And strung his bow, and cried a bitter word:

LI.

"Art thou a gibbering ghost with war outworn,
And thy faint life in Hades not begun?
Art thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn,
And yet dost live, and look upon the sun?
If man,--methinks thy pleasant days are done,
And thou shalt writhe in torment worse than mine;
If ghost,--new pain in Hades hast thou won,
And there with double woe shalt surely pine."

LII.

He spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft
At venture through the midnight and the snow,
A little while he listen'd, then he laugh'd
Within himself, a dreadful laugh and low;
For over well the answer did he know
That midnight gave his message, the sharp cry
And armour rattling on a fallen foe
That now was learning what it is to die.

LIII.

Then Philoctetes crawl'd into his den
And hugg'd himself against the bitter cold,
While round their leader came the Trojan men
And bound his wound, and bare him o'er the wold,