Now Philoctetes was an archer wight;
But in his quiver had he little store
Of arrows tipp'd with bronze, and feather'd bright;
Nay, his were blue with mould, and fretted o'er
With many a spell Melampus wrought of yore,
Singing above his task a song of bane;
And they were venom'd with the Centaur's gore,
And tipp'd with bones of men a long while slain.
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