by Sophocles
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 EarthII 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.
[712-749] 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.
[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!
[751-786] 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,
[786-816] 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!
[817-847] 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,
[848-879] H
ath 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
[880-913] 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.
[914-946] 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,
[947-980] 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.
[981-1015] 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.
[1016-1052] 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
