Philoctetes.
Antistroph. II.
Ο wingèd birds that fly
Through the clear, open sky,
Ο tribes, whose eyes gleam bright,
Of beasts that roam the hills,
No more will ye in flight
Forth from my dwelling draw me at your will;
For I no more possess
The might I had of old
(Ah me for my distress!)
In those fierce weapons bold;
But now, with little care
This place is guarded against dreadest ill,
And none need now beware.
Come ye, 'tis now your hour to feast at will;
On me your vengeance wreaking,
This livid flesh devour:
I soon shall fail; for who, life's nurture seeking,
Can live on air, deprived of all earth's kind fields pour?
Chorus.
Nay, by the Gods, if still
Aught can thy feeling quicken for a friend,
Draw near, with all good will,
To one who fain his steps to thee would bend;
But know, yea, know full well,
'Tis thine to end this woe.
Sad is't our ills to swell,
While they, in myriad forms, around us ever grow.
