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To shield me from the cold; in vain I prayed
That they would bear me to my native soil,
For none would listen. Here for ten long years
Have I remained, whilst misery and famine
Keep fresh my wounds, and double my misfortune.
This have th' Atreidae and Ulysses done,
And may the gods with equal woes repay them!
LEADER OF THE CHORUS
O, son of Poeas! well might those, who came
And saw thee thus, in kind compassion weep;
I too must pity thee—I can no more.
NEOPTOLEMUS
I can bear witness to thee, for I know
By sad experience what th' Atreidae are,
And what Ulysses.
PHILOCTETES
Hast thou suffered then?
And dost thou hate them too?
NEOPTOLEMUS
Oh! that these hands
Could vindicate my wrongs! Mycenae then
And Sparta should confess that Scyros boasts
Of sons as brave and valiant as their own.
PHILOCTETES
O noble youth! But wherefore cam'st thou hither?
Whence this resentment?
NEOPTOLEMUS
I will tell thee all,
If I can bear to tell it. Know then, soon
As great Achilles died—
PHILOCTETES
Oh, stay, my son!
Is then Achilles dead?
NEOPTOLEMUS
He is, and not
By mortal hand, but by Apollo's shaft
Fell glorious.