Then bide thou here, and wait for his approach:
I will withdraw, lest I should meet his eye.
Our sentinels shall to the ship return,
And if ye seem to me to tarry long,
I will despatch the same man back again,
Having disguised him as a shipmaster,
That unsuspect he may my bidding do.
My son, in riddles he will speak to thee,
And see that thou dost read his riddle right.
I'll to the ship and leave the rest to thee.
May Hermes, god of cunning, help his own,
And may Athene, Queen of victory
And cities, save her votary once more.
* * * * *
THE HERO BETRAYED.
Neoptolemus, having filched the bow of Philoctetes, Philoctetes prays him to restore it.
LINES 927-962.
PHILOCTETES
O pest, O bane, O of all villainy
Vile masterpiece, what hast thou done to me?
How am I duped? Wretch, hast thou no regard
For the unfortunate, the suppliant?
Thou tak'st my life when thou dost take my bow.
Give it me back, good youth, I do entreat.
O by thy gods, rob me not of my life.
Alas! he answers not, but as resolved
Upon denial, turns away his face.
O havens, headlands, lairs of mountain beasts,
That my companions here have been, O cliffs
Steep-faced, since other audience have I none,
In your familiar presence I complain
Of the wrong done me by Achilles' son.
Home he did swear to take me, not to Troy.
Against his plighted faith the sacred bow
Of Heracles, the son of Zeus, he steals,
And means to show it to the Argive host.
He fancies that he over strength prevails,
Not seeing that I am a corpse, a shade,
A ghost. Were I myself, he had not gained
The day, nor would now save by treachery.
I am entrapped. Ah me! what can I do?
Yet be thyself and give me back my bow.
Say that thou wilt. He speaks not; I am lost.
O rock, with twofold doorway, I return
To thee disarmed, bereft of sustenance.
Deserted, I shall wither in that cell,
No longer slaying bird or sylvan beast
With yonder bow. Myself shall with my flesh
Now feed the creatures upon which I fed,
And be by my own quarry hunted down.
Thus shall I sadly render blood for blood,
And all through one that seemed to know no wrong.
Curse thee I will not till all hope is fled
Of thy repentance; then accursed die.
End of Project Gutenberg's Specimens of Greek Tragedy, by Goldwin Smith