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NEO.
How? Do I see thee with the marvellous bow?

PHI.
Here in my hand. The world hath only one.

NEO.
And may one touch and handle it, and gaze
With reverence, as on a thing from Heaven?

PHI.
Thou mayest, my son. This and whate’er of mine
May stead thee, ’tis thy privilege to enjoy.

NEO.
In very truth I long for it, but so,
That longing waits on leave. Am I permitted?

PHI.
Thou art, my son,–and well thou speakest,–thou art.
Thou, that hast given me light and life, the joy
Of seeing Mount Oeta and my father’s home,
With all I love there, and his aged head,–
Thou that hast raised me far above my foes
Who triumphed! Thou may’st take it in thine hand,
And,–when thou hast given it back to me,–may’st vaunt
Alone of mortals for thine excellence
To have held this in thy touch. I, too, at first,
Received it as a boon for kindness done.

NEO.
Well, go within.

PHI.
Nay, I must take thee too.
My sickness craves thee for its comforter.

[PHILOCTETES and NEOPTOLEMUS go into the cave]

CHORUS.
In fable I have heard,
Though sight hath ne’er confirmed the word,
How he who attempted once the couch supreme,
To a whirling wheel by Zeus the all-ruler bound,
Tied head and heel, careering ever round,
Atones his impious unsubstantial dream.
Of no man else, through eye or ear,
Have I discerned a fate more full of fear
Than yonder sufferer’s of the cureless wound:
Who did no violence, defrauded none:–
A just man, had he dwelt among the just
Unworthily behold him thrust
Alone to hear the billows roar
That break around a rugged shore!
How could he live, whose life was thus consumed with moan?

Where neighbour there was none:
No arm to stay him wandering lone,
Unevenly, with stumbling steps and sore;
No friend in need, no kind inhabitant,
To minister to his importunate want,
No heart whereto his pangs he might deplore.
None who, whene’er the gory flow
Was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow,
Or cull from teeming Earth some genial plant
To allay the anguish of malignant pain
And soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe.
Like infant whom the nurse lets go,
With tottering movement here and there,
He crawled for comfort, whensoe’er
His soul-devouring plague relaxed its cruel strain.

Not fed with foison of all-teeming Earth
Whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men,
But only now and then
With winged things, by his wing’d shafts brought low,
He stayed his hunger from his bow.
Poor soul, that never through ten years of dearth
Had pleasure from the fruitage of the vine,
But seeking to some standing pool,
Nor clear nor cool,
Foul water heaved to head for lack of heartening wine.

But now, consorted with the hero’s child,
He winneth greatness and a joyful change;
Over the water wild
Borne by a friendly bark beneath the range
Of Oeta, where Spercheius fills
Wide channels winding among lovely hills
Haunted of Melian nymphs, till he espies
The roof-tree of his father’s hall,
And high o’er all
Shines the bronze shield of him, whose home is in the skies[6].

[NEOPTOLEMUS comes out of the cave, followed by PHILOCTETES in pain]

NEO.
Prithee, come on! Why dost thou stand aghast,
Voiceless, and thus astonied in thine air?