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CH.
Mother of mightiest Zeus, 1
Feeder of all that live,
Who from thy mountainous breast
Rivers of gold dost give!
To thee, O Earth, I cried that shameful day,
When insolence from Atreus’ sons went forth
Full on our lord: when they bestowed away
His father’s arms to crown Odysseus’ worth;
Thou, whom bull-slaughtering lions yoked bear,
O mighty mother, hear!

PHI.
Your coming is commended by a grief
That makes you kindly welcome. For I feel
A chord that vibrates to your voice, and tells,
Thus have Odysseus and the Atridae wrought.
Full well I know, Odysseus’ poisoned tongue
Shrinks from no mischief nor no guileful word
That leads to bad achievement in the end.
This moves not my main marvel, but if one
Saw this and bore it,–Aias of the shield.

NEO.
Ah, friend, he was no more. Had he but lived,
This robbery had ne’er been wrought on me.

PHI.
What? Is he too departed?

NEO.
He is dead.
The light no more beholds him.

PHI.
Oh! alas!
But Tydeus’ offspring, and the rascal birth
Laertes bought of Sisyphus, they live:
I know it. For their death were to be wished.

NEO.
Yea, be assured, they live and flourish high
Exalted in the host of Argive men.

PHI.
And Nestor, my old friend, good aged man,
Is he yet living? Oft he would prevent
Their evils, by the wisdom of his thought.

NEO.
He too is now in trouble, having lost
Antilochus, the comfort of his age.

PHI.
There, there! In one brief word thou hast revealed
The mournful case of twain, whom I would last
Have chosen to hear of as undone. Ah me!
Where must one look? when these are dead, and he,
Odysseus, lives,–and in a time like this,
That craves their presence, and his death for theirs.

NEO.
He wrestles cleverly; but, O my friend,
Even ablest wits are ofttimes snared at last.

PHI.
Tell me, I pray, what was become of him,
Patroclus, whom thy father loved so well?

NEO.
He, too, was gone. I’ll teach thee in a word
One truth for all. War doth not willingly
Snatch off the wicked, but still takes the good.

PHI.
True! and to prove thy saying, I will inquire
The fate of a poor dastard, of mean worth,
But ever shrewd and nimble with his tongue.

NEO.
Whom but Odysseus canst thou mean by this?

PHI.
I meant not him. But there was one Thersites,
Who ne’er made conscience to stint speech, where all
Cried ‘Silence!’ Is he living, dost thou know?

NEO.
I saw him not, but knew he was alive.

PHI.
He must be: for no evil yet was crushed.
The Heavens will ever shield it. ‘Tis their sport
To turn back all things rancorous and malign
From going down to the grave, and send instead
The good and true. Oh, how shall we commend
Such dealings, how defend them? When I praise
Things god-like, I find evil in the Gods.