The haunt of Malian naiads, he shall roam,
Where the famed hero of the brazen shield,
His full divinity in flames revealed
And in a fiery car ascending high
O’er Oeta was translated to the sky.
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.
Strophe
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.
Antistrophe
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
