University of Virginia Library

Ægle—Philoctetes
ÆGLE
Look up, my hero, 'tis thine Ægle's hand
Sustains thee: rumour of the old fishermen
Has told me all thy vision: I behold
The echo of its glory in thy face,
And with thy joy my heart leaps up in tune.
Thou goest with these men to thine old renown.
The host has spoken in their mouths thy praise:
And called thee with one calling as a god
To lead them up against the obstinate walls.
And these thou shalt prevail against, and thou
Only, tho' much fair flower of men and steeds
The black earth holds before them wasted down.
Ay, many a boy has gone to the great wars
And made his sisters buckle on his mail,
So restless to begone; and on his head
The old sire has laid his hand and blest his way,
While the sail flapt. And he, the young one, bears
A spirit very proud and tells his soul,
“There is no reach of hero effort laid
Beyond the power I know within myself
To grasp and make it mine—thoroughly mine.”
And he, poor heart, has withered with the herd
For all his youthful glowing. But to thee,
Remains, my hero, this one excellent thing,
To gather in one swathe these dead men's deeds
And end the reaping of the field of war;
To be the column-top that sees the light
First and the glory on it, tho' all the tiers
That built thee up see nothing. And this much
Is Ægle's little tendril of a claim,
Upon thy love, my hero, a full weak thing;
That she in all thy worst disparagement
Believed thee greatest, and foresaw these kings
Would so believe thee, when time led their slow
Dull hearts to wisdom: this thine Ægle knew.
And now my soul to the very core is glad
At this thine exaltation. In this thing
I shall find recompense when thou art gone:
Now therefore go, and Ægle blesses thee.

PHILOCTETES
Ægle, I go: this vision and these kings
Persuade me: yet I cannot bend my soul
To leave thee; and how ask thee to forgo
Thy kindred, following a sick wounded man?
For, lo, I am going to a strange land, with all
The dread of war about it and rough ways
Whereon no damsel loves to cast her eyes.
And, more than this, consider if thou goest
Thou wilt have there to lean on no one thing,
Except a man the gods perplex with pain.
But here, if wearied out with tending me,
The faces of thy childhood bring thee ease.
And so thy mighty pity bears thee thro'
A labour hardly with these aids endured:
Here canst thou rest a little from the sick man.
Here hast thou sister choirs at pleasant song
Driving the shuttle briskly. Thou canst leave
My cave an hour with little noiseless feet
And leave my woes behind thee. And their love
Will hearten thee to endure the atmosphere
Again of my affliction. No such thing
Shall wait thee yonder: faces crafty and hard;
Men who have sold their hearts to thrust themselves
Forward in blaring consequence; mock-heroes,
Mock-kings, unkinged by noisy passions that tear
To shreds the inward majesty of the man.
With these, the herd and drove, flatterer and fool,
Jumbled together in wild enterprise,
And caring most to bicker among themselves.
And thou, detesting these and all their ways,
Wilt only have as comfort one sick man,
And to endure his humours. Which may not be.
Therefore, my darling, bless thee and remain:
Seeing the years shall bring thee ample amends,
When thou forgettest all this careworn face.
Then may'st thou love some other, whom the gods
Behold with eyes more gracious. Then to thee
Sweet and calm joys of wife and motherhood,
And little earnest faces and nestling heads,
Shall recompense thy holy and tender care
Which I can never recompense, and all
Thy pity on a very abject thing.

ÆGLE
I may go with thee, beautiful and sweet,
Excellent tiding, I may go with thee!
Nay, let this word be set about with gold
To keep against my bosom or in my hair
For ever. O my Lemnos, thou art made
A thing of nothing when he bids me go.
O valleys of my childhood, there is fallen
A mightier spirit on my soul than your
Poor gentle influence, erewhile so sweet.
O sister choirs, weave on and prosper fair;
For never more shall Ægle link the buds
Among you, never watch the careful beeves
Treading the grain, never see build the swallow
Against her father's roof, never take more
Her pitcher to the well—All quite, quite gone.
Ay, so it is, I must be weeping since
There are some tears against my hand, and how
They came I know not: for I am very glad.
My sisters, nay, I am not hard, I weep;
But all about me seems to have bloomed into
Such shining, that my heart sings like a bird;
Must sing, tho' all are weeping, sing and sing.
There is a god that draws me and his steps
Ye too shall know hereafter.

PHILOCTETES
In God's name
Go with me then. O excellent heart and dear
Of woman, and thou, Ægle, dearest head,
Give me thy lips. How should I give thee praise,
Since love exceeds all praising? Brave, meek dove,
Thou hast chosen a sad nest for thyself, wherein
The pretty shining plumage of thy youth
Shall flake away to dimness; and I reap
In this thy loss all harvest. Hear, thou sun,
And thou immeasurable sea, and all
Lispings of margin woods, this woman here
Has given away in pity her great soul
To tend a wounded creature all his days,
Ay, such a leprous thing as I may be.
Her if I called divine, ye scornful gods,
I should dishonour deeply: since indeed
These ways are little your ways. She is more,
My bird of comfort, than your scathing light
Which ye reach out for harming man alone.
Ye have made our pain your pastime; and I smile
That human pity, deem'd so vile of gods,
Can cheat their careful vengeance of its sting.
Therefore I say the thunder only of Zeus
Shall part this Ægle from me.