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In a tall bark with all her sails unfurl'd
The great Ulysses, and the sage who train'd
May father's youth, came to me, and declared
(The truth yet doubtful) that, my father dead,
No arm but mine could raze the tow'rs of Troy.
I heard them, nor detain'd them long, but soon
Mounted the bark; for ardent my desire
To see the dead, whom I had never seen,
Ere in the earth entomb'd: their plea besides
Had honour in it, that the tow'rs of Troy
Should, if I join'd them, fall beneath my arm.
One day our vessel plough'd the foaming main,
And on the second with a favouring gale
I reach'd Sigæum, scene of bitter woe.
Soon as I landed, all the army round
Enclosing me with salutations greet,
And swear they see Achilles, now no more,
Living again; but he was stretch'd in death.
O'er him in all the anguish of my grief
I shed the pious tears; nor mourn'd him long,
But hasted to th' Atridæ, as my friends,
For such I deem'd them, and my father's arms
Demanded, and besides whateʼer was his.
In words that pierced my heart they thus replied,
Son of Achilles, thine be all the stores,
The treasures of thy father, save his arms;
Of these another now is lord, the son
Of old Laertes. Strait the swelling tear
345
Burst from my eye; and roused to ardent rage
345
Indignant I replied, Have you then dared,
345
Injurious men, to give my arms away,
345
My leave not ask'd? Ulysses, who was nigh,
345
Address'd me thus, To me, young man, these arms
345
With justice they have giv'n, for from the foe
345
I saved them, and their slaughter'd lord. Incensed
345
I pour'd a torrent of reproachful words
345
Against him, should he bear my arms away.
345
Stung with my words, though train'd to curb his rage,
345
Thus far to rising passion he gave way,
345
Thou wast not where we were, but distant far
345
From danger and from glory: but these arms,
Since in so high a strain thy tongue breaks loose,
To Scyros sailing never shalt thou bear.i
Thus slighted, thus insulted, of my right,
Robb'd by the vile Ulysses, of a race
As vile descended, I to Scyros steer
My homeward course; yet less with him enraged
Than with the potent kings; for every state,
And every army from their Chiefs are form'd.
And they, who mock at honour's dictates, learn
Their baseness from their lords. Thou hast heard all:
But know, whoe'er the sons of Atreus hates,
Must be to me, and to the gods, most dear.
In a tall bark with all her sails unfurl'd
The great Ulysses, and the sage who train'd
May father's youth, came to me, and declared
(The truth yet doubtful) that, my father dead,
No arm but mine could raze the tow'rs of Troy.
I heard them, nor detain'd them long, but soon
Mounted the bark; for ardent my desire
To see the dead, whom I had never seen,
Ere in the earth entomb'd: their plea besides
Had honour in it, that the tow'rs of Troy
Should, if I join'd them, fall beneath my arm.
One day our vessel plough'd the foaming main,
And on the second with a favouring gale
I reach'd Sigæum, scene of bitter woe.
Soon as I landed, all the army round
Enclosing me with salutations greet,
And swear they see Achilles, now no more,
Living again; but he was stretch'd in death.
O'er him in all the anguish of my grief
I shed the pious tears; nor mourn'd him long,
But hasted to th' Atridæ, as my friends,
For such I deem'd them, and my father's arms
Demanded, and besides whateʼer was his.
In words that pierced my heart they thus replied,
Son of Achilles, thine be all the stores,
The treasures of thy father, save his arms;
Of these another now is lord, the son
Of old Laertes. Strait the swelling tear
345
Burst from my eye; and roused to ardent rage
345
Indignant I replied, Have you then dared,
345
Injurious men, to give my arms away,
345
My leave not ask'd? Ulysses, who was nigh,
345
Address'd me thus, To me, young man, these arms
345
With justice they have giv'n, for from the foe
345
I saved them, and their slaughter'd lord. Incensed
345
I pour'd a torrent of reproachful words
345
Against him, should he bear my arms away.
345
Stung with my words, though train'd to curb his rage,
345
Thus far to rising passion he gave way,
345
Thou wast not where we were, but distant far
345
From danger and from glory: but these arms,
Since in so high a strain thy tongue breaks loose,
To Scyros sailing never shalt thou bear.i
Thus slighted, thus insulted, of my right,
Robb'd by the vile Ulysses, of a race
As vile descended, I to Scyros steer
My homeward course; yet less with him enraged
Than with the potent kings; for every state,
And every army from their Chiefs are form'd.
And they, who mock at honour's dictates, learn
Their baseness from their lords. Thou hast heard all:
But know, whoe'er the sons of Atreus hates,
Must be to me, and to the gods, most dear.
Chorus
Philoctetes. Sophocles. Robert Potter (Translator). London. 1820.