Philoctetes
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Oh what a wretch am. I, and to the gods
How hateful, that no tidings of my woes ..
Have reach'd my house, nor any realm of Greece!
While they whose impious arts exposed me here,
Deride me, and conceal the barbarous deed,
My wound still rankling, and my pains more fierce.
Know then, thou son of an illustrious sire,
Son of Achilles, I am he, whose name
Widely divulged perchance hath reach'd thine ears,
Lord of the arms of Hercules, the son
Of Poœas, Philoctetes; whom the Chiefs,
And Cephallene's king, here basely left
An outcast, and alone, with dire disease...
Consumed, and tortured with this gnawing wound
By the fell serpent's venom'd tooth impress'd.
In this ill plight they left me here alone, "
From Chryse when on this wild coast we touch'd...
As wearied with the tossing of the waves.........
They saw me sleeping on the shore, beneath
This rock's rude covering, with malignant joy
They left me, and sail'd hence, a few mean rågs,
Meet for a wretch like me, beside me laid,
And food, a scanty pittance; such be theirs!
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Think from that sleep, my son, how I awoke
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When they were gone; think on my tears, my groans,
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Such ills lamenting, when I saw my ships,
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With which I hither sail'd, all out at sea,
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And steering hence; no mortal in the place,
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Not one to succour me, not one to lend
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His lenient hand to mitigate my wound..
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On every side I roll'd my eyes, and saw
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Nothing but wretchedness; of that enough....
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Time after time roll’d on; this narrow cave
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I made my mansion, and these hands alone!
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Supplied my wants; my bow procured me food,
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Piercing the doves on wing; beneath my shafts!
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Whene'er they fell, I trail'd my foot along
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In anguish; so when thirst compell'd me forth,
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Or the inclement winter's piercing frost
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To break a few dry sticks, out crawl'd this wretch
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Devising shifts: fire was not here; I struck
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Flint against flint, and raised the latent sparks
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With pain: thus cherish'd life hath been preserved.
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This sheltering mansion, with such cheering fire,
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Hath furnish'd me with all things, but a cure 1.
To my disease. Now learn from me the state
Of this rude isle: no mariner through choice
Adventures on this coast; for no safe port,
Receives his bark, no mart is open here
For traffic, and no hospitable door
To give him welcome; to these shores his course..
No wise man steers; some in a length of time,
Which rolls along events surpassing thought,
Have been driv'n hither; these, my son, when here,
In words have pitied me: nay, they have giv'n,
Touch'd with compassion, some small share of food,
Some raiment; but entreaties all were vain,
Not one, though oft I urged the fond request,
Would bear me to my household gods, and save
This life; the tenth sad year now rolls its course,
Since here with wretchedness and famine pierced
I waste away, and feed my rankling wound.
These wrongs from the Atridæ I sustain,
And from Ulysses, whose unfeeling heart
Ne'er knew the touch of pity: on their heads
May the just gods pour miseries great as mine!