OD. Say, dost thou bear my bidding full in mind?

NEO. Doubt not, since once for all I have embraced it.

OD. Thou, then, await him here. I will retire, For fear my hated presence should be known, And take back our attendant to the ship. And then once more, should ye appear to waste The time unduly, I will send again This same man hither in disguise, transformed To the strange semblance of a merchantman; From dark suggestion of whose crafty tongue, Thou, O my son, shalt gather timely counsel. Now to my ship. This charge I leave to thee. May secret Hermes guide us to our end, And civic Pallas, named of victory, The sure protectress of my devious way.

CHORUS (entering). Strange in the stranger land, I 1 What shall I speak? What hide From a heart suspicious of ill? Tell me, O master mine! Wise above all is the man, Peerless in searching thought, Who with the Zeus-given wand Wieldeth a Heaven-sent power. This unto thee, dear son, Fraught with ancestral might, This to thy life hath come. Wherefore I bid thee declare, What must I do for thy need?

NEO. Even now methinks thou longest to espy Near ocean's marge the place where he doth lie. Gaze without fear. But when the traveller stern, Who from this roof is parted, shall return, Advancing still as I the signal give, To serve each moment's mission thou shalt strive.

CH. That, O my son, from of old I 2 Hath been my care, to take note What by thy beck'ning is told; Still thy success to promote. But for our errand to-day Behoves thee, master, to say Where is the hearth of his home; Or where even now doth he roam? O tell me, lest all unaware He spring like a wolf from his lair And I by surprise should be ta'en, Where doth he move or remain, Here lodging, or wandering away?

NEO. Thou seest yon double doorway of his cell, Poor habitation of the rock.

CH. 2. But tell Where is the pain-worn wight himself abroad?

NEO. To me 'tis clear, that, in his quest for food, Here, not far off, he trails yon furrowed path. For, so 'tis told, this mode the sufferer hath Of sustenance, oh hardness! bringing low Wild creatures with wing'd arrows from his bow; Nor findeth healer for his troublous woe.

CH. I feel his misery. II 1 With no companion eye, Far from all human care, He pines with fell disease; Each want he hourly sees Awakening new despair. How can he bear it still? O cruel Heavens! O pain Of that afflicted mortal train Whose life sharp sorrows fill!

Born in a princely hall, II 2 Highest, perchance, of all, Now lies he comfortless Alone in deep distress, 'Mongst rough and dappled brutes, With pangs and hunger worn; While from far distance shoots, On airy pinion borne, The unbridled Echo, still replying To his most bitter crying.

NEO. At nought of this I marvel—for if I Judge rightly, there assailed him from on high That former plague through Chrysa's cruel sting[1]: And if to-day he suffer anything With none to soothe, it must be from the will Of some great God, so caring to fulfil The word of prophecy, lest he should bend On Troy the shaft no mortal may forfend, Before the arrival of Troy's destined hour, When she must fall, o'er-mastered by their power.

CH. 1. Hush, my son! III 1

NEO. Why so?

CH. 1. A sound Gendered of some mortal woe, Started from the neighbouring ground. Here, or there? Ah! now I know. Hark! 'tis the voice of one in pain, Travelling hardly, the deep strain Of human anguish, all too clear, That smites my heart, that wounds mine ear.

CH. 2. From far it peals. But thou, my son! III 2

NEO. What?

CH. 2. Think again. He moveth nigh: He holds the region: not with tone Of piping shepherd's rural minstrelsy, But belloweth his far cry, Stumbling perchance with mortal pain, Or else in wild amaze, As he our ship surveys Unwonted on the inhospitable main.

Enter PHILOCTETES.

PHILOCTETES. Ho! What men are ye that to this desert shore, Harbourless, uninhabited, are come On shipboard? Of what country or what race Shall I pronounce ye? For your outward garb Is Grecian, ever dearest to this heart That hungers now to hear your voices' tune. Ah! do not fear me, do not shrink away From my wild looks: but, pitying one so poor, Forlorn and desolate in nameless woe, Speak, if with friendly purpose ye are come. Oh answer! 'Tis not meet that I should lose This kindness from your lips, or ye from mine.

NEO. Then know this first, O stranger, as thou wouldest, That we are Greeks.

PHI. O dear, dear name! Ah me! In all these years, once, only once, I hear it! My son, what fairest gale hath wafted thee? What need hath brought thee to the shore? What mission? Declare all this, that I may know thee well.

NEO. The sea-girt Scyros is my native home. Thitherward I make voyage:—Achilles' son, Named Neoptolemus.—I have told thee all.

PHI. Dear is that shore to me, dear is thy father O ancient Lycomedes' foster-child, Whence cam'st thou hither? How didst thou set forth?

NEO. From Troy we made our course in sailing hither.

PHI. How? Sure thou wast not with us, when at first We launched our vessels on the Troyward way?

NEO. Hadst thou a share in that adventurous toil?

PHI. And know'st thou not whom thou behold'st in me, Young boy?

NEO. How should I know him whom I ne'er Set eye on?

PHI. Hast not even heard my name, Nor echoing rumour of my ruinous woe?

NEO. Nay, I know nought of all thy questioning.

PHI. How full of griefs am I, how Heaven-abhorred, When of my piteous state no faintest sound Hath reached my home, or any Grecian land! But they, who pitilessly cast me forth, Keep silence and are glad, while this my plague Blooms ever, and is strengthened more and more. Boy, great Achilles' offspring, in this form Thou seest the man, of whom, methinks, erewhile Thou hast been told, to whom the Herculean bow Descended, Philoctetes, Poeas' son; Whom the two generals and the Ithacan king Cast out thus shamefully forlorn, afflicted With the fierce malady and desperate wound Made by the cruel basilisk's murderous tooth. With this for company they left me, child! Exposed upon this shore, deserted, lone. From seaward Chrysa came they with their fleet And touched at Lemnos. I had fallen to rest From the long tossing, in a shadowy cave On yonder cliff by the shore. Gladly they saw, And left me, having set forth for my need, Poor man, some scanty rags, and a thin store Of provender. Such food be theirs, I pray! Imagine, O my son, when they were gone, What wakening, what arising, then was mine; What weeping, what lamenting of my woe! When I beheld the ships, wherewith I sailed, Gone, one and all! and no man in the place, None to bestead me, none to comfort me In my sore sickness. And where'er I looked, Nought but distress was present with me still. No lack of that, for one thing!—Ah! my son, Time passed, and there I found myself alone Within my narrow lodging, forced to serve Each pressing need. For body's sustenance This bow supplied me with sufficient store, Wounding the feathered doves, and when the shaft, From the tight string, had struck, myself, ay me! Dragging this foot, would crawl to my swift prey. Then water must be fetched, and in sharp frost Wood must be found and broken,—all by me. Nor would fire come unbidden, but with flint From flints striking dim sparks, I hammered forth The struggling flame that keeps the life in me. For houseroom with the single help of fire Gives all I need, save healing for my sore. Now learn, my son, the nature of this isle. No mariner puts in here willingly. For it hath neither moorage, nor sea-port, For traffic or kind shelter or good cheer. Not hitherward do prudent men make voyage. Perchance one may have touched against his will. Many strange things may happen in long time. These, when they come, in words have pitied me, And given me food, or raiment, in compassion. But none is willing, when I speak thereof, To take me safely home. Wherefore I pine Now this tenth year, in famine and distress, Feeding the hunger of my ravenous plague. Such deeds, my son, the Atridae, and the might Of sage Odysseus, have performed on me. Wherefore may all the Olympian gods, one day, Plague them with stern requital for my wrong!

CH. Methinks my feeling for thee, Poeas' child, Is like that of thy former visitants.

NEO. I, too, a witness to confirm his words, Know them for verities, since I have found The Atridae and Odysseus evil men.

PHI. Art thou, too, wroth with the all-pestilent sons Of Atreus? Have they given thee cause to grieve?

NEO. Would that my hand might ease the wrath I feel! Then Sparta and Mycenae should be ware That Scyros too breeds valiant sons for war.

PHI. Brave youth! I love thee. Tell me the great cause Why thou inveighest against them with such heat?

NEO. O son of Poeas, hardly shall I tell What outrage I endured when I had come; Yet I will speak it. When the fate of death O'ertook Achilles—

PHI. Out, alas! no more! Hold, till thou first hast made me clearly know, Is Peleus' offspring dead?

NEO. Alas! he is, Slain by no mortal, felled by Phoebus' shaft: So men reported—

PHI. Well, right princely was he! And princely is he who slew him. Shall I mourn Him first, or wait till I have heard thy tale?

NEO. Methinks thou hast thyself enough to mourn, Without the burden of another's woe.

PHI. Well spoken. Then renew thine own complaint, And tell once more wherein they insulted thee.

NEO. There came to fetch me, in a gallant ship, Odysseus and the fosterer of my sire[2], Saying, whether soothly, or in idle show, That, since my father perished, it was known None else but I should take Troy's citadel. Such words from them, my friend, thou may'st believe, Held me not long from making voyage with speed, Chiefly through longing for my father's corse, To see him yet unburied,—for I ne'er Had seen him[3]. Then, besides, 'twas a fair cause, If, by my going, I should vanquish Troy. One day I had sailed, and on the second came To sad Sigeum with wind-favoured speed, When straightway all the host, surrounding me As I set foot on shore, saluted me, And swore the dead Achilles was in life, Their eyes being witness, when they looked on me. He lay there in his shroud: but I, unhappy, Soon ending lamentation for the dead, Went near to those Atridae, as to friends, To obtain my father's armour and all else That had been his. And then,—alas the while, That men should be so hard!—they spake this word: 'Seed of Achilles, thou may'st freely take All else thy father owned, but for those arms, Another wields them now, Laertes' son.' Tears rushed into mine eyes, and in hot wrath I straightway rose, and bitterly outspake: 'O miscreant! What? And have ye dared to give Mine arms to some man else, unknown to me?' Then said Odysseus, for he chanced to be near, 'Yea, child, and justly have they given me these. I saved them and their master in the field.' Then in fierce anger all at once I launched All terms of execration at his head, Bating no word, being maddened by the thought That I should lose this heirloom,—and to him! He, at this pass, though not of wrathful mood, Stung by such utterance, made rejoinder thus: 'Thou wast not with us here, but wrongfully Didst bide afar. And, since thou mak'st so bold, I tell thee, never shalt thou, as thou sayest, Sail with these arms to Scyros.'—Thus reviled, With such an evil echo in mine ear, I voyage homeward, robbed of mine own right By that vile offset of an evil tree[4]. Yet less I blame him than the men in power. For every multitude, be it army or state, Takes tone from those who rule it, and all taint Of disobedience from bad counsel springs. I have spoken. May the Atridae's enemy Be dear to Heaven, as he is loved by me!

CH. Mother of mightiest Zeus, 1 Feeder of all that live, Who from thy mountainous breast Rivers of gold dost give! To thee, O Earth, I cried that shameful day, When insolence from Atreus' sons went forth Full on our lord: when they bestowed away His father's arms to crown Odysseus' worth; Thou, whom bull-slaughtering lions yoked bear, O mighty mother, hear!

PHI. Your coming is commended by a grief That makes you kindly welcome. For I feel A chord that vibrates to your voice, and tells, Thus have Odysseus and the Atridae wrought. Full well I know, Odysseus' poisoned tongue Shrinks from no mischief nor no guileful word That leads to bad achievement in the end. This moves not my main marvel, but if one Saw this and bore it,—Aias of the shield.

NEO. Ah, friend, he was no more. Had he but lived, This robbery had ne'er been wrought on me.

PHI. What? Is he too departed?

NEO. He is dead. The light no more beholds him.

PHI. Oh! alas! But Tydeus' offspring, and the rascal birth Laertes bought of Sisyphus, they live: I know it. For their death were to be wished.

NEO. Yea, be assured, they live and flourish high Exalted in the host of Argive men.

PHI. And Nestor, my old friend, good aged man, Is he yet living? Oft he would prevent Their evils, by the wisdom of his thought.

NEO. He too is now in trouble, having lost Antilochus, the comfort of his age.

PHI. There, there! In one brief word thou hast revealed The mournful case of twain, whom I would last Have chosen to hear of as undone. Ah me! Where must one look? when these are dead, and he, Odysseus, lives,—and in a time like this, That craves their presence, and his death for theirs.

NEO. He wrestles cleverly; but, O my friend, Even ablest wits are ofttimes snared at last.

PHI. Tell me, I pray, what was become of him, Patroclus, whom thy father loved so well?

NEO. He, too, was gone. I'll teach thee in a word One truth for all. War doth not willingly Snatch off the wicked, but still takes the good.

PHI. True! and to prove thy saying, I will inquire The fate of a poor dastard, of mean worth, But ever shrewd and nimble with his tongue.

NEO. Whom but Odysseus canst thou mean by this?

PHI. I meant not him. But there was one Thersites, Who ne'er made conscience to stint speech, where all Cried 'Silence!' Is he living, dost thou know?

NEO. I saw him not, but knew he was alive.

PHI. He must be: for no evil yet was crushed. The Heavens will ever shield it. 'Tis their sport To turn back all things rancorous and malign From going down to the grave, and send instead The good and true. Oh, how shall we commend Such dealings, how defend them? When I praise Things god-like, I find evil in the Gods.

NEO. I, O thou child of a Trachinian sire, Henceforth will take good care, from far away To look on Troy and Atreus' children twain. Yea, where the trickster lords it o'er the just, And goodness languishes and rascals rule, —Such courses I will nevermore endure. But rock-bound Scyros henceforth shall suffice To yield me full contentment in my home. Now, to my vessel! And thou, Poeas' child, Farewell, right heartily farewell! May Heaven Grant thy desire, and rid thee of thy plague! Let us be going, that when God shall give Fair voyage, that moment we may launch away.

PHI. My son, are ye now setting forth?

NEO. Our time Bids us go near and look to sail erelong.

PHI. Now, by thy father, by thy mother,—nay, By all thy love e'er cherished in thy home, Suppliant I beg thee, leave me not thus lone, Forlorn in all my misery which thou seest, In all thou hast heard of here surrounding me! Stow me with other freightage. Full of care, I know, and burdensome the charge may prove. Yet venture! Surely to the noble mind All shame is hateful and all kindness blest. And shame would be thy meed, didst thou fail here But, doing this, thou shalt have glorious fame, When I return alive to Oeta's vale. Come, 'tis the labour not of one whole day. So thou durst take me, fling me where thou wilt O' the ship, in hold, prow, stern, or wheresoe'er I least may trouble those on board with me. Ah! by great Zeus, the suppliant's friend, comply, My son, be softened! See, where I am fall'n Thus on my knees before thee, though so weak, Crippled and powerless. Ah! forsake me not Thus far from human footstep. Take me, take me! If only to thy home, or to the town Of old Chalcodon[5] in Euboea.—From thence I have not far to Oeta, and the ridge Of Trachis, and Spercheius' lordly flood. So thou shalt bless my father with my sight. And yet long since I fear he may be gone. For oft I sent him suppliant prayers by men Who touched this isle, entreating him to fetch And bear me safely home with his own crew. But either he is dead, or else, methinks, It well may be, my messengers made light Of my concerns, and hastened onward home. But now in thee I find both messenger And convoy, thou wilt pity me and save. For, well thou knowest, danger never sleeps, And fear of dark reverse is always nigh. Mortals, when free, should look where mischief lurks, And in their happiest hour consider well Their life, lest ruin unsuspected come.

CH. Pity him, O my king! 2 Many a crushing woe He telleth, such as I pray None of my friends may know. And if, dear master, thou mislikest sore Yon cruel-hearted lordly pair, I would, Turning their plan of evil to his good, On swift ship bear him to his native shore, Meeting his heart's desire; and free thy path From fear of heavenly wrath.

NEO. Thou mak'st small scruple here; but be advised: Lest, when this plague on board shall weary thee, Thy voice should alter from this liberal tone.

CH. No, truly! Fear not thou shalt ever have Just cause to utter such reproach on me.

NEO. Then sure 'twere shame, should I more backward prove Than thou, to labour for the stranger's need. Come, if thou wilt, let us make voyage, and he, Let him set forth with speed. Our ship shall take him. He shall not be refused. Only may Heaven Lead safely hence and to our destined port!

PHI. O morning full of brightness! Kindest friend, Sweet mariners, how can I make you feel, In act, how dearly from my heart I love you! Ye have won my soul. Let us be gone, my son,— First having said farewell to this poor cave, My homeless dwelling-place, that thou may'st know, How barely I have lived, how firm my heart! Methinks another could not have endured The very sight of what I bore. But I Through strong necessity have conquered pain.

CH. Stay: let us understand. There come two men A stranger, with a shipmate of thy crew. When ye have heard them, ye may then go in.

Enter Messenger, disguised as a merchantman.

MERCHANTMAN. Son of Achilles, my companion here, Who with two more remained to guard thy ship, Agreed to help me find thee where thou wert, Since unexpectedly, through fortune's will, I meet thee, mooring by the self-same shore. For like a merchantman, with no great sail, Making my course from Ilion to my home, Grape-clustered Peparethos, when I heard The mariners declare that one and all Were of thy crew, I would not launch again, Without a word, till we had told our news.— Methinks thou knowest nought of thine own case, What new devices of the Argive chiefs Surround thee; nor devices only now, But active deeds, no longer unperformed.

NEO. Well, stranger, for the kindness thou hast shown,— Else were I base,—my heart must thank thee still. But tell me what thou meanest, that I may learn What new-laid plot thou bring'st me from the camp.

MER. Old Phoenix, Acamas and Demophon Are gone in thy pursuit with ships and men.

NEO. To bring me back with reasons or perforce?

MER. I know not. What I heard, I am here to tell.

NEO. How? And is this in act? Are they set forth To please the Atridae, Phoenix and the rest?

MER. The thing is not to do, but doing now.

NEO. What kept Odysseus back, if this be so, From going himself? Had he some cause for fear?

MER. He and the son of Tydeus, when our ship Hoist sail, were gone to fetch another man.

NEO. For whom could he himself be sailing forth?

MER. For some one,—but first tell me, whispering low Whate'er thou speakest,—who is this I see?

NEO. (speaking aloud). This, sir, is Philoctetes the renowned.

MER. (aside to NEOPTOLEMUS). Without more question, snatch thyself away And sail forth from this land.

PHI. What saith he, boy? Through what dark traffic is the mariner Betraying me with whispering in thine ear?

NEO. I have not caught it, but whate'er he speaks He must speak openly to us and thee.

MER. Seed of Achilles, let me not offend The army by my words! Full many a boon, Being poor, I reap from them for service done.

NEO. The Atridae are my foes; the man you see Is my fast friend, because he hates them sore. Then, if you come in kindness, you must hide Nothing from him or me of all thou hast heard.

MER. Look what thou doest, my son!

NEO. I mark it well.

MER. Thou shalt be answerable.

NEO. Content: but speak.

MER. Then hear me. These two men whom I have named, Diomedes and Odysseus, are set forth Engaged on oath to bring this man by force If reasons fail. The Achaeans every one Have heard this plainly from Odysseus' mouth. He was the louder and more confident.

NEO. Say, for what cause, after so long a time, Can Atreus' sons have turned their thoughts on him, Whom long they had cast forth? What passing touch Of conscience moved them, or what stroke from Heaven, Whose wrath requites all wicked deeds of men?

MER. Methinks thou hast not heard what I will now Unfold to thee. There was a princely seer, A son of Priam, Helenus by name, Whom he for whom no word is bad enough, Crafty Odysseus, sallying forth alone One night, had taken, and in bonds displayed 'Fore all the Achaeans, a right noble prey. He, 'mid his other prophecies, foretold No Grecian force should sack Troy's citadel, Till with fair reasons they had brought this man From Lemnos isle, his lonely dwelling-place. When thus the prophet spake, Laertes' son Straight undertook to fetch this man, and show him To all the camp:—he hoped, with fair consent: But else, perforce.—And, if he failed in this, Whoever would might smite him on the head. My tale is told, dear youth. I counsel speed To thee and to the friend for whom thou carest.

PHI. Ah me, unhappy! has that rascal knave Sworn to fetch me with reasons to their camp? As likely might his reasons bring me back, Like his begetter, from the house of death.

MER. You talk of what I know not. I will go Shipward. May God be with you for all good. [Exit

PHI. Is not this terrible, Laertes' son Should ever think to bring me with soft words And show me from his deck to all their host? No! Sooner will I listen to the tongue Of the curs'd basilisk that thus hath maim'd me. Ay, but he'll venture anything in word Or deed. And now I know he will be here. Come, O my son, let us be gone, while seas And winds divide us from Odysseus' ship. Let us depart. Sure timely haste brings rest And quiet slumber when the toil is done.

NEO. Shall we not sail when this south-western wind Hath fallen, that now is adverse to our course?

PHI. All winds are fair to him who flies from woe.

NEO. Nay, but this head-wind hinders them no less.

PHI. No head-wind hinders pirates on their way, When violence and rapine lead them on.

NEO. Well, then, let us be going, if you will; When you have taken from within the cave What most you need and value.

PHI. Though my all Be little, there is that I may not lose.

NEO. What can there be that we have not on board?

PHI. A leaf I have found, wherewith I still the rage Of my sore plague, and lull it quite to rest.

NEO. Well, bring it forth.—What? Is there something more?

PHI. If any of these arrows here are fallen, I would not leave them for a casual prey.

NEO. How? Do I see thee with the marvellous bow?

PHI. Here in my hand. The world hath only one.

NEO. And may one touch and handle it, and gaze With reverence, as on a thing from Heaven?

PHI. Thou mayest, my son. This and whate'er of mine May stead thee, 'tis thy privilege to enjoy.

NEO. In very truth I long for it, but so, That longing waits on leave. Am I permitted?

PHI. Thou art, my son,—and well thou speakest,—thou art. Thou, that hast given me light and life, the joy Of seeing Mount Oeta and my father's home, With all I love there, and his aged head,— Thou that hast raised me far above my foes Who triumphed! Thou may'st take it in thine hand, And,—when thou hast given it back to me,—may'st vaunt Alone of mortals for thine excellence To have held this in thy touch. I, too, at first, Received it as a boon for kindness done.

NEO. Well, go within.

PHI. Nay, I must take thee too. My sickness craves thee for its comforter. [PHILOCTETES and NEOPTOLEMUS go into the cave

CHORUS. In fable I have heard, I 1 Though sight hath ne'er confirmed the word, How he who attempted once the couch supreme, To a whirling wheel by Zeus the all-ruler bound, Tied head and heel, careering ever round, Atones his impious unsubstantial dream. Of no man else, through eye or ear, Have I discerned a fate more full of fear Than yonder sufferer's of the cureless wound: Who did no violence, defrauded none:— A just man, had he dwelt among the just Unworthily behold him thrust Alone to hear the billows roar That break around a rugged shore! How could he live, whose life was thus consumed with moan?

Where neighbour there was none: I 2 No arm to stay him wandering lone, Unevenly, with stumbling steps and sore; No friend in need, no kind inhabitant, To minister to his importunate want, No heart whereto his pangs he might deplore. None who, whene'er the gory flow Was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow, Or cull from teeming Earth some genial plant To allay the anguish of malignant pain And soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe. 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 Earth II 1 Whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men, But only now and then With winged things, by his wing'd shafts brought low, He stayed his hunger from his bow. 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[6]. [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!

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, 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, Menelaues, 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!

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, Hath 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 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.

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, obdurate 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, 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.

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. 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 Why fetch me hence and take me? To what end? I am nothing, dead to you this many a year. How, O thou Heaven-abhorred! am I not now Lame and of evil smell? how shall ye vaunt Before the gods drink-offering or the fat Of victims, if I sail among your crew? For this, as ye professed, was the chief cause Why ye disowned me. Perish!—So ye shall, For the wrong done me, if the Heavens be just. And that they are, I know. Else had ye ne'er Sailed on this errand for an outcast wretch, Had they not pricked your heart with thoughts of me. Oh, if ye pity me, chastising powers, And thou, the Genius of my land, revenge, Revenge this crime on all their heads at once! My life is pitiable; but if I saw Their ruin, I would think me well and strong.

CH. How full of bitterness is his resolve, Wrathfully spoken with unbending will!

OD. I might speak long in answer, did the time Give scope, but now one thing is mine to say. I am known to vary with the varying need; And when 'tis tried, who can be just and good, My peer will not be found for piety. But though on all occasions covetous Of victory, this once I yield to thee, And willingly. Unhand him there. Let go! Leave him to stay. What further use of thee, When we have ta'en these arms? Have we not Teucer, Skilled in this mystery? Yea, I may boast Myself thine equal both in strength and aim To wield them. Fare thee well, then! Thou art free To roam thy barren isle. We need thee not. Let us be going! And perchance thy gift May bring thy destined glory to my brow.

PHI. What shall I do? Alas, shalt thou be seen Graced with mine arms amongst Achaean men?

OD. No more! I am going.

PHI. O Achilles' child! Wilt thou, too, vanish? Must I lose thy voice?

OD. Come on, and look not, noble though thou be, Lest thou undo our fortune.

PHI. Mariners, Must ye, too, leave me thus disconsolate? Will ye not pity me?

CH. Our captain's here. Whate'er he saith to thee, that we too speak.

NEO. My chief will call me weakling, soft of heart; But go not yet, since our friend bids you stay. Till we have prayed, and all be ready on board. Meanwhile, perchance, he may conceive some thought That favours our design. We two will start; And ye, be swift to speed forth at our call. [Exit

MONODY.

PHI. O cavern of the hollow rock, I 1 Frosty and stifling in the seasons' change! How I seem fated never more to range From thy sad covert, that hath felt the shock Of pain on pain, steeped with my wretchedness. Now thou wilt be my comforter in death! Grief haunted harbour, choked with my distress! Tell me, what hope is mine of daily food, Who will be careful for my good? I fail. Ye cowering creatures of the sky, Oh, as ye fly, Snatch me, borne upward on the blast's sharp breath!

CH. 1. Thou child of misery! No mightier power hath this decreed, But thine own will and deed Hath bound thee thus in grief, Since, when kind Heaven had sent relief And shown the path of wisdom firm and sure, Thou still hast chosen this evil to endure.

PHI. O hapless life, sore bruised with pain! I 2 No more with living mortal may I dwell, But ever pining in this desert cell With lonely grief, all famished must remain And perish; for what food is mine to share, When this strong arm no longer wields my bow, Whose fleet shafts flew to smite the birds of air I was o'erthrown by words, words dark and blind, Low-creeping from a traitorous mind! O might I see him, whose unrighteous thought This ruin wrought, Plagued for no less a period with like woe!

CH. 2. Not by our craft thou art caught, But Destiny divine hath wrought The net that holds thee bound. Aim not at us the sound Of thy dread curse with dire disaster fraught. On others let that light! 'Tis our true care Thou should'st not scorn our love in thy despair.

PHI. Now, seated by the shore II 1 Of heaving ocean hoar, He mocks me, waving high The sole support of my precarious being, The bow which none e'er held but I. O treasure of my heart, torn from this hand, That loved thy touch,—if thou canst understand, How sad must be thy look in seeing Thy master destined now no more, Like Heracles of yore, To wield thee with an archer's might! But in the grasp of an all-scheming wight, O bitter change! thou art plied; And swaying ever by his side, Shalt view his life of dark malignity, Teeming with guileful shames, like those he wrought on me.

CH. 3. Nobly to speak for the right Is manly and strong; But not with an envious blight To envenom the tongue; He to serve all his friends of the fleet, One obeying a many-voiced word, Through the minist'ring craft of our lord Hath but done what was meet.

PHI. Come, legions of the wild, II 2 Of aspect fierce or mild, Fowl from the fields of air, And beasts that roam with bright untroubled gaze, No longer bounding from my lair Fly mine approach! Now freely without fear Ye may surround my covert and come near, Treading the savage rock-strewn ways. The might I had is no more mine, Stolen with those arms divine. This fort hath no man to defend. Come satisfy your vengeful jaws, and rend These quivering tainted limbs! Already hovering death bedims My fainting sense. Who thus can live on air, Tasting no gift of earth that breathing mortals share?

CH. 4. Ah! do not shrink from thy friend, If love thou reverest, But know 'tis for thee to forfend The fate which thou fearest. The lot thou hast here to deplore, Is sad evermore to maintain, And hardship in sickness is sore, But sorest in pain.

PHI. Kindest of all that e'er before III Have trod this shore, Again thou mind'st me of mine ancient woe! Why wilt thou ruin me? What wouldst thou do?

CH. 5. How mean'st thou?

PHI. If to Troy, of me abhorred Thou e'er hast hoped to lead me with thy lord.

CH. 6. So I judge best.

PHI. Begone at once, begone!

CH. 7. Sweet is that word, and swiftly shall be done! Let us be gone, each to his place on board. [The Chorus make as if they were going

PHI. Nay, by dear Zeus, to whom all suppliants moan Leave me not yet!

CH. 8. Keep measure in thy word.

PHI. Stay, by Heaven, stay!

CH. 9. What wilt thou say?

PHI. O misery! O cruel power That rul'st this hour! I am destroyed. Ah me! O poor torn limb, what shall I do with thee Through all my days to be? Ah, strangers, come, return, return!

CH. 10. What new command are we to learn Crossing thy former mind?

PHI. Ah! yet be kind. Reprove not him, whose tongue, with grief distraught, Obeys not, in dark storms, the helm of thought!

CH. 11. Come, poor friend, the way we call.

PHI. Never, learn it once for all! Not though he, whom Heaven obeys, Blast me with fierce lightning's blaze! Perish Troy, and all your host, That have chosen, to their cost, To despise and cast me forth, Since my wound obscured my worth! Ah, but, strangers, if your sense Hath o'er-mastered this offence, Yield but one thing to my prayer!

CH. 12. What wouldst thou have?

PHI. Some weapon bare, Axe or sword or sharpened dart, Bring it to content my heart.

CH. 13. What is thy new intent?

PHI. To sever point by point This body, joint from joint. On bloody death my mind is bent.

CH. 14. Wherefore?

PHI. To see my father's face.

CH. 15. Where upon earth?

PHI. He hath no place Where sun doth shine, but in the halls of night. O native country, land of my delight, Would I were blest one moment with thy sight! Why did I leave thy sacred dew And loose my vessels from thy shore, To join the hateful Danaaen crew And lend them succour? Oh, I am no more!

LEADER OF CH. Long since thou hadst seen me nearing yonder ship, Had I not spied Odysseus and the son Of great Achilles hastening to our side.

OD. Wilt thou not tell me why thou art hurrying This backward journey with reverted speed?

NEO. To undo what I have wrongly done to-day.

OD. Thy words appal me. What is wrongly done?

NEO. When in obeying thee and all the host—

OD. Thou didst what deed that misbecame thy life?

NEO. I conquered with base stratagem and fraud—

OD. Whom? What new plan is rising in thy mind?

NEO. Not new. But to the child of Poeas here—

OD. What wilt thou do? I quake with strange alarm.

NEO. From whom I took these weapons, back again——

OD. O Heaven! thou wilt not give them! Mean'st thou this?

NEO. Yea, for I have them through base sinful means.

OD. I pray thee, speak'st thou thus to anger me?

NEO. If the truth anger thee, the truth is said.

OD. Achilles' son! What word is fallen from thee?

NEO. Must the same syllables be thrice thrown forth?

OD. Once was too much. Would they had ne'er been said!

NEO. Enough. Thou hast heard my purpose clearly told.

OD. I know what power shall thwart thee in the deed.

NEO. Whose will shall hinder me?

OD. The Achaean host And I among them.

NEO. Thou'rt sharp-witted, sure! But little wit or wisdom show'st thou here.

OD. Neither thy words nor thy design is wise.

NEO. But if 'tis righteous, that is better far.

OD. How righteous, to release what thou hast ta'en By my device?

NEO. I sinned a shameful sin, And I will do mine utmost to retrieve it.

OD. How? Fear'st thou not the Achaeans in this act?

NEO. In doing right I fear not them nor thee.

OD. I call thy power in question.

NEO. Then I'll fight, Not with Troy's legions, but with thee.

OD. Come on! Let fortune arbitrate.

NEO. Thou seest my hand Feeling the hilt.

OD. And me thou soon shalt see Doing the like and dallying not!—And yet I will not touch thee, but will go and tell The army, that shall wreak this on thy head. [Exit

NEO. Thou show'st discretion: which if thou preserve, Thou may'st maintain a path exempt from pain. Ho! son of Poeas, Philoctetes, come And leave thy habitation in the rock.

PHI. What noise again is troubling my poor cave? Why do ye summon me? What crave ye, sirs? Ha! 'tis some knavery. Are ye come to add Some monster evil to my mountainous woe?

NEO. Fear not, but hearken to what now I speak.

PHI. I needs must fear thee, whose fair words erewhile Brought me to bitter fortune.

NEO. May not men Repent and change?

PHI. Such wast thou in thy talk, When thou didst rob me of my bow,—so bright Without, so black within.

NEO. Ah, but not now, Assure thee! Only let me hear thy will, Is 't constant to remain here and endure, Or to make voyage with us?

PHI. Stop, speak no more! Idle and vain will all thine utterance be.

NEO. Thou art so resolved?

PHI. More firmly than I say.

NEO. I would I might have brought thee to my mind, But since my words are out of tune, I have done.

PHI. Thou wert best. No word of thine can touch my soul Or win me to thy love, who by deceit Hast reft my life away. And then thou com'st To school me,—of noblest father, basest son! Perish, the Atridae first of all, and then Laertes' child, and thou!

NEO. Curse me no more, But take this hallowed weapon from my hand.

PHI. What words are these? Am I again deceived?

NEO. No, by the holiest name of Zeus on high!

PHI. O voice of gladness, if thy speech be true!

NEO. The deed shall prove it. Only reach thy hand, And be again sole master of thy bow. [ODYSSEUS appears

OD. But I make protest, in the sight of Heaven, For Atreus' sons, and all the Achaean host.

PHI. Dear son, whose voice disturbs us? Do I hear Odysseus?

OD. Ay, and thou behold'st him nigh, And he shall force thee to the Trojan plain, Howe'er Achilles' offspring make or mar.

PHI. This shaft shall bear thee sorrow for that boast.

NEO. Let it not fly, by Heaven!

PHI. Dear child, let go Mine arm!

NEO. I will not. [Exit ODYSSEUS

PHI. Ah! Why hast thou robbed My bow of bringing down mine enemy?

NEO. This were ignoble both for thee and me.

PHI. One thing is manifest, the first o' the host Lying forerunners of the Achaean band, Are brave with words, but cowards with the steel.

NEO. Well, now the bow is thine. Thou hast no cause For blame or anger any more 'gainst me.

PHI. None. Thou hast proved thy birthright, dearest boy. Not from the loins of Sisyphus thou earnest, But from Achilles, who in life was held Noblest of men alive, and now o' the dead.

NEO. It gladdens me that thou shouldst speak in praise Both of my sire and me. But hear me tell The boon for which I sue thee.—Mortal men Must bear such evils as high Heaven ordains; But those afflicted by self-chosen ills, Like thine to-day, receive not from just men Or kind indulgence or compassionate thought. And thou art restive grown, and wilt not hearken, But though one counsel thee with kind'st intent, Wilt take him for a dark malignant foe. Yet, calling Zeus to witness for my soul, Once more I will speak. Know this, and mark it well: Thou bear'st this sickness by a heavenly doom, Through coming near to Chrysa's sentinel, The lurking snake, that guards the sky-roofed fold[7]. And from this plague thou ne'er shall find reprieve While the same Sun god rears him from the east And droops to west again, till thou be come Of thine own willing mind to Troia's plain, Where our physicians, sons of Phoebus' child[8], Shall soothe thee from thy sore, and thou with me And with this bow shalt take Troy's citadel. How do I know this? I will tell thee straight We have a Trojan captive, Helenus, Both prince and prophet, who hath clearly told This must be so, yea, and ere harvest time This year, great Troy must fall, else if his words Be falsified, who will may slay the seer. Now, since thou know'st of this, yield thy consent; For glorious is the gain, being singled forth From all the Greeks as noblest, first to come To healing hands, and then to win renown Unrivalled, vanquishing all tearful Troy.

PHI. Oh how I hate my life! Why must it keep This breathing form from sinking to the shades? How can I prove a rebel to his mind Who thus exhorts me with affectionate heart? And yet, oh misery! must I give way? Then how could I endure the light of heaven? With whom could I exchange a word? Ay me! Eyes that have seen each act of my sad life, How could ye bear it, to behold the sons Of Atreus, my destroyers, comrades now And friends! Laertes' wicked son, my friend! And less I feel the grief of former wrong Than shudder with expectance of fresh harm They yet may work on me. For when the mind Hath once been mother of an evil brood, It nurses nought but evils. Yea, at thee I marvel. Thou should'st ne'er return to Troy, Nor suffer me to go, when thou remember'st What insult they have done thee, ravishing Thy father's rights from thee. And wilt thou then Sail to befriend them, pressing me in aid? Nay, do not, son; but, even as thou hast sworn, Convey me home, and thou, in Scyros dwelling, Leave to their evil doom those evil men. So thou shalt win a twofold gratitude From me and from my father, and not seem, Helping vile men, to be as vile as they.

NEO. 'Tis fairly spoken. Yet I would that thou Relying on my word and on Heaven's aid, Would'st voyage forth from Lemnos with thy friend.

PHI. Mean'st thou to Troy, and to the hateful sons Of Atreus, me, with this distressful limb?

NEO. Nay, but to those that will relieve the pain Of thy torn foot and heal thee of thy plague.

PHI. Thy words are horrible. What mean'st thou, boy?

NEO. The act I deem the noblest for us both.

PHI. Wilt thou speak so? Where is thy fear of Heaven?

NEO. Why should I fear, when I see certain gain?

PHI. Gain for the sons of Atreus, or for me?

NEO. Methinks a friend should give thee friendly counsel.

PHI. Friendly, to hand me over to my foes?

NEO. Ah, be not hardened in thy misery!

PHI. I know thou wilt ruin me by what thou speakest.

NEO. Not I. The case is dark to thee, I see.

PHI. I know the Atreidae cast me on this rock.

NEO. But how, if they should save thee afterward?

PHI. They ne'er shall make me see Troy with my will.

NEO. Hard is my fortune, then, if by no sleight Of reasoning I can draw thee to my mind. For me, 'twere easiest to end speech, that thou Might'st live on as thou livest in hopeless pain.

PHI. Then leave me to my fate!—But thou hast touched My right hand with thine own, and given consent To bear me to my home. Do this, dear son! And do not linger to take thought of Troy. Enough that name hath echoed in my groans.

NEO. If thou wilt, let us be going.

PHI. Nobly hast thou said the word.

NEO. Lean thy steps on mine.

PHI. As firmly as my foot will strength afford.

NEO. Ah! but how shall I escape Achaean anger?

PHI. Do not care!

NEO. Ah! but should they spoil my country!

PHI. I to shield thee will be there.

NEO. How to shield me, how to aid me?

PHI. With the shafts of Heracles I will scare them.

NEO. Give thy blessing to this isle, and come in peace.

HERACLES appears from above.

HERACLES. First, son of Poeas, wait till thou hast heard The voice of Heracles, and weighed his word. Him thou beholdest from the Heavenly seat Come down, for thee leaving the blest retreat, To tell thee all high Zeus intends, and stay Thy purpose in the journey of to-day. Then hear me, first how after my long toils By strange adventure I have found and won Immortal glory, which thine eyes perceive; And the like lot, I tell thee, shall be thine, After these pains to rise to glorious fame. Sailing with this thy comrade to Troy-town, First thou shalt heal thee from thy grievous sore, And then, being singled forth from all the host As noblest, thou shalt conquer with that bow Paris, prime author of these years of harm, And capture Troy, and bear back to thy hall The choicest guerdon, for thy valour's meed, To Oeta's vale and thine own father's home. But every prize thou tak'st be sure thou bear Unto my pyre, in memory of my bow. This word, Achilles' offspring, is for thee No less. For, as thou could'st not without him, So, without thee, he cannot conquer Troy. Then, like twin lions hunting the same hill, Guard thou him, and he thee! and I will send Asclepius Troyward to relieve thy pain. For Ilion now a second time must fall Before the Herculean bow. But, take good heed, Midst all your spoil to hold the gods in awe. For our great Father counteth piety Far above all. This follows men in death, And fails them not when they resign their breath.

PHI. Thou whom I have longed to see, Thy dear voice is law to me.

NEO. I obey with gladdened heart.

HER. Lose no time: at once depart! Bright occasion and fair wind Urge your vessel from behind.

PHI. Come, let me bless the region ere I go. Poor house, sad comrade of my watch, farewell! Ye nymphs of meadows where soft waters flow Thou ocean headland, pealing thy deep knell, Where oft within my cavern as I lay My hair was moist with dashing south-wind's spray, And ofttimes came from Hermes' foreland high Sad replication of my storm-vext cry; Ye fountains and thou Lycian water sweet,— I never thought to leave you, yet my feet Are turning from your paths,—we part for aye. Farewell! and waft me kindly on my way, O Lemnian earth enclosed by circling seas, To sail, where mighty Fate my course decrees, And friendly voices point me, and the will Of that heroic power, who doth this act fulfil.

CH. Come now all in one strong band; Then, ere loosing from the land, Pray we to the nymphs of sea Kind protectresses to be, Till we touch the Trojan strand.

* * * * *



OEDIPUS AT COLONOS

THE PERSONS

OEDIPUS, old and blind. ANTIGONE, his daughter, a young girl. ISMENE, his daughter, a young girl. CHORUS of Village Guardians. An Athenian. THESEUS, King of Athens. CREON, Envoy from Thebes. POLYNICES, the elder son of Oedipus. Messenger.

SCENE. Colonos.



Oedipus had remained at Thebes for some time after his fall. But he was afterwards banished by the command of Creon, with the consent of his own sons. Their intention at first was to lay no claim to the throne. But by-and-by ambition prevailed with Eteocles, the younger- born, and he persuaded Creon and the citizens to banish his elder brother. Polynices took refuge at Argos, where he married the daughter of Adrastus, and levied an army of auxiliaries to support his pretensions to the throne of Thebes. Before going into exile Oedipus had cursed his sons.

Antigone after a while fled forth to join her father and support him in his wanderings. Ismene also once brought him secret intelligence.

Years have now elapsed, and the Delphian oracle proclaims that if Oedipus dies in a foreign land the enemies of Thebes shall overcome her.

In ignorance of this fact, Oedipus, now aged as well as blind, and led by his daughter Antigone, appears before the grove of the Eumenides, at Colonos, in the neighbourhood of Athens. He has felt an inward intimation, which is strengthened by some words of the oracle received by him long since at Delphi, that his involuntary crimes have been atoned for, and that the Avenging Deities will now receive him kindly and make his cause their own.

After some natural hesitation on the part of the village-councillors of Colonos, Oedipus is received with princely magnanimity by Theseus, who takes him under the protection of Athens, and defends him against the machinations of Creon.

Thus the blessing of the Gods, which Oedipus carried with him, is secured to Athens, and denied to Thebes. The craft of Creon and the prayers of Polynices alike prove unavailing. Then the man of many sorrows, whose essential nobleness has survived them all, passes away mysteriously from the sight of men.

The scene is laid at Colonos, a suburb of Athens much frequented by the upper classes, especially the Knights (see Thuc. viii. 67); and before the sacred grove of the Eumenides, or Gentle Goddesses, a euphemistic title for the Erinyes, or Goddesses of Vengeance.



OEDIPUS AT COLONOS

OEDIPUS. ANTIGONE.

OEDIPUS. Antigone, child of the old blind sire, What land is here, what people? Who to-day Shall dole to Oedipus, the wandering exile, Their meagre gifts? Little I ask, and less Receive with full contentment; for my woes, And the long years ripening the noble mind, Have schooled me to endure.—But, O my child, If thou espiest where we may sit, though near Some holy precinct, stay me and set me there, Till we may learn where we are come. 'Tis ours To hear the will of strangers and to obey.

ANTIGONE. Woe-wearied father, yonder city's wall That shields her, looks far distant; but this ground Is surely sacred, thickly planted over With olive, bay and vine, within whose bowers Thick-fluttering song-birds make sweet melody. Here then repose thee on this unhewn stone. Thou hast travelled far to-day for one so old.

OED. Seat me, my child, and be the blind man's guard.

ANT. Long time hath well instructed me in that.

OED. Now, canst thou tell me where we have set our feet?

ANT. Athens I know, but not the nearer ground.

OED. Ay, every man that met us in the way Named Athens.

ANT. Shall I go, then, and find out The name of the spot?

OED. Yes, if 'tis habitable.

ANT. It is inhabited. Yet I need not go. I see a man even now approaching here.

OED. How? Makes he towards us? Is he drawing nigh?

ANT. He is close beside us. Whatsoe'er thou findest Good to be spoken, say it. The man is here.

Enter an Athenian.

OED. O stranger, learning from this maid, who sees Both for herself and me, that thou art come With timely light to clear our troubled thought—

ATHENIAN. Ere thou ask more, come forth from where thou sittest! Ye trench on soil forbidden human tread.

OED. What soil? And to what Power thus consecrate?

ATH. None may go near, nor dwell there. 'Tis possessed By the dread sisters, children of Earth and Night.

OED. What holy name will please them, if I pray?

ATH. 'All seeing Gentle Powers' the dwellers here Would call them. But each land hath its own rule.

OED. And gently may they look on him who now Implores them, and will never leave this grove!

ATH. What saying is this?

OED. The watchword of my doom.

ATH. Yet dare I not remove thee, till the town Have heard my purpose and confirm the deed.

OED. By Heaven, I pray thee, stranger, scorn me not, Poor wanderer that I am, but answer me.

ATH. Make clear thy drift. Thou'lt get no scorn from me.

OED. Then, pray thee, tell me how ye name the place Where now I sit.

ATH. The region all around Is sacred. For 'tis guarded and possessed By dread Poseidon, and the Titan mind That brought us fire—Prometheus. But that floor Whereon thy feet are resting, hath been called The brazen threshold of our land, the stay Of glorious Athens, and the neighbouring fields Are fain to honour for their patron-god Thee, O Colonos, first of Knights, whose name [Pointing to a statue They bear in brotherhood and own for theirs. Such, friend, believe me, is this place, not praised In story, but of many a heart beloved.

OED. Then is the land inhabited of men?

ATH. By men, who name them from Colonos there.

OED. Have they a lord, or sways the people's voice?

ATH. Lord Theseus, child of Aegeus, our late king.

OED. Will some one of your people bring him hither?

ATH. Wherefore? What urgent cause requires his presence?

OED. He shall gain mightily by granting little.

ATH. Who can gain profit from the blind?

OED. The words These lips shall utter, shall be full of sight.

ATH. Well, thou look'st nobly, but for thy hard fate. This course is safe. Thus do. Stay where I found thee, Till I go tell the neighbour townsmen here Not of the city, but Colonos. They Shall judge for thee to abide or to depart. [Exit

OED. Tell me, my daughter, is the man away?

ANT. He is gone, father. I alone am near. Speak what thou wilt in peace and quietness.

OED. Dread Forms of holy Fear, since in this land Your sanctuary first gave my limbs repose, Be not obdurate to my prayer, nor spurn The voice of Phoebus, who that fateful day, When he proclaimed my host of ills to come, Told me of rest after a weary time, Where else but here? 'When I should reach my bourne, And find repose and refuge with the Powers Of reverend name, my troubled life should end With blessing to the men who sheltered me, And curses on their race who banished me and sent me wandering forth.' Whereof he vouched me Sure token, or by earthquake, or by fire From heaven, or thundrous voices. And I know Some aery message from your shrine hath drawn me With winged whisper to this grove. Not else Had ye first met me coming, nor had I Sate on your dread unchiselled seat of stone, With dry cold lips greeting your sober shrine. Then give Apollo's word due course, and give Completion to my life, if in your sight These toils and sorrows past the human bound Seem not too little. Kindly, gentle powers, Offspring of primal darkness, hear my prayer! Hear it, Athenai, of all cities queen, Great Pallas' foster-city! Look with ruth On this poor shadow of great Oedipus, This fading semblance of his kingly form.

ANT. Be silent now. There comes an aged band With jealous looks to know thine errand here.

OED. I will be silent, and thine arm shall guide My footstep under covert of the grove Out of the path, till I make sure what words These men will utter. Warily to observe Is the prime secret of the prudent mind. [Exeunt

CHORUS (entering). Keep watch! Who is it? Look! 1 Where is he? Vanished! Gone! Oh where? Most uncontrolled of men! Look well, inquire him out, Search keenly in every nook! —Some wanderer is the aged wight, A wanderer surely, not a native here. Else never had he gone within The untrodden grove Of these—unmarried, unapproachable in might, —Whose name we dare not breathe, But pass their shrine Without a look, without a word, Uttering the unheard voice of reverential thought. But now, one comes, they tell, devoid of awe, Whom, peering all around this grove I find not, where he abideth.

OED. (behind). Behold me! For I 'see by sound,' As mortals say.

CH. Oh, Oh! With horror I see him, with horror hear him speak.

OED. Pray you, regard me not as a transgressor!

CH. Defend us, Zeus! Who is that aged wight?

OED. Not one of happiest fate, Or enviable, O guardians of this land! 'Tis manifest; else had I not come hither Led by another's eyes, not moored my bark On such a slender stay.

CH. Alas! And are thine eyes 2 Sightless? O full of misery, As thou look'st full of years! But not, if I prevail, Shalt thou bring down this curse. Thou art trespassing. Yet keep thy foot From stumbling in that verdant, voiceless dell, Where running water as it fills The hallowed bowl, Mingles with draughts[1] of honey. Stranger, hapless one! Avoid that with all care. Away! Remove! Distance impedes the sound. Dost hear, Woe-burdened wanderer? If aught thou carest to bring Before our council, leave forbidden ground, And there, where all have liberty, Speak,—but till then, avaunt thee!

OED. Daughter, what must I think, or do?

ANT. My sire! We must conform us to the people's will, Yielding ere they compel.

OED. Give me thy hand.

ANT. Thou hast it.

OED. —Strangers, let me not Be wronged, when I have trusted you And come from where I stood!

CH. Assure thee, from this seat No man shall drag thee off against thy will.

OED. Farther?

CH. Advance thy foot.

OED. Yet more?

CH. Assist him onward Maiden, thou hast thy sight.

ANT. Come, follow, this way follow with thy darkened steps, Father, the way I am leading thee.

CH. Content thee, sojourning in a strange land, O man of woe! To eschew whate'er the city holds in hate, And honour what she loves!

OED. Then do thou lead me, child, Where with our feet secure from sin We may be suffered both to speak and hear. Let us not war against necessity.

CH. There! From that bench of rock Go not again astray.

OED. Even here?

CH. Enough, I tell thee.

OED. May I sit?

CH. Ay, crouch thee low adown Crooking thy limbs, upon the stone.

ANT. Father, this task is mine— Sink gently down into thy resting-place,

OED. Woe is me!

ANT. Supporting on this loving hand Thy reverend aged form.

OED. Woe, for my cruel fate! [OEDIPUS is seated

CH. Now thou unbendest from thy stubborn ways, O man of woe! Declare, what mortal wight thou art, That, marked by troublous fortune, here art led. What native country, shall we learn, is thine?

OED. O strangers, I have none! But do not—

CH. What dost thou forbid, old sir?

OED. Do not, oh, do not ask me who I am, Nor probe me with more question.

CH. What dost thou mean?

OED. My birth is dreadful.

CH. Tell it forth.

OED. What should I utter, O my child? Woe is me!

CH. Thy seed, thy father's name, stranger, pronounce!

OED. Alas! What must I do? My child!

ANT. Since no resource avails thee, speak!

OED. I will. I cannot hide it further.

CH. Ye are long about it. Haste thee!

OED. Know ye of one Begotten of Laius?

CH. Horror! Horror! Oh!

OED. Derived from Labdacus?

CH. O Heaven!

OED. Fate-wearied Oedipus?

CH. Art thou he?

OED. Fear not my words.

CH. Oh! Oh!

OED. Unhappy me!

CH. Oh!

OED. Daughter, what is coming?

CH. Away! Go forth. Leave ye the land. Begone!

OED. And where, then, is the promise thou hast given?

CH. No doom retributive attends the deed That wreaks prevenient wrong. Deceit, matched with deceit, makes recompense Of evil, not of kindness. Get thee forth! Desert that seat again, and from this land Unmooring speed thee away, lest on our state Thou bring some further bale!

MONODY.

ANT. O strangers, full of reverent care! Since ye cannot endure my father here, Aged and blind, Because ye have heard a rumour of the deeds He did unknowingly,—yet, we entreat you. Strangers, have pity on me, the hapless girl, Who pray for mine own sire and for none else, —Pray, looking in your eyes with eyes not blind. As if a daughter had appeared to you. Pleading for mercy to the unfortunate. We are in your hands as in the hand of God, Helpless. O then accord the unhoped for boon! By what is dear to thee, thy veriest own, I pray thee,—chattel or child, or holier name! Search through the world, thou wilt not find the man Who could resist the leading of a God.

CH. Daughter of Oedipus, be well assured We view with pity both thy case and his, But fear of Heavenly wrath confines our speech To that we have already said to you.

OED. What profit lives in fame and fair renown By unsubstantial rumour idly spread? When Athens is extolled with peerless praise For reverence, and for mercy!—She alone The sufferer's shield, the exile's comforter! What have I reaped hereof? Ye have raised me up From yonder seat, and now would drive me forth Fearing a name! For there is nought in me Or deeds of mine to make you fear. My life Hath more of wrong endured than of wrong done, Were it but lawful to disclose to you Wherefore ye dread me,—not my sin but theirs, My mother's and my sire's. I know your thought. Yet never can ye fasten guilt on me, Who, though I had acted with the clear'st intent, Were guiltless, for my deed requited wrong. But as it was, all blindly I went forth On that dire road, while they who planned my death Planned it with perfect knowledge. Therefore, sirs, By Heaven I pray you, as ye have bid me rise, Protect your suppliant without fail; and do not In jealous reverence for the blessed Gods Rob them of truest reverence, but know this:— God looks upon the righteousness of men And their unrighteousness, nor ever yet Hath one escaped who wrought iniquity. Take part, then, with the Gods, nor overcloud The golden fame of Athens with dark deeds; But as ye have pledged your faith to shelter me, Defend me and rescue, not rejecting me Through mere abhorrence of my ruined face. For on a holy mission am I come, Sent with rich blessings for your neighbours here. And when the head and sovereign of your folk Is present, ye shall learn the truth at full. Till then, be gracious to me, and not perverse.

CH. Thy meaning needs must strike our hearts with awe, Old wanderer! so weighty are the words That body it forth. Therefore we are content The Lord of Athens shall decide this case.

OED. And where is he who rules this country, sirs?

CH. He keeps his father's citadel. But one Is gone to fetch him, he who brought us hither.

OED. Think you he will consider the blind man, And come in person here to visit him?

CH. Be sure he will,—when he hath heard thy name.

OED. And who will carry that?

CH. 'Tis a long road; But rumour from the lips of wayfarers Flies far and wide, so that he needs must hear; And hearing, never doubt but he will come. So noised in every land hath been thy name, Old sovereign,—were he sunk in drowsiness, That sound would bring him swiftly to thy side.

OED. Well, may he come to bless his city and me! When hath not goodness blessed the giver of good?

ANT. O Heavens! What shall I say, what think, my father?

OED. Daughter Antigone, what is it?

ANT. I see A woman coming toward us, mounted well On a fair Sicilian palfrey, and her face With brow-defending hood of Thessaly Is shadowed from the sun. What must I think? Is it she or no? Can the eye so far deceive? It is. 'Tis not. Unhappy that I am, I know not.—Yes, 'tis she. For drawing near She greets me with bright glances, and declares Beyond a doubt, Ismene's self is here.

OED. What say'st thou, daughter?

ANT. That I see thy child, My sister. Soon her voice will make thee sure.

Enter ISMENE.

ISMENE. Father and sister!—names for ever dear! Hard hath it been to find you, yea, and hard I feel it now to look on you for grief.

OED. Child, art thou here?

ISM. Father! O sight of pain!

OED. Offspring and sister!

ISM. Woe for thy dark fate!

OED. Hast thou come, daughter?

ISM. On a troublous way.

OED. Touch me, my child!

ISM. I give a hand to both.

OED. To her and me?

ISM. Three linked in one sad knot.

OED. Child, wherefore art thou come?

ISM. In care for thee.

OED. Because you missed me?

ISM. Ay, and to bring thee tidings, With the only slave whom I could trust.

OED. And they, Thy brethren, what of them? Were they not there To take this journey for their father's good?

ISM. Ask not of them. Dire deeds are theirs to day.

OED. How in all points their life obeys the law Of Egypt, where the men keep house and weave Sitting within doors, while the wives abroad Provide with ceaseless toil the means of life. So in your case, my daughters, they who should Have ta'en this burden on them, bide at home Like maidens, while ye take their place, and lighten My miseries by your toil. Antigone, E'er since her childhood ended, and her frame Was firmly knit, with ceaseless ministry Still tends upon the old man's wandering, Oft in the forest ranging up and down Fasting and barefoot through the burning heat Or pelting rain, nor thinks, unhappy maid, Of home or comfort, so her father's need Be satisfied. And thou, that camest before, Eluding the Cadmeans, and didst tell me What words Apollo had pronounced on me. And when they banished me, stood'st firm to shield me, What news, Ismene, bring'st thou to thy sire To day? What mission sped thee forth? I know Thou com'st not idly, but with fears for me.

ISM. Father, I will not say what I endured In searching out the place that sheltered thee. To tell it o'er would but renew the pain. But of the danger now encompassing Thine ill starred sons,—of that I came to speak. At first they strove with Creon and declared The throne should be left vacant and the town Freed from pollution,—paying deep regard In their debate to the dark heritage Of ruin that o'ershadowed all thy race. Far different is the strife which holds them now, Since some great Power, joined to their sinful mind, Incites them both to seize on sovereign sway. Eteocles, in pride of younger years, Robbed elder Polynices of his right, Dethroned and banished him. To Argos then Goes exiled Polynices, and obtains Through intermarriage a strong favouring league, Whose word is, 'Either Argos vanquishes The seed of Cadmus or exalts their fame' This, father, is no tissue of empty talk, But dreadful truth, nor can I tell where Heaven Is to reveal his mercy to thy woe.

OED. And hadst thou ever hoped the Gods would care For mine affliction, and restore my life?

ISM. I hope it now since this last oracle.

OED. What oracle hath been declared, my child?

ISM. That they shall seek thee forth, alive or dead, To bring salvation to the Theban race.

OED. Who can win safety through such help as mine?

ISM. 'Tis said their victory depends on thee.

OED. When shrunk to nothing, am I indeed a man?

ISM. Yea, for the Gods uphold thee, who then destroyed.

OED. Poor work, to uphold in age who falls when young!

ISM. Know howsoe'er that Creon will be here For this same end, ere many an hour be spent.

OED. For what end, daughter? Tell me in plain speech.

ISM. To set thee near their land, that thou may'st be Beyond their borders, but within their power.

OED. What good am I, thus lying at their gate?

ISM. Thine inauspicious burial brings them woe.

OED. There needs no oracle to tell one that.

ISM. And therefore they would place thee near their land, Where thou may'st have no power upon thyself.

OED. Say then, shall Theban dust o'ershadow me?

ISM. The blood of kindred cleaving to thy hand, Father, forbids thee.

OED. Never, then, henceforth, Shall they lay hold on me!

ISM. If that be true, The brood of Cadmus shall have bale.

OED. What cause Having appeared, will bring this doom to pass?

ISM. Thy wrath, when they are marshalled at thy tomb.

OED. From whom hast thou heard this?

ISM. Sworn messengers Brought such report from Delphi's holy shrine.

OED. Hath Phoebus so pronounced my destiny?

ISM. So they declare who brought the answer back.

OED. Did my sons hear?

ISM. They know it, both of them.

OED. Villains, who, being informed of such a word, Turned not their thoughts toward me, but rather chose Ambition and a throne!

ISM. It wounds mine ear To hear it spoken, but the news I bring Is to that stern effect.

OED. Then I pray Heaven The fury of their fate-appointed strife May ne'er be quenched, but that the end may come According to my wish upon them twain To this contention and arbitrament Of battle which they now assay and lift The threatening spear! So neither he who wields The sceptred power should keep possession still, Nor should his brother out of banishment Ever return:—who, when their sire—when I Was shamefully thrust from my native land, Checked not my fall nor saved me, but, for them, I was driven homeless and proclaimed an exile. Ye will tell me 'twas in reason that the State Granted this boon to my express desire. Nay; for in those first hours of agony, When my heart raged, and it seemed sweetest to me To die the death, and to be stoned with stones, No help appeared to yield me that relief. But after lapse of days, when all my pain Was softened, and I felt that my hot spirit Had run to fierce excess of bitterness In wreaking mine offence—then, then the State Drove me for ever from the land, and they, Their father's sons, who might have saved their father, Cared not to help him, but betrayed by them, For lack of one light word, I wandered forth To homeless banishment and beggary. But these weak maidens to their nature's power Have striven to furnish me with means to live And dwell securely, girded round with love. My sons have chosen before their father's life A lordly throne and sceptred sovereignty. But never shall they win me to their aid, Nor shall the Theban throne for which they strive Bring them desired content. That well I know, Comparing with my daughter's prophecies Those ancient oracles which Phoebus once Spake in mine ear. Then let them send to seek me Creon, or who is strongest in their State. For if ye, strangers, will but add your might To the protection of these awful Powers, The guardians of your soil, to shelter me, Ye shall acquire for this your State a saviour Mighty to save, and ye shall vex my foes.

CH. Thou art worthy of all compassion, Oedipus, Thyself and these thy daughters. Now, moreover Since thou proclaim'st thyself our country's saviour I would advise thee for the best.

OED. Kind sir, Be my good guide. I will do all thou biddest.

CH. Propitiate then these holy powers, whose grove Received thee when first treading this their ground.

OED. What are the appointed forms? Advise me, sirs.

CH. First see to it that from some perennial fount Clean hands provide a pure drink-offering.

OED. And when I have gotten this unpolluted draught?

CH. You will find bowls, formed by a skilful hand, Whose brims and handles you must duly wreathe.

OED. With leaves or flocks of wool, or in what way?

CH. With tender wool ta'en from a young ewe-lamb.

OED. Well, and what follows to complete the rite?

CH. Next, make libation toward the earliest dawn.

OED. Mean'st thou from those same urns whereof thou speakest?

CH. From those three vessels pour three several streams, Filling the last to the brim.

OED. With what contents Must this be filled? Instruct me.

CH. Not with wine, But water and the treasure of the bee.

OED. And when leaf-shadowed Earth has drunk of this, What follows?

CH. Thou shalt lay upon her then From both thy hands a row of olive-twigs— Counting thrice nine in all—and add this prayer—

OED. That is the chief thing,—that I long to hear.

CH. As we have named them Gentle, so may they From gentle hearts accord their suppliant aid;— Be this thy prayer, or whoso prays for thee, Spoken not aloud, but so that none may hear; And in departing, turn not. This being done, I can stand by thee without dread. But else, I needs must fear concerning thee.

OED. My daughters, Have ye both heard our friends who inhabit here?

ANT. Yea, father; and we wait for thy command.

OED. I cannot go. Two losses hinder me, Two evils, want of strength and want of sight. Let one of you go and perform this service. One soul, methinks, in paying such a debt May quit a million, if the heart be pure. Haste, then, to do it. Only leave me not Untended. For I cannot move alone Nor without some one to support me and guide.

ISM. I will be ministrant. But let me know Where I must find the place of offering.

CH. Beyond this grove. And, stranger maid, if aught Seem wanting, there is one at hand to show it.

ISM. Then to my task. Meantime, Antigone, Watch by our sire. We must not make account Of labour that supplies a parent's need. [Exit

CH. Thy long since slumbering woe I would not wake again, I 1 But yet I long to learn.

OED. What hidden lore?

CH. The pain That sprang against thy life with spirit-mastering force.

OED. Ah, sirs, as ye are kind, re-open not that source Of unavoided shame.

CH. Friend, we would hear the tale Told truly, whose wide voice doth hourly more prevail.

OED. Misery!

CH. Be not loth!

OED. O bitterness!

CH. Consent. For all thou didst require we gave to thy content.

OED. Oh, strangers, I have borne an all-too-willing brand, I 2 Yet not of mine own choice.

CH. Whence? We would understand.

OED. Nought knowing of the curse she fastened on my head Thebe in evil bands bound me.

CH. Thy mother's bed, Say, didst thou fill? mine ear still echoes to the noise.

OED. 'Tis death to me to hear, but, these, mine only joys, Friends, are my curse.

CH. O Heaven!

OED. The travail of one womb Hath gendered all you see, one mother, one dark doom.

CH. How? Are they both thy race, and— II 1

OED. Sister branches too, Nursed at the self-same place with him from whom they grew.

CH. O horror!

OED. Ay, not one, ten thousand charged me then!

CH. O sorrow!

OED. Never done, an ever-sounding strain.

CH. O crime!

OED. By me ne'er wrought.

CH. But how?

OED. The guerdon fell. Would I had earned it not from those I served too well.

CH. But, hapless, didst thou slay— II 2

OED. What seek ye more to know?

CH. Thy father?

OED. O dismay! Ye wound me, blow on blow.

CH. Thy hand destroyed him.

OED. Yes. Yet lacks there not herein A plea for my redress.

CH. How canst thou clear that sin?

OED. I'll tell thee. For the deed, 'twas proved mine,—Oh 'tis true! Yet by Heaven's law I am freed:—I wist not whom I slew.

CH. Enough. For lo! where Aegeus' princely son, Theseus, comes hither, summoned at thy word.

Enter THESEUS.

THESEUS. From many voices in the former time Telling thy cruel tale of sight destroyed I have known thee, son of Laius, and to-day I know thee anew, in learning thou art here. Thy raiment, and the sad change in thy face, Proclaim thee who thou art, and pitying thee, Dark-fated Oedipus, I fain would hear What prayer or supplication thou preferrest To me and to my city, thou and this Poor maid who moves beside thee. Full of dread Must be that fortune thou canst name, which I Would shrink from, since I know of mine own youth, How in strange lands a stranger as thou art I bore the brunt of perilous circumstance Beyond all others; nor shall any man, Like thee an alien from his native home, Find me to turn my face from succouring him. I am a man and know it. To-morrow's good Is no more mine than thine or any man's.

OED. Thy noble spirit, Theseus, in few words Hath made my task of utterance brief indeed. Thou hast told aright my name and parentage And native city. Nought remains for me But to make known mine errand, and our talk Is ended.

THE. Tell me plainly thy desire.

OED. I come to offer thee this woe-worn frame, As a free boon,—not goodly in outward view. A better gift than beauty is that I bring.

THE. What boon dost thou profess to have brought with thee?

OED. Thou shalt know by and by,—not yet awhile.

THE. When comes the revelation of thine aid?

OED. When I am dead, and thou hast buried me.

THE. Thou cravest the last kindness. What's between Thou dost forget or else neglect.

OED. Herein One word conveys the assurance of the whole.

THE. You sum up your petition in brief form.

OED. Look to it. Great issues hang upon this hour.

THE. Mean'st thou in this the fortune of thy sons Or mine?

OED. I mean the force of their behest Compelling my removal hence to Thebes.

THE. So thy consent were sought, 'twere fair to yield.

OED. Once I was ready enough. They would not then.

THE. Wrath is not wisdom in misfortune, man!

OED. Nay, chide not till thou knowest.

THE. Inform me, then! I must not speak without just grounds.

OED. O Theseus, I am cruelly harassed with wrong heaped on wrong.

THE. Mean'st thou that prime misfortune of thy birth?

OED. No. That hath long been rumoured through the world.

THE. What, then, can be thy grief? If more than that, 'Tis more than human.

OED. Here is my distress:— I am made an outcast from my native land By mine own offspring. And return is barred For ever to the man who slew his sire.

THE. How then should they require thee to go near, And yet dwell separate?

OED. The voice of Heaven Will drive them to it.

THE. As fearing what reverse Prophetically told?

OED. Destined defeat By Athens in the Athenian land.

THE. What source Of bitterness 'twixt us and Thebes can rise?

OED. Dear son of Aegeus, to the Gods alone Comes never Age nor Death. All else i' the world Time, the all subduer, merges in oblivion. Earth and men's bodies weaken, fail, and perish. Faith withers, breach of faith springs up and glows And neither men nor cities that are friends Breathe the same spirit with continuing breath. Love shall be turned to hate, and hate to love With many hereafter, as with some to-day. And though, this hour, between great Thebes and thee No cloud be in the heaven, yet moving Time Enfolds a countless brood of days to come, Wherein for a light cause they shall destroy Your now harmonious league with severing war, Even where my slumbering form, buried in death, Coldly shall drink the life blood of my foes, If Zeus be Zeus, and his son Phoebus true. I would not speak aloud of mysteries. Then let me leave where I began. Preserve Thine own good faith, and thou shalt never say, Unless Heaven's promise fail me, that for nought Athens took Oedipus to dwell with her.

CH. My lord, long since the stranger hath professed Like augury of blessings to our land.

THE. And who would dare reject his proffered good? Whose bond with us of warrior amity Hath ne'er been sundered,—and to day he comes A God-sent suppliant, whose sacred hand Is rich with gifts for Athens and for me. In reverent heed whereof I ne'er will scorn The boon he brings, but plant him in our land. And if it please our friend to linger here, Ye shall protect him:—if to go with me Best likes thee, Oedipus,—ponder, and use Thy preference. For my course shall join with thine.

OED. Ye Heavens, reward such excellence!

THE. How, then? Is it thy choice now to go home with me?

OED. Yea, were it lawful. But in this same spot—

THE. What wouldst thou do? I'll not withstand thy will.

OED. I must have victory o'er my banishers.

THE. Thy dwelling with us, then, is our great gain?

OED. Yes, if thou fail me not, but keep thy word.

THE. Nay, fear not me! I will aye be true to thee.

OED. I will not bind thee, like a knave, with oaths.

THE. Oaths were no stronger than my simple word.

OED. What will ye do, then?

THE. What is that thou fearest?

OED. They will come hither.

THE. Thy guards will see to that.

OED. Beware, lest, if you leave me—

THE. Tell not me, I know my part.

OED. Terror will have me speak.

THE. Terror and I are strangers.

OED. But their threats! Thou canst not know—

THE. I know that none shall force Thee from this ground against thy will. Full oft Have threatening words in wrath been voluble, Yet, when the mind regained her place again, The threatened evil vanished. So to-day Bold words of boastful meaning have proclaimed Thy forcible abduction by thy kin. Yet shall they find (I know it) the voyage from Thebes, On such a quest, long and scarce navigable. Whate'er my thought, if Phoebus sent thee forth, I would bid thee have no fear. And howsoe'er, My name will shield thee from all injury.

CHORUS. Friend! in our land of conquering steeds thou art come I 1 To this Heaven-fostered haunt, Earth's fairest home, Gleaming Colonos, where the nightingale In cool green covert warbleth ever clear, True to the clustering ivy and the dear Divine, impenetrable shade, From wildered boughs and myriad fruitage made, Sunless at noon, stormless in every gale. Wood-roving Bacchus there, with mazy round, And his nymph nurses range the unoffended ground.

And nourished day by day with heavenly dew I 2 Bright flowers their never-failing bloom renew, From eldest time Deo and Cora's crown Full-flowered narcissus, and the golden beam Of crocus, while Cephisus' gentle stream In runnels fed by sleepless springs Over the land's broad bosom daily brings His pregnant waters, never dwindling down. The quiring Muses love to seek the spot And Aphrodite's golden car forsakes it not.

Here too a plant, nobler than e'er was known II 1 On Asian soil, grander than yet hath grown In Pelops' mighty Dorian isle, unsown, Free, self-create, the conquering foeman's fear, The kind oil-olive, silvery-green, Chief nourisher of childish life, is seen To burgeon best in this our mother-land. No warrior, young, nor aged in command, Shall ravage this, or scathe it with the spear; For guardian Zeus' unslumbering eye Beholds it everlastingly, And Athens' grey-eyed Queen, dwelling for ever near.

Yet one more praise mightier than all I tell II 2 O'er this my home, that Ocean loves her well, And coursers love her, children of the wave To grace these roadways Prince Poseidon first Framed for the horse, that else had burst From man's control, the spirit taming bit And the trim bark, rowed by strong arms, doth flit O'er briny seas with glancing motion brave Lord of the deep! by that thy glorious gift Thou hast established our fair town For ever in supreme renown— The Sea nymphs' plashing throng glide not more smoothly swift.

ANT. O land exalted thus in blessing and praise, Now is thy time to prove these brave words true.

OED. What hath befallen, my daughter?

ANT. Here at hand, Not unaccompanied, is Creon, father.

OED. Dear aged friends, be it yours now to provide My safety and the goal of my desire!

CH. It shall be so. Fear nought. I am old and weak, But Athens in her might is ever young.

Enter CREON.

CREON. Noble inhabiters of Attic ground I see as 'twere conceived within your eyes At mine approach some new engendered fear Nay, shrink not, nor let fall one fretful word. I bring no menace with me, for mine age Is feeble, and the state whereto I come Is mighty,—none in Hellas mightier,— That know I well. But I am sent to bring By fair persuasion to our Theban plain The reverend form of him now present here. Nor came this mission from one single will, But the commands of all my citizens Are on me, seeing that it becomes my birth To mourn his sorrows most of all the state Thou, then, poor sufferer, lend thine ear to me And come. All Cadmus' people rightfully Invite thee with one voice unto thy home, I before all,—since I were worst of men, Were I not pained at thy misfortunes, sir, —To see thee wandering in the stranger's land Aged and miserable, unhoused, unfed, Singly attended by this girl, whose fall To such a depth of undeserved woe I could not have imagined! Hapless maid! Evermore caring for thy poor blind head, Roving in beggary, so young, with no man To marry her,—a mark for all mischance. O misery, what deep reproach I have laid On thee and me and our whole ill-starred race! But who can hide evil that courts the day? Thou, therefore, Oedipus, without constraint, (By all the Gods of Cadmus' race I pray thee) Remove this horror from the sight of men By coming to the ancestral city and home Of thy great sires,—bidding a kind farewell To worthiest Athens, as is meet. But Thebes, Thy native land, yet more deserves thy love.

OED. Thou unabashed in knavery, who canst frame For every cause the semblance of a plea Pranked up with righteous seeming, why again Would'st thou contrive my ruin, and attempt To catch me where I most were grieved being caught? Beforetime, when my self-procured woes Were plaguing me, and I would fain have rushed To instant banishment, thou wouldst not then Grant this indulgence to my keen desire. But when I had fed my passion to the full, And all my pleasure was to live at home, Then 'twas thy cue to expel and banish me, Nor was this name of kindred then so dear. Now once again, when thou behold'st this city And people joined in friendly bands with me, Thou wouldst drag me from my promised resting-place, Hiding hard policy with courtly show. Strange kindness, to love men against their will! Suppose, when thou wert eager in some suit, No grace were granted thee, but all denied, And when thy soul was sated, then the boon Were offered, when such grace were graceless now; —Poor satisfaction then were thine, I ween! Even such a gift thou profferest me to-day, Kind in pretence, but really full of evil. These men shall hear me tell thy wickedness. Thou comest to take me, not unto my home, But to dwell outlawed at your gate, that so Your Thebe may come off untouched of harm From her encounter with Athenian men. Ye shall not have me thus. But you shall have My vengeful spirit ever in your land Abiding for destruction,—and my sons Shall have this portion in their father's ground, To die thereon. Know I not things in Thebes Better than thou? Yea, for 'tis mine to hear Safer intelligencers,—Zeus himself, And Phoebus, high interpreter of Heaven. Thou bring'st a tongue suborned with false pretence, Sharpened with insolence;—but in shrewd speech Thou shalt find less of profit than of bane. This thou wilt ne'er believe. Therefore begone! Let me live here. For even such life as mine Were not amiss, might I but have my will.

CR. Which of us twain, believ'st thou, in this talk Hath more profoundly sinned against thy peace?

OED. If thou prevail'st with these men present here Even as with me, I shall be well content.

CR. Unhappy man, will not even Time bring forth One spark of wisdom to redeem thine age?

OED. Thou art a clever talker. But I know No just man who in every cause abounds With eloquent speech.

CR. 'Tis not to abound in speech, When one speaks fitting words in season.

OED. Oh! As if thy words were few and seasonable!

CR. Not in the dotard's judgement.

OED. Get thee gone! I speak their mind as well—and dog not me Beleaguering mine appointed dwelling-place!

CR. These men shall witness—for thy word is naught; And for thy spiteful answer to thy friends, If once I seize thee—

OED. Who shall seize on me Without the will of my protectors here?

CR. Well, short of that, thou shalt have pain, I trow.

OED. What hast thou done, that thou canst threaten thus?

CR. One of thy daughters I have sent in charge. This other, I myself will quickly take.

OED. Oh, cruel!

CR. Soon thou'lt have more cause to cry.

OED. Hast thou my child?

CR. I will have both ere long.

OED. Dear friends, what will ye do? Will ye forsake me? Will you not drive the offender from your land?