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 ;
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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
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Proud Troy must fall. I yielded to their prayers ;
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I hoped to see at least the dear remains
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Of him whom living I had long in vain
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Wished to behold. Safe at Sigeum's port
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Soon we arrived. In crowds the numerous host
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Thronged to embrace me, called the gods to witness
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In me once more they saw their loved Achilles
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To life restored ; but he, alas ! was gone.
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I shed the duteous tear, then sought my friends
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Th' Atridse — friends I thought 'em ! — claimed the arms
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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
To brave ns tluis, Ivnow, lliou shalt never bear
420
Those arms \^^th thee to Scyros; 'tis resolved."
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Thus injured, thus deprived of all I held
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Most precious, by the worst of men, 1 left
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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
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Depend on those who rule. When men grow vile
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The guilt is theirs who taught them to be wicked.
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I've told thee all, and liim who hates the Atridre
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I liold a friend to me and to the gods.
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O Earth ! thou mother of great Jove,
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Embracing all with universal love,
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Author l^enign of every good.
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Through whom Pactolus rolls his golden flood !
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To thee, whom in thy rapid car
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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.
