by Johann Baptist Mayrhofer (1787 - 1836)
Translation © by Guy Laffaille

Philoktet
Language: German (Deutsch) 
Available translation(s): CAT DUT ENG FRE ITA
Da sitz' ich ohne Bogen
Und starre in den Sand.
Was that ich dir, Ulysses?
Daß du sie mir entwandt

Die Waffe, die [dem Feinde]1
Des Todes Bothe war;
Die auf der wüsten Insel
Mir Unterhalt gebar.

Es rauschen Vögelschwärme
Mir [übers greise]2 Haupt;
Ich greife nach dem Bogen -
Umsonst - er ist geraubt.

Aus dichtem Busche raschelt
Der braune Hirsch hervor:
Ich strecke leere Arme
Zur Nemesis empor.

Du schlauer König scheue
Der Göttin Rächerblick!
Erbarme dich - und stelle
Den Bogen mir zurück.

View original text (without footnotes)

Confirmed with Gedichte von Johann Mayrhofer. Wien. Bey Friedrich Volke. 1824, pages 152-153.

1 Schubert: "den Trojern"
2 Schubert: "über'm greisen"

Authorship:

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , "Filoctetes", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • DUT Dutch (Nederlands) [singable] (Lau Kanen) , "Philoctetes", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ENG English (Emily Ezust) , "Philoctetes", copyright ©
  • FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , "Philoctète", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ITA Italian (Italiano) (Amelia Maria Imbarrato) , "Filottete", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Research team for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Peter Rastl [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 86

Philoctète
Language: French (Français)  after the German (Deutsch) 
Je suis assis ici sans mon arc 
et je regarde fixement dans le sable.
Que t'ai-je fait, Ulysse, 
que tu aies voulu me voler ?

L'arme qui fut le messager 
de la mort des Troyens,
M'a été donnée sur cette île déserte 
pour ma subsistance.

Des vols d'oiseaux passent 
au-dessus de ma tête grisonnante ;
Je saisis mon arc en vain, 
car on me l'a volé !

De l'épais buisson 
jaillit le cerf brun :
Je tends mes bras vides 
vers Némésis en haut.

Toi roi rusé, crains le regard vengeur 
de la déesse !
Aie pitié de moi 
et rends-moi mon arc.

Authorship:

  • Translation from German (Deutsch) to French (Français) copyright © 2010 by Guy Laffaille, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
    Contact: 

Based on:

 

This text was added to the website: 2010-02-03
Line count: 20
Word count: 103