Then look, my son, look that thou utterest
Sane counsels. If a plain man might advise
Thy wisdom, the discreetest way is best.
Silence, and keep your wits; his eyes begin
To open and he raises now his head.
O sweet to wake to the broad day and find,
What least I hoped, my kindly guardians by.
For this, my son, I never had presumed
To hope, that thou would’st thus compassionately
Wait to attend my woes and minister.
The Atridae, those brave captains never showed
Courage to bear them patiently. But thou
By nature noble as by birth, my son,
Mad’st light of all the sores to eye and ear,
And nostrils, that my malady inflicts.
But now at last, ’twould seem, a lull has come,
A respite and oblivion of my ills;
Raise me thyself, boy, set me on my feet,
That, when the attack has wholly spent itself,
We may aboard and instantly set sail.
Right glad am I to see thee breathing still,
Alive, beyond all hope, and freed from pain;
For to appearance thou didst bear the seal
And signature of death. Now raise thyself,
Or if thou choosest, these shall carry thee;
Such service will they readily perform,
Since thou and I alike are thus resolved.
I thank thee, son, and, if it pleaseth thee,
Raise me thyself and spare thy men this task,
Lest they be sickened with my fetidness
Before the time; they’ll have enough to bear
With me for messmate when we are aboard.
So be it; now, stand up, lay hold of me.
Fear not, long use and wont has taught me how.
Ye Gods! What now remains for me to do?
What is it, my son, what mean these whirling words?
I speak perplextly, know not how to speak.
What can perplex thee? say not so, my son.
Too deep involved, I cannot otherwise.
What! the offensiveness of my complaint
Will stay thee now from taking me aboard?
All is offensive when a man is false
To his true self and, knowing right, does wrong.
But thou dost naught in word or deed to shame
Thy birth in succouring a worthy man.
I shall be proved a rogue; this tortures me.
Not in thy deeds—thy words do give me pause.
God help me now! Must I appear twice base,
Hide what I should not and my shame reveal?
The youth, if I misjudge him not, intends
To play me false and leave me stranded here.
Leave thee? Not so, but what will irk thee more,
Convey thee hence. ’Tis this that tortures me.
Thy words are dark, I cannot catch their drift.
I will be plain and round with thee. To Troy
Thou sailest, to the Atridae and the host.
Alas! What say’st thou?
Murmur not but hear me.
Hear me, quoth he! what wilt thou do with me?
First from this misery rescue thee, and then,
With thee to aid me, ravage Ilium.
Wilt thou indeed do this?
Necessity
Leaves me no choice; so take it not amiss,
Me miserable! I am undone, betrayed
How hast thou used me, sir! I charge thee straight
Give back my bow!
That cannot be, for I
By policy and duty both am bound
To obey my chiefs.
Thou fire, thou utter monster,
Abhorrèd masterpiece of knavery,
How hast thou served me, cheated me, abused?
Art not ashamed to look on me, thou wretch,
Thy suppliant, thy bedesman? Robbing me
Of this my bow thou robbest me of life.
Restore it, I beseech thee, O my son,
Oh, an thou lov’st me, give me back my bow;
Rob me not, by thy gods I pray, of life!
Ah me! he turns away, he will not speak;
His silence says he will not give it back.
Ye creeks, ye promontories, dens and lairs
Of mountain beasts, ye cliffs precipitous,
To you—none else will heed me—I appeal,
On you, familiars of my woes, I call;
Hear what I suffer from Achilles’ son!
He swore to bring me home again, and now
To Troy he takes me; on his plighted troth
I gave, he keeps my bow, the sacred bow
That erst to Zeus-born Heracles belonged,
To flout it ’fore the Argive host as his;
He takes me hence his prisoner, as if
His arm had captured some great warrior,
And sees not he is slaying a dead man,
A shade, a wraith, an unsubstantial ghost;
For in my strength he had not ta’en me, no,
Nor as I am, disabled, save by guile.
But now, entrapped, ah whither shall I turn?
Have pity, give me, give me back my bow!
Be once again thy true self, even now.
What answer? None. O woe is me, I am lost!
O cave with double mouth, to thee I turn;
Stripped of my arms and lacking means of life,
Here shall I wither in this lonely cell.
No bird of air, no beast of the upland wold
Yon bow shall slay, but dying I shall make
A feast for those who fed me when alive,
A quarry for the creatures I pursued,
My blood for their blood shed. And this I owe
To one who seemed a child in innocence.
My curse upon thee—nay I will forbear,
Till first I hear whether thou wilt repent
Or not; if no, die blasted by my curse!
What shall we do, prince? ’tis for thee to say
Whether we sail or hearken to his prayer.
My heart is strangely wrought, and from the first
I have been moved with pity for the man.
In heaven’s name show mercy, let not men
Brand thee as my betrayer, O my son!
What shall I do? Would I had never left
Scyros, to fall into this desperate plight.
Thou art not base, but coming here wast schooled
To play the rogue by villains; leave that part
To others framed by nature to be rogues.
Sail hence, but ere thou sail give back my arms.
What shall we do, friends?
Wretch, what art thou at?
Back with thee, sirrah! give the bow to me.
Ah who is here? Is that Odysseus’ voice?
Odysseus, as thou seeest. Here am I.
Oh I am
