PHILOCTETES
Alas! how hateful to the gods,
How very poor a wretch must I be then,
That Greece should never hear of woes like mine!
But they who sent me hither, they concealed them,
And smile triumphant, whilst my cruel wounds
Grow deeper still. O, sprung from great Achilles!
Behold before thee Poeas' wretched son,
With whom, a chance but thou hast heard, remain
The dreadful arrows of renowned Alcides,
E'en the unhappy Philoctetes- him
Whom the Atreidae and the vile Ulysses
Inhuman left, distempered as I was
By the envenomed serpent's deep-felt wound.
Soon as they saw that, with long toil oppressed,
Sleep had o'ertaken me on the hollow rock,
There did they leave me when from Chrysa's shore
They bent their fatal course; a little food
And these few rags were all they would bestow.
Such one day be their fate! Alas! my son,
How dreadful, thinkst thou, was that waking to me,
When from my sleep I rose and saw them not!
How did I weep! and mourn my wretched state!
When not a ship remained of all the fleet
That brought me here- no kind companion left
To minister or needful food or balm
To my sad wounds. On every side I looked,
And nothing saw but woe; of that indeed
Measure too full. For day succeeded day,
And still no comfort came; myself alone
Could to myself the means of life afford,
In this poor grotto. On my bow I lived:
The winged dove, which my sharp arrow slew,
With pain I brought into my little hut,
And feasted there; then from the broken ice
I slaked my thirst, or crept into the wood
For useful fuel; from the stricken flint
I drew the latent spark, that warms me still
And still revives. This with my humble roof
Preserve me, son. But, oh! my wounds remain.
Thou seest an island desolate and waste;
No friendly port nor hopes of gain to tempt,
Nor host to welcome in the traveller;
Few seek the wild inhospitable shore.
By adverse winds, sometimes th' unwilling guests,
As well thou mayst suppose, were hither driven;
But when they came, they only pitied me,
Gave me a little food, or better garb
To shield me from the cold; in vain I prayed
That they would bear me to my native soil,
For none would listen. Here for ten long years
Have I remained, whilst misery and famine
Keep fresh my wounds, and double my misfortune.
This have th' Atreidae and Ulysses done,
And may the gods with equal woes repay them!
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
O, son of Poeas! well might those, who came
And saw thee thus, in kind compassion weep;
I too must pity thee- I can no more.
NEOPTOLEMUS
I can bear witness to thee, for I know
By sad experience what th' Atreidae are,
And what Ulysses.
PHILOCTETES
Hast thou suffered then?
And dost thou hate them too?
NEOPTOLEMUS
Oh! that these hands
Could vindicate my wrongs! Mycenae then
And Sparta should confess that Scyros boasts
Of sons as brave and valiant as their own.
PHILOCTETES
O noble youth! But wherefore cam'st thou hither?
Whence this resentment?
NEOPTOLEMUS
I will tell thee all,
If I can bear to tell it. Know then, soon
As great Achilles died-
PHILOCTETES
Oh, stay, my son!
Is then Achilles dead?
NEOPTOLEMUS
He is, and not
By mortal hand, but by Apollo's shaft
Fell glorious.
PHILOCTETES
Oh! most worthy of each other,
The slayer and the slain! Permit me, son,
To mourn his fate, ere I attend to thine.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Alas! thou needst not weep for others' woes,
Thou hast enough already of thy own.
PHILOCTETES
'Tis very true; and therefore to thy tale.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Thus then it was. Soon as Achilles died,
Phoenix, the guardian of his tender years,
Instant sailed forth, and sought me out at Scyros;
With him the wary chief Ulysses came.
They told me then (or true or false I know not),
My father dead, by me, and me alone
Proud Troy must fall. I yielded to their prayers;
I hoped to see at least the dear remains
Of him whom living I had long in vain
Wished to behold. Safe at Sigeum's port
Soon we arrived. In crowds the numerous host
Thronged to embrace me, called the gods to witness
In me once more they saw their loved Achilles
To life restored; but he, alas! was gone.
I shed the duteous tear, then sought my friends
Th' Atreidae friends I thought 'em!-claimed the arms
Of my dead father, and what else remained
His late possession: when- O cruel words!
And wretched I to hear them- thus they answered:
"Son of Achilles, thou in vain demandst
Those arms already to Ulysses given;
The rest be thine." I wept. "And is it thus,"
Indignant I replied, "ye dare to give
My right away?" "Know, boy," Ulysses cried,
"That right was mine. and therefore they bestowed
The boon on me: me who preserved the arms,
And him who bore them too." With anger fired
At this proud speech, I threatened all that rage
Could dictate to me if he not returned them.
Stung with my words, yet calm, he answered me:
"Thou wert not with us; thou wert in a place
Where thou shouldst not have been; and since thou meanst
To brave us thus, know, thou shalt never bear
Those arms with thee to Scyros; 'tis resolved."
Thus injured, thus deprived of all I held
Most precious, by the worst of men, I left
The hateful place, and seek my native soil.
Nor do I blame so much the proud Ulysses
As his base masters- army, city, all
Depend on those who rule. When men grow vile
The guilt is theirs who taught them to be wicked.
I've told thee all, and him who hates the Atreidae
I hold a friend to me and to the gods.
CHORUS (singing)
O Earth! thou mother of great Jove,
Embracing all with universal love,
Author benign of every good,
Through whom Pactolus rolls his golden flood!
To thee, whom in thy rapid car
Fierce lions draw, I rose and made my prayer-
To thee I made my sorrows known,
When from Achilles' injured son
Th' Atreidae gave the prize, that fatal day
When proud Ulysses bore his arms away.
PHILOCTETES
I wonder not, my friend, to see you here,
And I believe the tale; for well I know
The man who wronged you, know the base Ulysses
Falsehood and fraud dwell on his lips, and nought
That's just or good can be expected from him.
But strange it is to me that, Ajax present,
He dare attempt it.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Ajax is no more;
Had he been living, I had ne'er been spoiled
Thus of my right.
PHILOCTETES
Is he then dead?
NEOPTOLEMUS
He is.
PHILOCTETES
Alas! the son of Tydeus, and that slave,
Sold by his father Sisyphus, they live,
Unworthy as they are.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Alas! they do,
And flourish still.
PHILOCTETES
My old and worthy friend
The Pylian sage, how is he? He could see
Their arts, and would have given them better counsels.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Weighed down with grief he lives, but most unhappy,
Weeps his lost son, his dear Antilochus.
PHILOCTETES
O double woe! whom I could most have wished
To live and to be happy, those to perish!
Ulysses to survive! It should not be.
NEOPTOLEMUS
Oh! 'tis a subtle foe; but deepest plans
May sometimes fail.
PHILOCTETES
Where was Patroclus then,
Thy father's dearest friend?
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