PHILOCTETES: THE STOLEN BOW by SOPHOCLES

O FLAME and horror, masterpiece of evil
And hate and craftiness, what have you done,
What treachery? Can you look unashamed,
Hard-hearted, on this kneeling suppliant?
You take my bow, and with it goes my life.
Give it back, I beg, I pray you, give it back.
In Heaven's name take not my life away.
Alas, he does not even speak to me,
He looks away. He will not give it back.
O bays and promontories, companies
Of beasts who haunt the hills and rugged cliffs,
To you -- I have no other friends to call --
I tell with tears, to you, my constant friends,
What wrongs Achilles' son has done to me.
He swore to take me home, and now to Troy
He takes me. Though he swore with his right hand,
He keeps the holy bow of Heracles
And wants to show his booty to the Greeks.
He drags me off, as if my strength were great,
And knows not that he kills a corpse, a shade
Of smoke, a phantom. If I had been strong,
He'd not have taken me. Nor had he now
Made me his prisoner but for treachery.
Twin-gated rock of mine, to you I come
Unarmed for ever, with no means of life.
But I shall wither in this cave alone.
My arrows will not slay the winged birds
Or mountain-haunting beasts. Myself, poor wretch,
Shall make a feast for those on whom I fed,
And beasts I hunted once will hunt me now;
And blood for blood in payment shall I give
Because of one who seemed to know no wrong.
Death take you, -- no, not yet, till I have learned
If you will change. If not, an evil death.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...