Born in a princely hall, II 2
        Highest, perchance, of all,
        Now lies he comfortless
        Alone in deep distress,
        ’Mongst rough and dappled brutes,
        With pangs and hunger worn;
        While from far distance shoots,
        On airy pinion borne,
        The unbridled Echo, still replying
        To his most bitter crying.

NEO.  At nought of this I marvel—­for if I
Judge rightly, there assailed him from on high
That former plague through Chrysa’s cruel sting[1]: 
And if to-day he suffer anything
With none to soothe, it must be from the will
Of some great God, so caring to fulfil
The word of prophecy, lest he should bend
On Troy the shaft no mortal may forfend,
Before the arrival of Troy’s destined hour,
When she must fall, o’er-mastered by their power.

CH. 1.  Hush, my son!  III 1

NEO.  Why so?

CH. 1.  A sound
Gendered of some mortal woe,
Started from the neighbouring ground. 
Here, or there?  Ah! now I know. 
Hark! ’tis the voice of one in pain,
Travelling hardly, the deep strain
Of human anguish, all too clear,
That smites my heart, that wounds mine ear.

CH. 2.  From far it peals.  But thou, my son!  III 2

NEO.  What?

CH. 2.  Think again.  He moveth nigh: 
He holds the region:  not with tone
Of piping shepherd’s rural minstrelsy,
But belloweth his far cry,
Stumbling perchance with mortal pain,
  Or else in wild amaze,
  As he our ship surveys
Unwonted on the inhospitable main.

Enter PHILOCTETES.

PHILOCTETES.  Ho! 
What men are ye that to this desert shore,
Harbourless, uninhabited, are come
On shipboard?  Of what country or what race
Shall I pronounce ye?  For your outward garb
Is Grecian, ever dearest to this heart
That hungers now to hear your voices’ tune. 
Ah! do not fear me, do not shrink away
From my wild looks:  but, pitying one so poor,
Forlorn and desolate in nameless woe,
Speak, if with friendly purpose ye are come. 
Oh answer!  ’Tis not meet that I should lose
This kindness from your lips, or ye from mine.

NEO.  Then know this first, O stranger, as thou wouldest,
That we are Greeks.

PHI.  O dear, dear name!  Ah me! 
In all these years, once, only once, I hear it! 
My son, what fairest gale hath wafted thee? 
What need hath brought thee to the shore?  What mission? 
Declare all this, that I may know thee well.

NEO.  The sea-girt Scyros is my native home. 
Thitherward I make voyage:—­Achilles’ son,
Named Neoptolemus.—­I have told thee all.

PHI.  Dear is that shore to me, dear is thy father
O ancient Lycomedes’ foster-child,
Whence cam’st thou hither?  How didst thou set forth?