PHILOCTETES.
135–218.
Chorus.
Stroph. I.
What must I say or hide, Ο master dear,
In a strange land, myself a stranger here,
To one who looks askance
With shy, suspecting glance?
Ever his skill excels
The counsel and the skill of other men,
With whom the sceptre dwells
That Zeus bestows from Heaven on those that reign.
And now on thee, Ο boy,
Comes all this might of venerable days;
Tell me then what employ
Thou bid'st me serve in, tending all thy ways.
Neoptolemos.
Perchance thou fain would'st know
Where he in that remotest corner lies:
Take courage then, and hither turn thine eyes;
But when he comes, that traveller, with his bow
Waking our fear,
Then, from this cavern drawing back,
As helper still be near,
And strive to serve me so that nothing lack.
