Page:Tragedies of Sophocles (Plumptre 1878).djvu/451

Rh Thus desolate they left me, when they touched

From sea-girt Chryse in their armament;

And when they saw me, tired and tempest-worn,

Asleep in vaulted cave upon the shore,

Gladly they went, and left me, giving me

Some wretched rags that might a beggar suit,

And some small store of food they chanced to have.

And thou, my son, what kind of waking-up

Think'st thou I had, when I arose from sleep,

And found them gone,—what bitter tears I wept,

What groans of woe I uttered? when I saw

The ships all gone, with which till then I sailed,

And no man on the spot to give me aid,

Nor help me struggling with my sore disease;

And, looking all around, I nothing found

But pain and torment, and of this, my son,

Full plenteous store. And so the years went on,

Month after month, and in this lowly cell

I needs must wait upon myself. My bow

Found what my hunger needed, striking down

The swift-winged doves, but whatsoe'er the dart,

Sent from the string, might hit, to that poor I

Must wend my way, and drag my wretched foot,

Even to that; and if I wanted drink,

Or, when the frost was out in winter time,

Had need to cleave my firewood, this poor I

Crept out, and fetched. And then no fire had I,

But rubbing stone with stone I brought to light,

Not without toil, the spark deep hid within;

And this e'en now preserves me; for a cell

To dwell in, if one has but fire, provides

All that I need, except release from pain.

And now, my son, learn thou this island's tale:

No sailor here approaches willingly,