do not shrink away
From my wild looks: but, pitying one so poor,
Forlorn and desolate in nameless woe,
Speak, if with friendly purpose ye are come.
Oh answer! 'Tis not meet that I should lose
This kindness from your lips, or ye from mine.
NEO. Then know this first, O stranger, as thou wouldest,
That we are Greeks.
PHI. O dear, dear name! Ah me!
In all these years, once, only once, I hear it!
My son, what fairest gale hath wafted thee?
What need hath brought thee to the shore? What mission?
Declare all this, that I may know thee well.
NEO. The sea-girt Scyros is my native home.
Thitherward I make voyage:--Achilles' son,
Named Neoptolemus.--I have told thee all.
PHI. Dear is that shore to me, dear is thy father
O ancient Lycomedes' foster-child,
Whence cam'st thou hither? How didst thou set forth?
NEO. From Troy we made our course in sailing hither.
PHI. How? Sure thou wast not with us, when at first
We launched our vessels on the Troyward way?
NEO. Hadst thou a share in that adventurous toil?
PHI. And know'st thou not whom thou behold'st in me,
Young boy?
NEO. How should I know him whom I ne'er
Set eye on?
PHI. Hast not even heard my name,
Nor echoing rumour of my ruinous woe?
NEO. Nay, I know nought of all thy questioning.
PHI. How full of griefs am I, how Heaven-abhorred,
When of my piteous state no faintest sound
Hath reached my home, or any Grecian land!
But they, who pitilessly cast me forth,
Keep silence and are glad, while this my plague
Blooms ever, and is strengthened more and more.
Boy, great Achilles' offspring, in this form
Thou seest the man, of whom, methinks, erewhile
Thou hast been told, to whom the Hercúlean bow
Descended, Philoctetes, Poeas' son;
Whom the two generals and the Ithacan king
Cast out thus shamefully forlorn, afflicted
With the fierce malady and desperate wound
Made by the cruel basilisk's murderous tooth.
With this for company they left me, child!
Exposed upon this shore, deserted, lone.
From seaward Chrysa came they with their fleet
And touched at Lemnos. I had fallen to rest
From the long tossing, in a shadowy cave
On yonder cliff by the shore. Gladly they saw,
And left me, having set forth for my need,
Poor man, some scanty rags, and a thin store
Of provender. Such food be theirs, I pray!
Imagine, O my son, when they were gone,
What wakening, what arising, then was mine;
What weeping, what lamenting of my woe!
When I beheld the ships, wherewith I sailed,
Gone, one and all! and no man in the place,
None to bestead me, none to comfort me
In my sore sickness. And where'er I looked,
Nought but distress was present with me still.
No lack of that, for one thing!--Ah! my son,
Time passed, and there I found myself alone
Within my narrow lodging, forced to serve
Each pressing need. For body's sustenance
This bow supplied me with sufficient store,
Wounding the feathered doves, and when the shaft,
From the tight string, had struck, myself, ay me!
Dragging this foot, would crawl to my swift prey.
Then water must be fetched, and in sharp frost
Wood must be found and broken,--all by me.
Nor would fire come unbidden, but with flint
From flints striking dim sparks, I hammered forth
The struggling flame that keeps the life in me.
For houseroom with the single help of fire
Gives all I need, save healing for my sore.
Now learn, my son, the nature of this isle.
No mariner puts in here willingly.
For it hath neither moorage, nor sea-port,
For traffic or kind shelter or good cheer.
Not hitherward do prudent men make voyage.
Perchance one may have touched against his will.
Many strange things may happen in long time.
These, when they come, in words have pitied me,
And given me food, or raiment, in compassion.
But none is willing, when I speak thereof,
To take me safely home. Wherefore I pine
Now this tenth year, in famine and distress,
Feeding the hunger of my ravenous plague.
Such deeds, my son, the Atridae, and the might
Of sage Odysseus, have performed on me.
Wherefore may all the Olympian gods, one day,
Plague them with stern requital for my wrong!
CH. Methinks my feeling for thee, Poeas' child,
Is like that of thy former visitants.
NEO. I, too, a witness to confirm his words,
Know them for verities, since I have found
The Atridae and Odysseus evil men.
PHI. Art thou, too, wroth with the all-pestilent sons
Of Atreus? Have they given thee cause to grieve?
NEO. Would that my hand might ease the wrath I feel!
Then Sparta and Mycenae should be ware
That Scyros too breeds valiant sons for war.
PHI. Brave youth! I love thee. Tell me the great cause
Why thou inveighest against them with such heat?
NEO. O son of Poeas, hardly shall I tell
What outrage I endured when I had come;
Yet I will speak it. When the fate of death
O'ertook Achilles--
PHI. Out, alas! no more!
Hold, till thou first hast made me clearly know,
Is Peleus' offspring dead?
NEO. Alas! he is,
Slain by no mortal, felled by Phoebus' shaft:
So men reported--
PHI. Well, right princely was he!
And princely is he who slew him. Shall I mourn
Him first, or wait till I have heard thy tale?
NEO. Methinks thou hast thyself enough to mourn,
Without the burden of another's woe.
PHI. Well spoken. Then renew thine own complaint,
And tell once more wherein they insulted thee.
NEO. There came to fetch me, in a gallant ship,
Odysseus and the fosterer of my sire[2],
Saying, whether soothly, or in idle show,
That, since my father perished, it was known
None else but I should take Troy's citadel.
Such words from them, my friend, thou may'st believe,
Held me not long from making voyage with speed,
Chiefly through longing for my father's corse,
To see him yet unburied,--for I ne'er
Had seen him[3]. Then, besides, 'twas a fair cause,
If, by my going, I should vanquish Troy.
One day I had sailed, and on the second came
To sad Sigeum with wind-favoured speed,
When straightway all the host, surrounding me
As I set foot on shore, saluted me,
And swore the dead Achilles was in life,
Their eyes being witness, when they looked on me.
He lay there in his shroud: but I, unhappy,
Soon ending lamentation for the dead,
Went near to those Atridae, as to friends,
To obtain my father's armour and all else
That had been his. And then,--alas the while,
That men should be so hard!--they spake this word:
'Seed of Achilles, thou may'st freely take
All else thy father owned, but for those arms,
Another wields them now, Laërtes' son.'
Tears rushed into mine eyes, and in hot wrath
I straightway rose, and bitterly outspake:
'O miscreant! What? And have ye dared to give
Mine arms to some man else, unknown to me?'
Then said Odysseus, for he chanced to be near,
'Yea, child, and justly have they given me these.
I saved them and their master in the field.'
Then in fierce anger all at once I launched
All terms of execration at his head,
Bating no word, being maddened by the thought
That I should lose this heirloom,--and to him!
He, at this pass, though not of wrathful mood,
Stung by such utterance, made rejoinder thus:
'Thou wast not with us here, but wrongfully
Didst bide afar. And, since thou mak'st so bold,
I tell thee, never shalt thou, as thou sayest,
Sail with these arms to Scyros.'--Thus reviled,
With such an evil echo in mine ear,
I voyage homeward, robbed of mine own right
By that vile offset of an evil tree[4].
Yet less I blame him than the men in power.
For every multitude, be it army or state,
Takes tone from those who rule it, and all taint
Of disobedience from bad counsel springs.
I have spoken. May the Atridae's enemy
Be dear to Heaven, as he is loved by me!
CH. Mother of mightiest Zeus, 1
Feeder of all that live,
Who from thy mountainous breast
Rivers of gold dost give!
To thee, O Earth, I cried that shameful day,
When insolence from Atreus' sons went forth
Full on our lord: when they bestowed away
His father's arms to crown Odysseus' worth;
Thou, whom bull-slaughtering lions yoked bear,
O mighty mother, hear!
PHI. Your coming is commended by a grief
That makes you kindly welcome. For I feel
A chord that vibrates to your voice, and tells,
Thus have Odysseus and the Atridae wrought.
Full well I know, Odysseus' poisoned tongue
Shrinks from no mischief nor no guileful word
That leads to bad achievement in the end.
This moves not my main marvel, but if one
Saw this and bore it,--Aias of the shield.
NEO. Ah, friend, he was no more. Had he but lived,
This robbery had ne'er been wrought on me.
PHI. What? Is he too departed?
NEO. He is dead.
The light no more beholds him.
PHI. Oh! alas!
But Tydeus' offspring, and the rascal birth
Laërtes bought of Sisyphus, they live:
I know it. For their death were to be wished.
NEO. Yea, be assured, they live and flourish high
Exalted in the host of Argive men.
PHI. And Nestor, my old friend, good aged man,
Is he yet living? Oft he would prevent
Their evils, by the wisdom of his thought.
NEO. He too is now in trouble, having lost
Antilochus, the comfort of his age.
PHI. There, there! In one brief word thou hast revealed
The mournful case of twain, whom I would last
Have chosen to hear of as undone. Ah me!
Where must one look? when these are dead, and he,
Odysseus, lives,--and in a time like this,
That craves their presence, and his death for theirs.
NEO. He wrestles cleverly; but, O my friend,
Even ablest wits are ofttimes snared at last.
PHI. Tell me, I pray, what was become of him,
Patroclus, whom thy father loved so well?
NEO. He, too, was gone. I'll teach thee in a word
One truth for all. War doth not willingly
Snatch off the wicked, but still takes the good.
PHI. True! and to prove thy saying, I will inquire
The fate of a poor dastard, of mean worth,
But ever shrewd and nimble with his tongue.
NEO. Whom but Odysseus canst thou mean by this?
PHI. I meant not him. But there was one Thersites,
Who ne'er made conscience to stint speech, where all
Cried 'Silence!' Is he living, dost thou know?
NEO. I saw him not, but knew he was alive.
PHI. He must be: for no evil yet was crushed.
The Heavens will ever shield it. 'Tis their sport
To turn back all things rancorous and malign
From going down to the grave, and send instead
The good and true. Oh, how shall we commend
Such dealings, how defend them? When I praise
Things god-like, I find evil in the Gods.
NEO. I, O thou child of a Trachinian sire,
Henceforth will take good care, from far away
To look on Troy and Atreus' children twain.
Yea, where the trickster lords it o'er the just,
And goodness languishes and rascals rule,
--Such courses I will nevermore endure.
But rock-bound Scyros henceforth shall suffice
To yield me full contentment in my home.
Now, to my vessel! And thou, Poeas' child,
Farewell, right heartily farewell! May Heaven
Grant thy desire, and rid thee of thy plague!
Let us be going, that when God shall give
Fair voyage, that moment we may launch away.
PHI. My son, are ye now setting forth?
NEO. Our time
Bids us go near and look to sail erelong.
PHI. Now, by thy father, by thy mother,--nay,
By all thy love e'er cherished in thy home,
Suppliant I beg thee, leave me not thus lone,
Forlorn in all my misery which thou seest,
In all thou hast heard of here surrounding me!
Stow me with other freightage. Full of care,
I know, and burdensome the charge may prove.
Yet venture! Surely to the noble mind
All shame is hateful and all kindness blest.
And shame would be thy meed, didst thou fail here
But, doing this, thou shalt have glorious fame,
When I return alive to Oeta's vale.
Come, 'tis the labour not of one whole day.
So thou durst take me, fling me where thou wilt
O' the ship, in hold, prow, stern, or wheresoe'er
I least may trouble those on board with me.
Ah! by great Zeus, the suppliant's friend, comply,
My son, be softened! See, where I am fall'n
Thus on my knees before thee, though so weak,
Crippled and powerless. Ah! forsake me not
Thus far from human footstep. Take me, take me!
If only to thy home, or to the town
Of old Chalcodon[5] in Euboea.--From thence
I have not far to Oeta, and the ridge
Of Trachis, and Spercheius' lordly flood.
So thou shalt bless my father with my sight.
And yet long since I fear he may be gone.
For oft I sent him suppliant prayers by men
Who touched this isle, entreating him to fetch
And bear me safely home with his own crew.
But either he is dead, or else, methinks,
It well may be, my messengers made light
Of my concerns, and hastened onward home.
But now in thee I find both messenger
And convoy, thou wilt pity me and save.
For, well thou knowest, danger never sleeps,
And fear of dark reverse is always nigh.
Mortals, when free, should look where mischief lurks,
And in their happiest hour consider well
Their life, lest ruin unsuspected come.
CH. Pity him, O my king! 2
Many a crushing woe
He telleth, such as I pray
None of my friends may know.
And if, dear master, thou mislikest sore
Yon cruel-hearted lordly pair, I would,
Turning their plan of evil to his good,
On swift ship bear him to his native shore,
Meeting his heart's desire; and free thy path
From fear of heavenly wrath.
NEO. Thou mak'st small scruple here; but be advised:
Lest, when this plague on board shall weary thee,
Thy voice should alter from this liberal tone.
CH. No, truly! Fear not thou shalt ever have
Just cause to utter such reproach on me.
NEO. Then sure 'twere shame, should I more backward prove
Than thou, to labour for the stranger's need.
Come, if thou wilt, let us make voyage, and he,
Let him set forth with speed. Our ship shall take him.
He shall not be refused. Only may Heaven
Lead safely hence and to our destined port!
PHI. O morning full of brightness! Kindest friend,
Sweet mariners, how can I make you feel,
In act, how dearly from my heart I love you!
Ye have won my soul. Let us be gone, my son,--
First having said farewell to this poor cave,
My homeless dwelling-place, that thou may'st know,
How barely I have lived, how firm my heart!
Methinks another could not have endured
The very sight of what I bore. But I
Through strong necessity have conquered pain.
CH. Stay: let us understand. There come two men
A stranger, with a shipmate of thy crew.
When ye have heard them, ye may then go in.
_Enter_ Messenger, _disguised as a merchantman_.
MERCHANTMAN. Son of Achilles, my companion here,
Who with two more remained to guard thy ship,
Agreed to help me find thee where thou wert,
Since unexpectedly, through fortune's will,
I meet thee, mooring by the self-same shore.
For like a merchantman, with no great sail,
Making my course from Ilion to my home,
Grape-clustered Peparethos, when I heard
The mariners declare that one and all
Were of thy crew, I would not launch again,
Without a word, till we had told our news.--
Methinks thou knowest nought of thine own case,
What new devices of the Argive chiefs
Surround thee; nor devices only now,
But active deeds, no longer unperformed.
NEO. Well, stranger, for the kindness thou hast shown,--
Else were I base,--my heart must thank thee still.
But tell me what thou meanest, that I may learn
What new-laid plot thou bring'st me from the camp.
MER. Old Phoenix, Acamas and Demophon
Are gone in thy pursuit with ships and men.
NEO. To bring me back with reasons or perforce?
MER. I know not. What I heard, I am here to tell.
NEO. How? And is this in act? Are they set forth
To please the Atridae, Phoenix and the rest?
MER. The thing is not to do, but doing now.
NEO. What kept Odysseus back, if this be so,
From going himself? Had he some cause for fear?
MER. He and the son of Tydeus, when our ship
Hoist sail, were gone to fetch another man.
NEO. For whom could he himself be sailing forth?
MER. For some one,--but first tell me, whispering low
Whate'er thou speakest,--who is this I see?
NEO. (_speaking aloud_).
This, sir, is Philoctetes the renowned.
MER. (_aside to_ NEOPTOLEMUS).
Without more question, snatch thyself away
And sail forth from this land.
PHI. What saith he, boy?
Through what dark traffic is the mariner
Betraying me with whispering in thine ear?
NEO. I have not caught it, but whate'er he speaks
He must speak openly to us and thee.
MER. Seed of Achilles, let me not offend
The army by my words! Full many a boon,
Being poor, I reap from them for service done.
NEO. The Atridae are my foes; the man you see
Is my fast friend, because he hates them sore.
Then, if you come in kindness, you must hide
Nothing from him or me of all thou hast heard.
MER. Look what thou doest, my son!
NEO. I mark it well.
MER. Thou shalt be answerable.
NEO. Content: but speak.
MER. Then hear me. These two men whom I have named,
Diomedes and Odysseus, are set forth
Engaged on oath to bring this man by force
If reasons fail. The Achaeans every one
Have heard this plainly from Odysseus' mouth.
He was the louder and more confident.
NEO. Say, for what cause, after so long a time,
Can Atreus' sons have turned their thoughts on him,
Whom long they had cast forth? What passing touch
Of conscience moved them, or what stroke from Heaven,
Whose wrath requites all wicked deeds of men?
MER. Methinks thou hast not heard what I will now
Unfold to thee. There was a princely seer,
A son of Priam, Helenus by name,
Whom he for whom no word is bad enough,
Crafty Odysseus, sallying forth alone
One night, had taken, and in bonds displayed
'Fore all the Achaeans, a right noble prey.
He, 'mid his other prophecies, foretold
No Grecian force should sack Troy's citadel,
Till with fair reasons they had brought this man
From Lemnos isle, his lonely dwelling-place.
When thus the prophet spake, Laërtes' son
Straight undertook to fetch this man, and show him
To all the camp:--he hoped, with fair consent:
But else, perforce.--And, if he failed in this,
Whoever would might smite him on the head.
My tale is told, dear youth. I counsel speed
To thee and to the friend for whom thou carest.
PHI. Ah me, unhappy! has that rascal knave
Sworn to fetch me with reasons to their camp?
As likely might his reasons bring me back,
Like his begetter, from the house of death.
MER. You talk of what I know not. I will go
Shipward. May God be with you for all good. [_Exit_
PHI. Is not this terrible, Laërtes' son
Should ever think to bring me with soft words
And show me from his deck to all their host?
No! Sooner will I listen to the tongue
Of the curs'd basilisk that thus hath maim'd me.
Ay, but he'll venture anything in word
Or deed. And now I know he will be here.
Come, O my son, let us be gone, while seas
And winds divide us from Odysseus' ship.
Let us depart. Sure timely haste brings rest
And quiet slumber when the toil is done.
NEO. Shall we not sail when this south-western wind
Hath fallen, that now is adverse to our course?
PHI. All winds are fair to him who flies from woe.
NEO. Nay, but this head-wind hinders them no less.
PHI. No head-wind hinders pirates on their way,
When violence and rapine lead them on.
NEO. Well, then, let us be going, if you will;
When you have taken from within the cave
What most you need and value.
PHI. Though my all
Be little, there is that I may not lose.
NEO. What can there be that we have not on board?
PHI. A leaf I have found, wherewith I still the rage
Of my sore plague, and lull it quite to rest.
NEO. Well, bring it forth.--What? Is there something more?
PHI. If any of these arrows here are fallen,
I would not leave them for a casual prey.
NEO. How? Do I see thee with the marvellous bow?
PHI. Here in my hand. The world hath only one.
NEO. And may one touch and handle it, and gaze
With reverence, as on a thing from Heaven?
PHI. Thou mayest, my son. This and whate'er of mine
May stead thee, 'tis thy privilege to enjoy.
NEO. In very truth I long for it, but so,
That longing waits on leave. Am I permitted?
PHI. Thou art, my son,--and well thou speakest,--thou art.
Thou, that hast given me light and life, the joy
Of seeing Mount Oeta and my father's home,
With all I love there, and his aged head,--
Thou that hast raised me far above my foes
Who triumphed! Thou may'st take it in thine hand,
And,--when thou hast given it back to me,--may'st vaunt
Alone of mortals for thine excellence
To have held this in thy touch. I, too, at first,
Received it as a boon for kindness done.
NEO. Well, go within.
PHI. Nay, I must take thee too.
My sickness craves thee for its comforter.
[PHILOCTETES _and_ NEOPTOLEMUS _go into
the cave_
CHORUS.
In fable I have heard, I 1
Though sight hath ne'er confirmed the word,
How he who attempted once the couch supreme,
To a whirling wheel by Zeus the all-ruler bound,
Tied head and heel, careering ever round,
Atones his impious unsubstantial dream.
Of no man else, through eye or ear,
Have I discerned a fate more full of fear
Than yonder sufferer's of the cureless wound:
Who did no violence, defrauded none:--
A just man, had he dwelt among the just
Unworthily behold him thrust
Alone to hear the billows roar
That break around a rugged shore!
How could he live, whose life was thus consumed with moan?
Where neighbour there was none: I 2
No arm to stay him wandering lone,
Unevenly, with stumbling steps and sore;
No friend in need, no kind inhabitant,
To minister to his importunate want,
No heart whereto his pangs he might deplore.
None who, whene'er the gory flow
Was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow,
Or cull from teeming Earth some genial plant
To allay the anguish of malignant pain
And soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe.
Like infant whom the nurse lets go,
With tottering movement here and there,
He crawled for comfort, whensoe'er
His soul-devouring plague relaxed its cruel strain.
Not fed with foison of all-teeming Earth II 1
Whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men,
But only now and then
With wingèd things, by his wing'd shafts brought low,
He stayed his hunger from his bow.
Poor soul, that never through ten years of dearth
Had pleasure from the fruitage of the vine,
But seeking to some standing pool,
Nor clear nor cool,
Foul water heaved to head for lack of heartening wine.
But now, consorted with the hero's child, II 2
He winneth greatness and a joyful change;
Over the water wild
Borne by a friendly bark beneath the range
Of Oeta, where Spercheius fills
Wide channels winding among lovely hills
Haunted of Melian nymphs, till he espies
The roof-tree of his father's hall,
And high o'er all
Shines the bronze shield of him, whose home is in the skies[6].
[NEOPTOLEMUS _comes out of the cave, followed
by_ PHILOCTETES _in pain_
NEO. Prithee, come on! Why dost thou stand aghast,
Voiceless, and thus astonied in thine air?
PHI. Oh! oh!
NEO. What?
PHI. Nothing. Come my son, fear nought.
NEO. Is pain upon thee? Hath thy trouble come?
PHI. No pain, no pain! 'Tis past; I am easy now.
Ye heavenly powers!
NEO. Why dost thou groan aloud,
And cry to Heaven?
PHI. To come and save. Kind Heaven!
Oh, oh!
NEO. What is 't? Why silent? Wilt not speak?
I see thy misery.
PHI. Oh! I am lost, my son!
I cannot hide it from you. Oh! it shoots,
It pierces. Oh unhappy! Oh! my woe!
I am lost, my son, I am devoured. Oh me!
Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Pain! pain! Oh pain! oh pain!
Child, if a sword be to thine hand, smite hard,
Shear off my foot! heed not my life! Quick, come!
NEO. What hath so suddenly arisen, that thus
Thou mak'st ado and groanest o'er thyself?
PHI. Thou knowest.
NEO. What know I?
PHI. O! thou knowest, my son!
NEO. I know not.
PHI. How? Not know? Ah me! Pain, pain!
NEO. Thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore.
PHI. Sore? 'Tis unutterable. Have pity on me!
NEO. What shall I do?
PHI. Do not in fear forsake me.
This wandering evil comes in force again,
Hungry as ere it fed.
NEO. O hapless one!
Thrice hapless in thy manifold distress!
What wilt thou? Shall I raise thee on mine arm?
PHI. Nay, but receiving from my hand the bow,
As late thou didst desire me, keep it safe
And guard it, till the fury of my pain
Pass over me and cease. For when 'tis spent,
Slumber will seize me, else it ne'er would end.
I must sleep undisturbed. But if meanwhile
They come,--by Heaven I charge thee, in no wise,
Willingly nor perforce, let them have this!
Else thou wilt be the slayer of us both;
Of me thy suppliant, and of thyself.
NEO. Fear not my care. No hand shall hold these arms
But thine and mine. Give, and Heaven bless the deed!
PHI. I give them; there, my son! But look to Heaven
And pray no envy smite thee, nor such bane
In having them, as fell on me and him
Who bore them formerly.
NEO. O grant it, Gods!
And grant us fair and happy voyage, where'er
Our course is shaped and righteous Heaven shall guide.
PHI. Ah! but I fear, my son, thy prayer is vain:
For welling yet again from depths within,
This gory ooze is dripping. It will come!
I know it will. O, foot, torn helpless thing,
What wilt thou do to me? Ah! ah! It comes,
It is at hand. 'Tis here! Woe's me, undone!
I have shown you all. Stay near me. Go not far:
Ah! ah!
O island king, I would this agony
Might cleave thy bosom through and through! Woe, woe!
Woe! Ah! ye two commanders of the host,
Agamemnon, Menelaüs, O that ye,
Another ten years' durance in my room
Might nurse this malady! O Death, Death, Death!
I call thee daily--wilt thou never come?
Will it not be?--My son, thou noble boy,
If thou art noble, take and burn me there
Aloft in yon all-worshipped Lemnian fire!
Yea, when the bow thou keep'st was my reward,
I did like service for the child of Heaven.
How now, my son?
What say'st? Art silent? Where--where art thou, boy?
NEO. My heart is full, and groaning o'er thy woes.
PHI. Nay, yet have comfort. This affliction oft
Goes no less swiftly than it came. I pray thee,
Stand fast and leave me not alone!
NEO. Fear nought.
We will not stir.
PHI. Wilt thou remain?
NEO. Be sure of it.
PHI. I'll not degrade thee with an oath, my son.
NEO. Rest satisfied. I may not go without thee.
PHI. Thy hand, to pledge me that!
NEO. There, I will stay.
PHI. Now, now, aloft!
NEO. Where mean'st thou?
PHI. Yonder aloft!
NEO. Whither? Thou rav'st. Why starest thou at the sky?
PHI. Now, let me go.
NEO. Where?
PHI. Let me go, I say!
NEO. I will not.
PHI. You will kill me. Let me go!
NEO. Well, thou know'st best I hold thee not.
PHI. O Earth,
I die. receive me to thy breast! This pain
Subdues me utterly, I cannot stand.
NEO. Methinks he will be fast in slumber soon
That head sinks backward, and a clammy sweat
Bathes all his limbs, while from his foot hath burst
A vein, dark bleeding. Let us leave him, friends,
In quietness, till he hath fallen to sleep.
CHORUS
Lord of the happiest life, I
Sleep, thou that know'st not strife,
That know'st not grief,
Still wafting sure relief,
Come, saviour now!
Thy healing balm is spread
Over this pain worn head,
Quench not the beam that gives calm to his brow.
Look, O my lord, to thy path,
Either to go or to stay
How is my thought to proceed?
What is our cause for delay?
Look! Opportunity's power,
Fitting the task to the hour,
Giveth the race to the swift.
NEO. He hears not. But I see that to have ta'en
His bow without him were a bootless gain
He must sail with us. So the god hath said
Heaven hath decreed this garland for his head:
And to have failed with falsehood were a meed
Of shameful soilure for a shameless deed.
CH. God shall determine the end-- II
But for thine answer, friend,
Waft soft words low!
All sick men's sleep, we know,
Hath open eye;
Their quickly ruffling mind
Quivers in lightest wind,
Sleepless in slumber new danger to spy.
Think, O my lord, of thy path,
Secretly look forth afar,
What wilt thou do for thy need?
How with the wise wilt thou care?
If toward the nameless thy heart
Chooseth this merciful part,
Huge are the dangers that drift.
The wind is fair, my son, the wind is fair,
The man is dark and helpless, stretched in night.
(O kind, warm sleep that calmest human care!)
Powerless of hand and foot and ear and sight,
Blind, as one lying in the house of death.
(Think well if here thou utterest timely breath.)
This, O my son, is all my thought can find,
Best are the toils that without frightening bind.
NEO. Hush! One word more were madness. He revives.
His eye hath motion. He uplifts his head.
PHI. Fair daylight following sleep, and ye, dear friends,
Faithful beyond all hope in tending me!
I never could have dreamed that thou, dear youth,
Couldst thus have borne my sufferings and stood near
So full of pity to relieve my pain.
Not so the worthy generals of the host;--
This princely patience was not theirs to show.
Only thy noble nature, nobly sprung,
Made light of all the trouble, though oppressed
With fetid odours and unceasing cries.
And now, since this my plague would seem to yield
Some pause and brief forgetfulness of pain,
With thine own hand, my son, upraise me here,
And set me on my feet, that, when my strength
After exhaustion shall return again,
We may move shoreward and launch forth with speed.
NEO. I feel unhoped-for gladness when I see
Thy painless gaze, and hear thy living breath,
For thine appearance and surroundings both
Were deathlike. But arise! Or, if thou wilt,
These men shall raise thee. For they will not shrink
From toil which thou and I at once enjoin.
PHI. Right, right, my son! But lift me thine own self,
As I am sure thou meanest. Let these be,
Lest they be burdened with the noisome smell
Before the time. Enough for them to bear
The trouble on board.
NEO. I will; stand up, endure!
PHI. Fear not. Old habit will enable me.
NEO. O me!
What shall I do? Now 'tis my turn to exclaim!
PHI. What canst thou mean? What change is here, my son?
NEO. I know not how to shift the troublous word.
'Tis hopeless.
PHI. What is hopeless? Speak not so,
Dear child!
NEO. But so my wretched lot hath fallen.
PHI. Ah! Can it be, the offence of my disease
Hath moved thee not to take me now on board?
NEO. All is offence to one who hath forced himself
From the true bent to an unbecoming deed.
PHI. Nought misbecoming to thyself or sire
Doest thou or speak'st, befriending a good man.
NEO. My baseness will appear. That wrings my soul.
PHI. Not in thy deeds. But for thy words, I fear me!
NEO. O Heaven! Must double vileness then be mine
Both shameful silence and most shameful speech?
PHI. Or my discernment is at fault, or thou
Mean'st to betray me and make voyage without me.
NEO. Nay, not without thee, there is my distress!
Lest I convey thee to thy bitter grief.
PHI. How? How, dear youth? I do not understand.
NEO. Here I unveil it. Thou art to sail to Troy,
To join the chieftains and the Achaean host.
PHI. What do I hear? Ah!
NEO. Grieve not till you learn.
PHI. Learn what? What wilt thou make of me? What mean'st thou?
NEO. First to release thee from this plague, and then
With thee to go and take the realm of Troy.
PHI. And is this thine intent?
NEO. 'Tis so ordained
Unchangeably. Be not dismayed! 'Tis so.
PHI. Me miserable! I am betrayed, undone!
What guile is here? My bow! give back my bow!
NEO. I may not. Interest, and duty too,
Force me to obey commandment.
PHI. O thou fire,
Thou terror of the world! Dark instrument
Of ever-hateful guile!--What hast thou done?
How thou hast cheated me! Art not ashamed
To look on him that sued to thee for shelter?
O heart of stone, thou hast stolen my life away
With yonder bow!--Ah, yet I beg of thee,
Give it me back, my son, I entreat thee, give!
By all thy father worshipped, rob me not
Of life!--Ah me! Now he will speak no more,
But turns away, obdúrate to retain it.
O ye, my comrades in this wilderness,
Rude creatures of the rocks, O promontories,
Creeks, precipices of the hills, to you
And your familiar presence I complain
Of this foul trespass of Achilles' son.
Sworn to convey me home, to Troy he bears me.
And under pledge of his right hand hath ta'en
And holds from me perforce my wondrous bow,
The sacred gift of Zeus-born Heracles,
Thinking to wave it midst the Achaean host
Triumphantly for his. In conquering me
He vaunts as of some valorous feat, and knows not
He is spoiling a mere corse, an empty dream,
The shadow of a vapour. In my strength
He ne'er had vanquished me. Even as I am,
He could not, but by guile. Now, all forlorn,
I am abused, deceived. What must I do?
Nay, give it me. Nay, yet be thy true self!
Thou art silent. I am lost. O misery!
Rude face of rock, back I return to thee
And thy twin gateway, robbed of arms and food,
To wither in thy cave companionless:--
No more with these mine arrows to destroy
Or flying bird or mountain-roving beast.
But, all unhappy! I myself must be
The feast of those on whom I fed, the chase
Of that I hunted, and shall dearly pay
In bloody quittance for their death, through one
Who seemed all ignorant of sinful guile.
Perish,--not till I am certain if thy heart
Will change once more,--if not, my curse on thee!
CH. What shall we do, my lord? We wait thy word
Or to sail now, or yield to his desire.
NEO. My heart is pressed with a strange pity for him,
Not now beginning, but long since begun.
PHI. Ay, pity me, my son! by all above,
Make not thy name a scorn by wronging me!
NEO. O! I am troubled sore. What must I do?
Would I had never left mine island home!
PHI. Thou art not base, but seemest to have learnt
Some baseness from base men. Now, as 'tis meet,
Be better guided--leave me mine arms, and go.
NEO. (_to Chorus_).
What shall we do?
_Enter_ ODYSSEUS.
ODYSSEUS. What art thou doing, knave?
Give me that bow, and haste thee back again.
PHI. Alas! What do I hear? Odysseus' voice?
OD. Be sure of that, Odysseus, whom thou seest.
PHI. Oh, I am bought and sold, undone! 'Twas he
That kidnapped me, and robbed me of my bow.
OD. Yea. I deny it not. Be sure, 'twas I.
PHI. Give back, my son, the bow; release it!
OD. That,
Though he desire it, he shall never do.
Thou too shalt march along, or these shall force thee.
PHI. They force me! O thou boldest of bad men!
They force me?
OD. If thou com'st not willingly.
PHI. O Lemnian earth and thou almighty flame,
Hephaestos' workmanship, shall this be borne,
That he by force must drag me from your care?
OD. 'Tis Zeus, I tell thee, monarch of this isle,
Who thus hath willed. I am his minister.
PHI. Wretch, what vile words thy wit hath power to say!
The gods are liars when invoked by thee.
OD. Nay, 'tis their truth compels thee to this voyage.
PHI. I will not have it so.
OD. I will. Thou shalt.
PHI. Woe for my wretchedness! My father, then,
Begat no freeman, but a slave in me.
OD. Nay, but the peer of noblest men, with whom
Thou art to take and ravage Troy with might.
PHI. Never,--though I must suffer direst woe,--
While this steep Lemnian ground is mine to tread!
OD. What now is thine intent?
PHI. Down from the crag
This head shall plunge and stain the crag beneath.
OD. (_to the Attendants_.)
Ay, seize and bind him. Baffle him in this.
PHI. Poor hands, for lack of your beloved string,
Caught by this craven! O corrupted soul!
How thou hast undermined me, having taken
To screen thy quest this youth to me unknown,
Far worthier of my friendship than of thine,
Who knew no better than to obey command.
Even now 'tis manifest he burns within
With pain for his own error and my wrong.
But, though unwilling and mapt for ill,
Thy crafty, mean, and cranny spying soul
Too well hath lessoned him in sinful lore.
Now thou hast bound me, O thou wretch, and thinkest
To take me from this coast, where thou didst cast me
Outlawed and desolate, a corpse 'mongst men.
Oh!
I curse thee now, as ofttimes in the past:
But since Heaven yields me nought but bitterness,
Thou livest and art blithe, while 'tis my pain
To live on in my misery, laughed to scorn
By thee and Atreus' sons, those generals twain
Whom thou art serving in this chase. But thou
With strong compulsion and deceit was driven
Troyward, whilst I, poor victim, of free will
Took my seven ships and sailed there, yet was thrown
Far from all honour,--as thou sayest, by them,
But, as they turn the tale, by thee.--And now
Why fetch me hence and take me? To what end?
I am nothing, dead to you this many a year.
How, O thou Heaven-abhorred! am I not now
Lame and of evil smell? how shall ye vaunt
Before the gods drink-offering or the fat
Of victims, if I sail among your crew?
For this, as ye professed, was the chief cause
Why ye disowned me. Perish!--So ye shall,
For the wrong done me, if the Heavens be just.
And that they are, I know. Else had ye ne'er
Sailed on this errand for an outcast wretch,
Had they not pricked your heart with thoughts of me.
Oh, if ye pity me, chastising powers,
And thou, the Genius of my land, revenge,
Revenge this crime on all their heads at once!
My life is pitiable; but if I saw
Their ruin, I would think me well and strong.
CH. How full of bitterness is his resolve,
Wrathfully spoken with unbending will!
OD. I might speak long in answer, did the time
Give scope, but now one thing is mine to say.
I am known to vary with the varying need;
And when 'tis tried, who can be just and good,
My peer will not be found for piety.
But though on all occasions covetous
Of victory, this once I yield to thee,
And willingly. Unhand him there. Let go!
Leave him to stay. What further use of thee,
When we have ta'en these arms? Have we not Teucer,
Skilled in this mystery? Yea, I may boast
Myself thine equal both in strength and aim
To wield them. Fare thee well, then! Thou art free
To roam thy barren isle. We need thee not.
Let us be going! And perchance thy gift
May bring thy destined glory to my brow.
PHI. What shall I do? Alas, shalt thou be seen
Graced with mine arms amongst Achaean men?
OD. No more! I am going.
PHI. O Achilles' child!
Wilt thou, too, vanish? Must I lose thy voice?
OD. Come on, and look not, noble though thou be,
Lest thou undo our fortune.
PHI. Mariners,
Must ye, too, leave me thus disconsolate?
Will ye not pity me?
CH. Our captain's here.
Whate'er he saith to thee, that we too speak.
NEO. My chief will call me weakling, soft of heart;
But go not yet, since our friend bids you stay.
Till we have prayed, and all be ready on board.
Meanwhile, perchance, he may conceive some thought
That favours our design. We two will start;
And ye, be swift to speed forth at our call. [_Exit_