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.
Strophe 1
I saw him not, yet fame affirms the tale
Of one who dared the bed of Zeus assail.
Him to the wheel that never stays its round
Of torture, the great son of Kronos bound.
But, save of him alone,
To me no sadder fate is known
Than of this saddest wight,
Or by report or sight:
Poor innocent who here to death art done!
He robbed or wrongèd none
I marvel how thus desolate, all forlorn,
These long long years of anguish he hath borne,
Hearing the breakers gride the cold grey stones,
Antistrophe 1
Himself for neighbour to himself he groans;
Limping with crippled feet,
He treads his weary beat;
No comrade by
To give him sigh for sigh,
No friend in whose responsive ear to pour
His woes—the anguish of his festering sore;
To quell the burning rage,
The throbs assuage
With simples gathered from the kindly soil;
But ’twixt the spasms he must crawl and moil
To find the herb, a spell to lay the curse,
Like some weak infant parted from its nurse.
Strophe 2
Not his to sow the seed
Or on the largesse feed
That boon earth showers on all the sons of men;
Happy, if now and then
The bolt from his unerring bow can wing
Some living thing.
Poor wretch, who ten long years athirst did pine,
Without one draught of soul-refreshing wine,
But sought some stagnant pool
His parchèd throat to cool.
Antistrophe 2
Now hath he found a champion good and true,
And by his woes ennobled shall renew
His pristine fame. The tale of months complete,
Home shall he journey with our homing fleet.
There on Spercheios’ marge, his
