 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
Philoctetes—Phimachus
PHIMACHUS
My lips are burning with my tidings, King,
These may the god bend wholly well to thee,
My hero, with brave recompense for this
Thy pain and thy immurement. Reach thine eyes
To yonder imminent glory of full sail,
A noble galley: this is one of these
That tasted calm at Aulis. See, she bears
Upon our island with a steady pride;
And her prow heaps the churning wave in curves
On either side its bladed edge, and spills
The foamy ridges backwards. O my chief,
Hellas remembers late her archer son.
Nine years she has made her puny wars in vain
Without thee. Now she vails her pride and creeps
To kiss thy feet entreating. Rouse thyself;
This is the very hour of thy revenge.
Therefore be glad and answer proudly these,
Remembering how they have given into thy breast
Measure of malice and all weary days.
Philoctetes
PHIMACHUS
My lips are burning with my tidings, King,
These may the god bend wholly well to thee,
My hero, with brave recompense for this
Thy pain and thy immurement. Reach thine eyes
To yonder imminent glory of full sail,
A noble galley: this is one of these
That tasted calm at Aulis. See, she bears
Upon our island with a steady pride;
And her prow heaps the churning wave in curves
On either side its bladed edge, and spills
The foamy ridges backwards. O my chief,
Hellas remembers late her archer son.
Nine years she has made her puny wars in vain
Without thee. Now she vails her pride and creeps
To kiss thy feet entreating. Rouse thyself;
This is the very hour of thy revenge.
Therefore be glad and answer proudly these,
Remembering how they have given into thy breast
Measure of malice and all weary days.
Philoctetes
He fables nothing in his honest joy.
She is of Troy this galley by yonder sun.
Thy word is working, Heracles: the seer
Lied nothing in his oracles. O brave,
I have these kings now underneath my heel—
Under my heel—I have waited surely long.
How sweet my fruit is ripened at the last:
And I will feed upon it to the core,
This mellow, great revenge: thou camest slow
Like all good things to thy perfection, camest
Stealthily greatening in the night of fate.
Thou gavest long so little sign, men said,
“Fool, when the root is dead, expect no flower;
She is of Troy this galley by yonder sun.
Thy word is working, Heracles: the seer
Lied nothing in his oracles. O brave,
I have these kings now underneath my heel—
Under my heel—I have waited surely long.
How sweet my fruit is ripened at the last:
And I will feed upon it to the core,
This mellow, great revenge: thou camest slow
180
Stealthily greatening in the night of fate.
Thou gavest long so little sign, men said,
“Fool, when the root is dead, expect no flower;
It cannot push the clods and bloom above.”
And still I held my hope against them all,
And, lo, thou art here sweet, sweet, and sweet again.
Their keel is grating on the Lemnian strand:
And who is this that signs the others on,
And treads this beach of ours in full disdain,
As if it might not bear his martial feet?
Ay, so it is. I guessed thee long ago.
Have I not known thee in my hate afar,
The lying, pitiless cheat of Ithaca,
Ulysses, king and great, whom all men hear?
Comes at his side one younger in peace attire
Surely a prince, in this fire-yellow hair;
Mantled in gleamy scarlet twist, and one
Great beryl at his neck splitting the beam
That hits it out into a great raying sun.
Him I know not, and yet his feature bears
A hint of some erewhile familiar face.
He looks as innocent as spring beside
This sour-eyed raven croaking as he goes,
With Hellas all is wrong, since that or these
Of his great counsels bore not any seed.
These I will watch a little from this cave,
Then will I look into his eyes and speak,
And give my full-fed anger torrent way.
And still I held my hope against them all,
And, lo, thou art here sweet, sweet, and sweet again.
Their keel is grating on the Lemnian strand:
And who is this that signs the others on,
And treads this beach of ours in full disdain,
As if it might not bear his martial feet?
Ay, so it is. I guessed thee long ago.
Have I not known thee in my hate afar,
The lying, pitiless cheat of Ithaca,
Ulysses, king and great, whom all men hear?
Comes at his side one younger in peace attire
Surely a prince, in this fire-yellow hair;
Mantled in gleamy scarlet twist, and one
Great beryl at his neck splitting the beam
That hits it out into a great raying sun.
Him I know not, and yet his feature bears
A hint of some erewhile familiar face.
He looks as innocent as spring beside
This sour-eyed raven croaking as he goes,
With Hellas all is wrong, since that or these
Of his great counsels bore not any seed.
These I will watch a little from this cave,
Then will I look into his eyes and speak,
And give my full-fed anger torrent way.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |