Who trapped me and bereft me of my arms.
I and no other. I avow ’twas I.
Give back my bow, son, give it.
That he shall not,
E’en if he would; and what is more, thou with it
Must go, or these shall drag thee hence by force.
Thou brazen-facèd villain, shall thy knaves
Drag me by force?
Yea, if thou’lt not consent.
O Lemnian land, O all-subduing fires
Lit by Hephaestus,6 will ye suffer it,
That yonder man should hale me from your realm?
’Tis Zeus, I tell thee, Zeus who rules this land,
Zeus thus ordains; I am his minister.
O monstrous fiend, what pleas thou canst invent!
Gods thou invokest and wouldst make them liars.
Nay, they are true. But thou must march with us.
Never!
But I say yes; consent thou must.
Oh I was born to sorrow, so it seems;
No free man but a slave my sire begot.
Nay, but a peer of paladins, ordained
To storm proud Troy and lay it in the dust.
Never! not even in my utmost need,
Whilst under me I feel this steep of rock.
What would’st thou do?
Leap from the crags above
And dash my brains out on the crags below.
Lay hold of him, seize either arm, prevent him!
Oh hands, how ill ye fare, made prisoners
By that man, all for lack of my good bow.
Thou very churl, corrupt in heart and soul,
How hast thou circumvented me again,
Making this stranger boy thy stalking horse,
Fit mate for me, too good for thine ally,
Thy tool who merely did as he was bidden,
And even now is plainly penitent
Both for his error and the wrong to me.
But thou, like some vile prompter in the dark,
Wast ever by to give the cue, and though
Unapt and loth, he learnt thy villainy.
And now thou think’st to bind me hand and foot,
Monster, and take me from this shore whereon
Thou erst did’st cast me, friendless, homeless, lorn,
A living corpse. I curse thee; when have I
Not cursed thee these long years? But since the Gods
Grant nothing sweet to me, thou livest on
Exultant; and to me, with endless woes
Encompassed, life itself is misery;
Mocked as I am by thee and the two sons
Of Atreus whose abettor now thou art.
Thou of constraint and by a stratagem
Wert forced to join their flag and sail with them;7
I with my seven ships volunteered, and yet
(O miserable me!) I was cast forth
In scorn—by them thou say’st, they say by thee.
And now why seize, why hale me to your ships,
Me who am naught, dead long ago to you?
How can I serve you? Heaven-abhorred wretch!
Am I not lame and noisome now as then?
How will ye render, if I sail with you,
Burnt sacrifices and drink-offerings?
That was the pretext when ye cast me forth.
My curse upon you for your wrongs to me,
And, if the gods are just, ye shall be cursed.
And they are just, I know it; never else
Would ye have sailed for such a wretch as I,
But that they pricked your heart to think of me.
My native land, ye ever-watchful gods,
Your vengeance, vengeance sure though it tarry long,
Fall on them all, if aught you pity me;
And I am piteous. Yet could I behold
Their ruin, I should half forget my plague.
His mood is bitter, bitter his reply
To thee, Odysseus; suffering tames him not.
Much could I answer, did the time permit;
One word must now suffice. I am a man
Who can adapt his humour to the hour.
When justice and plain-dealing are required,
Ye will not find a man more scrupulous.
My one concern is ever to prevail—
Save in thy case; to thee right willingly
I will give way. To Sailors. Unhand him, let him go!
He may stay here. To Philoctetes. We have no need of thee,
Having thy bow, for Teucer will be there
A master archer, and myself who boast
That I can draw a bow with hand as firm
And point it with as true an eye as thine.
What use for thee then? Lemnos shall be thine.
Sole Monarch, hail! Go, pace thy bounds at peace;
We leave thee. This thy prize methinks will earn
For me the honour that were rightly thine.
Unhappy wretch, what can I do? Shalt thou
Strut like a popinjay in arms of mine?
Bandy no more words; I am going now.
Son of Achilles, wilt thou leave me thus,
Thou too in silence, deaf to my appeal?
To Neoptolemus.
Away! and look not on him lest thou mar
Our stroke of fortune by thy quixotry.
To Chorus.
Ye also, friends, will ye abandon me
And show no pity for my sad estate?
This stripling is our captain, and whate’er
He says, we say the same; his word is law.
I know I shall be twitted by my chief
As weak and tender-hearted; but what odds?
If our friend wills it, tarry here until
Our crew have made all tight and yare, and we
Have offered prayers, as fitting. He the while
Perchance may come to a better mind and melt.
So we will hasten forward, he and I,
And ye, make haste to follow when we call. Exeunt Odysseus and Neoptolemus.
Strophe 1
O cavern’d rock, my cell
Now hot, now icy chill,
How long with thee it was my lot to dwell:
To thee till death I shall be constant still.
Tell me, sad lodging, haunted by my pain,
How shall I day by day my life sustain?
Ye timorous doves whose flight
Whirrs in the air o’erhead,
Now where ye will unharmed alight;
No shafts of mine henceforward need ye dread.
’Tis thou hast willed it thus, infatuate,
Thou art the author of thy sad estate;
Nor to some higher force canst thou assign
Thy woes, but, when free choice was thine,
The good thou did’st reject,
The worse elect.
Antistrophe 1
Ah wretched, wretched then am I,
Consumed with utter misery,
Doomed for all time to linger on.
Without one friend, one comrade, one,
To aid me till I die.
