Neoptolemus
Thus then it was. Soon as Achilles died.
415
Phoenix, the guardian of his tender years,
415
Instant sailed forth, and sought me out at Scyros ;
415
With him the wary chief Ulysses came.
415
They told me then (or true or false I know not),
415
My father dead, by me, and me alone
415
Proud Troy must fall. I yielded to their prayers ;
415
I hoped to see at least the dear remains
415
Of him whom living I had long in vain
415
Wished to behold. Safe at Sigeum's port
415
Soon we arrived. In crowds the numerous host
415
Thronged to embrace me, called the gods to witness
415
In me once more they saw their loved Achilles
415
To life restored ; but he, alas ! was gone.
415
I shed the duteous tear, then sought my friends
415
Th' Atridse — friends I thought 'em ! — claimed the arms
415
Of my dead father, and what else remained
415
His late possession : when — O cruel words !
And wretched I to hear them — thus they answered :
" Son of Achilles, thou in vain demandst
Those arms already to Ulysses given ;
The rest be thine." I wept. " And is it thus,"
Indignant I replied, "ye dare to give
My right away?" " Know, boy," Ulysses cried,
" That right was mine, and therefore they bestowed
The boon on me : me who preserved the arms,
And him who bore them too." With anger fired
At this proud speech, I threatened all that rage
Could dictate to me if he not returned them.
Stung with my words, yet calm, he answered me :
*' Thou wert not with us ; thou wert in a place,
Where thou shouldst not have been ; and since thou
meanst
To brave ns tluis, Ivnow, lliou shalt never bear
420
Those arms \^^th thee to Scyros; 'tis resolved."
420
Thus injured, thus deprived of all I held
420
Most precious, by the worst of men, 1 left
420
The hateful place, and seek my native soil.
420
Nor do 1 blame so much the proud IHysses
420
As his base masters — army, city, all
420
Depend on those who rule. When men grow vile
420
The guilt is theirs who taught them to be wicked.
420
I've told thee all, and liim who hates the Atridre
420
I liold a friend to me and to the gods.
420
O Earth ! thou mother of great Jove,
420
Embracing all with universal love,
420
Author l^enign of every good.
420
Through whom Pactolus rolls his golden flood !
420
To thee, whom in thy rapid car
420
Fierce lions draw, I rose and made my prayer-
To thee I made my sorrows known,
When from Achilles' injured son
Th' Atridse gave the prize, that fatal day
When proud Ulysses bore his arms away.
PniL. I wonder not, my friend, to see you here,
And I believe the tale ; for well 1 know
The man who wronged you, know the base Ulysses
Falsehood and fraud dwell on his lips, and nought
That's just or good can be expected from him.
He dare attempt it.
I had ne'er been spoiled
Had he been living.
Thus of my right.
Is he then dead ?
He is.
Philoctetes. Sophocles. Thomas Francklin (Translator). London. 1758–1759.