The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems

by Homer

THE END OF THE TWENTIETH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] Viz. That some from within might issue, and witness in his hearing some wreakful ostent to his enemies from heaven.

[2] These feet of men, etc. ἀνδραποδισταί.

THE TWENTY-FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Penelope proposeth now
To him that draws Ulysses’ bow
Her instant nuptials. Ithacus
Eumæus and Philœtius
Gives charge for guarding of the gates;
And he his shaft shoots through the plates.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Φι̑.
The nuptial vow
And game rehears’d,
Drawn is the bow,
The steels are pierc’d.

Pallas, the Goddess with the sparkling eyes,
Excites Penelope t’ object the prize,
The bow and bright steels, to the Wooers’ strength
And here began the strife and blood at length.
She first ascended by a lofty stair
Her utmost chamber; of whose door her fair
And half transparent hand receiv’d the key,
Bright, brazen, bitted passing curiously,
And at it hung a knob of ivory.
And this did lead her where was strongly kept
The treasure-royal; in whose store lay heapt
Gold, brass, and steel, engrav’n with infinite art;
The crooked bow, and arrowy quiver, part
Of that rich magazine. In the quiver were
Arrows a number, sharp and sighing gear.
The bow was giv’n by kind Eurytides
Iphitus, fashion’d like the Deities,
To young Ulysses, when within the roof
Of wise Orsilochus their pass had proof
Of mutual meeting in Messena; where
Ulysses claim’d a debt, to whose pay were
The whole Messenian people bound, since they
From Ithaca had forc’d a wealthy prey
Of sheep and shepherds. In their ships they thrust
Three hundred sheep together; for whose just
And instant rendry old Laertes sent
Ulysses his ambassador, that went
A long way in the ambassy, yet then
Bore but the foremost prime of youngest men;
His father sending first to that affair
His gravest counsellors, and then his heir.
Iphitus made his way there, having lost
Twelve female horse, and mules commended most
For use of burthen; which were after cause
Of death and fate to him; for, past all laws
Of hospitality, Jove’s mighty son,
Skill’d in great acts, was his confusion
Close by his house, though at that time his guest,
Respecting neither the apposéd feast,
And hospitable table, that in love
He set before him, nor the voice of Jove,
But, seizing first his mares, he after slew
His host himself. From those mares’ search now grew
Ulysses known t’ Iphitus; who that bow
At their encounter did in love bestow,
Which great Eurytus’ hand had borne before,
(Iphitus’ father) who, at death’s sad door,
In his steep turrets, left it to his son.
Ulysses gave him a keen falchion,
And mighty lance. And thus began they there
Their fatal loves; for after never were
Their mutual tables to each other known,
Because Jove’s son th’ unworthy part had shown
Of slaughtering this God-like loving man,
Eurytus’ son, who with that bow began
And ended love t’ Ulysses; who so dear
A gift esteem’d it, that he would not bear
In his black fleet that guest-rite to the war,
But, in fit memory of one so far
In his affection, brought it home, and kept
His treasure with it; where till now it slept.
And now the Queen of women had intent
To give it use, and therefore made ascent
Up all the stairs’ height to the chamber door,
Whose shining leaves two bright pilasters bore
To such a close when both together went
It would resist the air in their consent.
The ring she took then, and did draw aside
A bar that ran within, and then implied
The key into the lock, which gave a sound,
The bolt then shooting, as in pasture ground
A bull doth low, and make the valleys ring;
So loud the lock humm’d when it loos’d the spring,
And ope the doors flew. In she went, along
The lofty chamber, that was boarded strong
With heart of oak, which many years ago
The architect did smooth and polish so
That now as then he made it freshly shine,
And tried the evenness of it with a line.
There stood in this room presses that enclos’d
Robes odoriferous, by which repos’d
The bow was upon pins; nor from it far
Hung the round quiver glitt’ring like a star;
Both which her white extended hand took down.
Then sat she low, and made her lap a crown
Of both these relics, which she wept to see,
And cried quite out with loving memory
Of her dear lord; to whose worth paying then
Kind debts enow, she left, and, to the men
Vow’d to her wooing, brought the crooked bow,
And shaft-receiving quiver, that did flow
With arrows beating sighs up where they fell.
Then, with another chest, replete as well
With games won by the King, of steel and brass,
Her maids attended. Past whom making pass
To where her Wooers were, she made her stay
Amidst the fair hall door, and kept the ray
Of her bright count’nance hid with veils so thin,
That though they seem’d t’ expose, they let love in;
Her maids on both sides stood; and thus she spake:
“Hear me, ye Wooers, that a pleasure take
To do me sorrow, and my house invade
To eat and drink, as if ’twere only made
To serve your rapines; my lord long away,
And you allow’d no colour for your stay
But his still absence; striving who shall frame
Me for his wife; and, since ’tis made a game,
I here propose divine Ulysses’ bow
For that great master-piece to which ye vow.
He that can draw it with least show to strive,
And through these twelve axe-heads an arrow drive,
Him will I follow, and this house forego
That nourish’d me a maid, now furnish’d so
With all things fit, and which I so esteem
That I shall still live in it in my dream.”
This said, she made Eumæus give it them.
He took and laid it by, and wept for woe;
And like him wept Philœtius, when the bow
Of which his king was bearer he beheld.
Their tears Antinous’ manhood much refell’d,
And said: “Ye rustic fools! that still each day
Your minds give over to this vain dismay,
Why weep ye, wretches, and the widow’s eyes
Tempt with renew’d thought, that would otherwise
Depose her sorrows, since her lord is dead,
And tears are idle? Sit, and eat your bread,
Nor whisper more a word; or get ye gone,
And weep without doors. Let this bow alone
To our out-match’d contention. For I fear
The bow will scarce yield draught to any here;
Here no such man lives as Laertes’ son
Amongst us all. I knew him; thought puts on
His look’s sight now, methinks, though then a child.”
Thus show’d his words doubt, yet his hopes instill’d
His strength the stretcher of Ulysses’ string,
And his steels’ piercer. But his shaft must sing
Through his pierc’d palate first; whom so he wrong’d
In his free roof, and made the rest ill-tongued
Against his virtues. Then the sacred heat
That spirited his son did further set
Their confidence on fire, and said: “O friends,
Jove hath bereft my wits. The Queen intends,
Though I must grant her wise, ere long to leave
Ulysses’ court, and to her bed receive
Some other lord; yet, notwithstanding, I
Am forc’d to laugh, and set my pleasures high
Like one mad sick. But, Wooers, since ye have
An object for your trials now so brave,
As all the broad Achaian earth exceeds,
As sacred Pylos, as the Argive breeds,
As black Epirus, as Mycena’s birth,
And as the more fam’d Ithacensian earth,
All which, yourselves well know, and oft have said—
For what need hath my mother of my aid
In her advancement?—tender no excuse
For least delay, nor too much time profuse
In stay to draw this bow, but draw it straight,
Shoot, and the steels pierce; make all see how slight
You make these poor bars to so rich a prize.
No eag’rer yet? Come all. My faculties
Shall try the bow’s strength, and the piercéd steel.
I will not for my rev’rend mother feel
The sorrows that I know will seize my heart,
To see her follow any, and depart
From her so long-held home; but first extend
The bow and arrow to their tender’d end.
For I am only to succeed my sire
In guard of his games, and let none aspire
To their besides possession.” This said,
His purple robe he cast off; by he laid
His well-edg’d sword; and, first, a sev’ral pit
He digg’d for ev’ry axe, and strengthen’d it
With earth close ramm’d about it; on a rew
Set them, of one height, by a line he drew
Along the whole twelve; and so orderly
Did ev’ry deed belonging (yet his eye
Never before beholding how ’twas done)
That in amaze rose all his lookers-on.
Then stood he near the door, and prov’d to draw
The stubborn bow. Thrice tried, and thrice gave law
To his uncrown’d attempts; the fourth assay
With all force off’ring, which a sign gave stay
Giv’n by his father; though he show’d a mind
As if he stood right heartily inclin’d
To perfect the exploit, when all was done
In only drift to set the Wooers on.
His weakness yet confess’d, he said: “O shame!
I either shall be ever of no name,
But prove a wretch; or else I am too young,
And must not now presume on pow’rs so strong
As sinews yet more growing may engraft,
To turn a man quite over with a shaft.
Besides, to men whose nerves are best prepar’d,
All great adventures at first proof are hard.
But come, you stronger men, attempt this bow,
And let us end our labour.” Thus, below
A well-join’d board he laid it, and close by
The brightly-headed shaft; then thron’d his thigh
Amidst his late-left seat. Antinous then
Bade all arise; but first, who did sustain
The cup’s state ever, and did sacrifice
Before they ate still, and that man bade rise,
Since on the other’s right hand he was plac’d,
Because he held the right hand’s rising, grac’d
With best success still. This discretion won
Supreme applause; and first rose Œnops’ son,
Liodes, that was priest to all the rest,
Sat lowest with the cup still, and their jest
Could never like, but ever was the man
That check’d their follies; and he now began
To taste the bow, the sharp shaft took, tugg’d hard,
And held aloft, and, till he quite had marr’d
His delicate tender fingers, could not stir
The churlish string; who therefore did refer
The game to others, saying, that same bow,
In his presage, would prove the overthrow
Of many a chief man there; nor thought the fate
Was any whit austere, since death’s short date
Were much the better taken, than long life
Without the object of their amorous strife,
For whom they had burn’d-out so many days
To find still other, nothing but delays
Obtaining in them; and affirm’d that now
Some hop’d to have her, but when that tough bow
They all had tried, and seen the utmost done,
They must rest pleas’d to cease; and now some one
Of all their other fair-veil’d Grecian dames
With gifts, and dower, and Hymeneal flames,
Let her love light to him that most will give,
And whom the nuptial destiny did drive.
Thus laid he on the well-join’d polish’d board
The bow and bright-pil’d shaft, and then restor’d
His seat his right. To him Antinous
Gave bitter language, and reprov’d him thus:
“What words, Liodes, pass thy speech’s guard,
That ’tis a work to bear, and set so hard
They set up my disdain! This bow must end
The best of us? Since thy arms cannot lend
The string least motion? Thy mother’s throes
Brought never forth thy arms to draught of bows,
Or knitting shafts off. Though thou canst not draw
The sturdy plant, thou art to us no law.
Melanthius! Light a fire, and set thereat
A chair and cushions, and that mass of fat
That lies within bring out, that we may set
Our pages to this bow, to see it het
And suppled with the suet, and then we
May give it draught, and pay this great decree
Utmost performance.” He a mighty fire
Gave instant flame, put into act th’ entire
Command laid on him, chair and cushions set,
Laid on the bow, which straight the pages het,
Chaf’d, suppled with the suet to their most;
And still was all their unctuous labour lost,
All Wooers’ strengths too indigent and poor
To draw that bow; Antinous’ arms it tore,
And great Eurymachus’, the both clear best,
Yet both it tir’d, and made them glad to rest.
Forth then went both the swains, and after them
Divine Ulysses; when, being past th’ extreme
Of all the gates, with winning words he tried
Their loves, and this ask’d: “Shall my counsels hide
Their depths from you? My mind would gladly know
If suddenly Ulysses had his vow
Made good for home, and had some God to guide
His steps and strokes to wreak these Wooers’ pride,
Would your aids join on his part, or with theirs?
How stand your hearts affected?” They made pray’rs
That some God would please to return their lord,
He then should see how far they would afford
Their lives for his. He, seeing their truth, replied;
“I am your lord, through many a suff’rance tried,
Arriv’d now here, whom twenty years have held
From forth my country. Yet are not conceal’d
From my sure knowledge your desires to see
My safe return. Of all the company
Now serving here besides, not one but you
Mine ear hath witness’d willing to bestow
Their wishes of my life, so long held dead.
I therefore vow, which shall be perfected,
That if God please beneath my hand to leave
These Wooers lifeless, ye shall both receive
Wives from that hand, and means, and near to me
Have houses built to you, and both shall be
As friends and brothers to my only son.
And, that ye well may know me, and be won
To that assurance, the infallible sign
The white-tooth’d boar gave, this mark’d knee of mine,
When in Parnassus he was held in chase
By me, and by my famous grandsire’s race,
I’ll let you see.” Thus sever’d he his weed
From that his wound; and ev’ry word had deed
In their sure knowledges. Which made them cast
Their arms about him, his broad breast embrac’d,
His neck and shoulders kiss’d. And him as well
Did those true pow’rs of human love compell
To kiss their heads and hands, and to their moan
Had sent the free light of the cheerful sun,
Had not Ulysses broke the ruth, and said;
“Cease tears and sorrows, lest we prove display’d
By some that issue from the house, and they
Relate to those within. Take each his way,
Not altogether in, but one by one,
First I, then you; and then see this be done;
The envious Wooers will by no means give
The offer of the bow and arrow leave
To come at me; spite then their pride, do thou,
My good Eumæus, bring both shaft and bow
To my hand’s proof; and charge the maids before
That instantly they shut in ev’ry door,
That they themselves (if any tumult rise
Beneath my roofs by any that envies
My will to undertake the game) may gain
No passage forth, but close at work contain
With all free quiet, or at least constrain’d,
And therefore, my Philœtius, see maintain’d,
When close the gates are shut, their closure fast,
To which end be it thy sole work to cast
Their chains before them.” This said, in he led,
Took first his seat; and then they seconded
His entry with their own. Then took in hand
Eurymachus the bow, made close his stand
Aside the fire, at whose heat here and there
He warm’d and suppled it, yet could not stere
To any draught the string, with all his art;
And therefore swell’d in him his glorious heart,
Affirming, “that himself and all his friends
Had cause to grieve, not only that their ends
They miss’d in marriage, since enough besides
Kind Grecian dames there liv’d to be their brides
In Ithaca, and other bord’ring towns,
But that to all times future their renowns
Would stand disparag’d, if Ulysses’ bow
They could not draw, and yet his wife would woo.”
Antinous answer’d; “That there could ensue
No shame at all to them; for well he knew
That this day was kept holy to the Sun
By all the city, and there should be done
No such profane act, therefore bade lay by
The bow for that day; but the mastery
Of axes that were set up still might stand,
Since that no labour was, nor any hand
Would offer to invade Ulysses’ house,
To take, or touch with surreptitious
Or violent hand, what there was left for use.
He, therefore, bade the cup-bearer infuse
Wine to the bowls, that so with sacrifice
They might let rest the shooting exercise,
And in the morning make Melanthius bring
The chief goats of his herd, that to the King
Of bows and archers they might burn the thighs
For good success, and then attempt the prize.”
The rest sat pleas’d with this. The heralds straight
Pour’d water on their hands; each page did wait
With his crown’d cup of wine, serv’d ev’ry man
Till all were satisfied. And then began
Ulysses’ plot of his close purpose thus:
“Hear me, ye much renown’d Eurymachus,
And king Antinous, in chief, who well,
And with decorum sacred, doth compell
This day’s observance, and to let lay down
The bow all this light, giving Gods their own.
The morning’s labour God the more will bless,
And strength bestow where he himself shall please.
Against which time let me presume to pray
Your favours with the rest, that this assay
May my old arms prove, trying if there lie
In my poor pow’rs the same activity
That long since crown’d them; or if needy fare
And desolate wand’ring have the web worn bare
Of my life’s thread at all parts, that no more
Can furnish these affairs as heretofore.”
This het their spleens past measure, blown with fear
Lest his loath’d temples would the garland wear
Of that bow’s draught; Antinous using speech
To this sour purpose: “Thou most arrant wretch
Of all guests breathing, in no least degree
Grac’d with a human soul, it serves not thee
To feast in peace with us, take equal share
Of what we reach to, sit, and all things hear
That we speak freely,—which no begging guest
Did ever yet,—but thou must make request
To mix with us in merit of the Queen.
But wine inflames thee, that hath ever been
The bane of men whoever yet would take
Th’ excess it offers and the mean forsake.
Wine spoil’d the Centaur great Eurytion,
In guest-rites with the mighty-minded son
Of bold Ixion, in his way to war
Against the Lapithes; who, driv’n as far
As madness with the bold effects of wine,
Did outrage to his kind host, and decline
Other heroës from him feasted there
With so much anger that they left their cheer,
And dragg’d him forth the fore-court, slit his nose,
Cropp’d both his ears, and, in the ill-dispose
His mind then suffer’d, drew the fatal day
On his head with his host; for thence the fray
Betwixt the Centaurs and the Lapithes
Had mortal act. But he for his excess
In spoil of wine fared worse himself; as thou
For thy large cups, if thy arms draw the bow,
My mind fortells shalt fear; for not a man
Of all our consort, that in wisdom can
Boast any fit share, will take prayers then,
But to Echetus, the most stern of men,
A black sail freight with thee, whose worst of ill,
Be sure, is past all ransom. Sit, then, still,
Drink temp’rately, and never more contend
With men your youngers.” This the Queen did end
With her defence of him, and told his foe
It was not fair nor equal t’ overcrow
The poorest guest her son pleas’d t’ entertain
In his free turrets with so proud a strain
Of threats and bravings; asking if he thought,
That if the stranger to his arms had brought
The stubborn bow down, he should marry her,
And bear her home? And said, himself should err
In no such hope; nor of them all the best
That griev’d at any good she did her guest
Should banquet there; since it in no sort show’d
Noblesse in them, nor paid her what she ow’d
Her own free rule there. This Eurymachus
Confirm’d and said: “Nor feeds it hope in us,
Icarius’ daughter, to solemnize rites
Of nuptials with thee; nor in noblest sights
It can show comely; but to our respects
The rumour both of sexes and of sects
Amongst the people would breed shame and fear,
Lest any worst Greek said: ‘See, men that were
Of mean deservings will presume t’ aspire
To his wife’s bed, whom all men did admire
For fame and merit, could not draw his bow,
And yet his wife had foolish pride to woo,
When straight an errant beggar comes and draws
The bow with ease, performing all the laws
The game besides contain’d’; and this would thus
Prove both indignity and shame to us.”
The Queen replied: “The fame of men, I see,
Bears much price in your great suppos’d degree;
Yet who can prove amongst the people great,
That of one so esteem’d of them the seat
Doth so defame and ruin? And beside,
With what right is this guest thus vilified
In your high censures, when the man in blood
Is well compos’d and great, his parents good?[1]
And therefore give the bow to him, to try
His birth and breeding by his chivalry.
If his arms draw it, and that Phœbus stands
So great a glory to his strength, my hands
Shall add this guerdon: Ev’ry sort of weed,
A two-edg’d sword, and lance to keep him freed
From dogs and men hereafter, and dismiss
His worth to what place tends that heart of his.”
Her son gave answer: “That it was a wrong
To his free sway in all things that belong
To guard of that house, to demand the bow
Of any Wooer, and the use bestow
Upon the stranger: for the bow was his
To give or to withhold; no masteries
Of her proposing giving any pow’r
T’ impair his right in things for any Wooer,
Or any that rough Ithaca affords,
Any that Elis; of which no man’s words
Nor pow’rs should curb him, stood he so inclin’d,
To see the bow in absolute gift resign’d
To that his guest to bear and use at will,
And therefore bade his mother keep her still
Amongst her women at her rock and loom;
Bows were for men; and this bow did become
Past all men’s his disposure, since his sire
Left it to him, and all the house entire.”
She stood dismay’d at this, and in her mind
His wise words laid up, standing so inclin’d
As he had will’d, with all her women going
Up to her chamber, there her tears bestowing,
As ev’ry night she did, on her lov’d lord,
Till sleep and Pallas her fit rest restor’d.
The bow Eumæus took, and bore away;
Which up in tumult, and almost in fray,
Put all the Wooers, one enquiring thus:
“Whither, rogue, abject, wilt thou bear from us
That bow propos’d? Lay down, or I protest
Thy dogs shall eat thee, that thou nourishest
To guard thy swine; amongst whom, left of all,
Thy life shall leave thee, if the festival,
We now observe to Phœbus, may our zeals
Grace with his aid, and all the Deities else.”
This threat made good Eumæus yield the bow
To his late place, not knowing what might grow
From such a multitude. And then fell on
Telemachus with threats, and said: “Set gone
That bow yet further; ’tis no servant’s part
To serve too many masters; raise your heart
And bear it off, lest, though you’re younger, yet
With stones I pelt you to the field with it.
If you and I close, I shall prove too strong.
I wish as much too hard for all this throng
The Gods would make me, I should quickly send
Some after with just sorrow to their end,
They waste my victuals so, and ply my cup,
And do me such shrewd turns still.” This put up
The Wooers all in laughters, and put down
Their angers to him, that so late were grown
So grave and bloody; which resolv’d that fear
Of good Eumæus, who did take and bear
The King the bow; call’d nurse, and bade her make
The doors all sure, that if men’s tumults take
The ears of some within, they may not fly,
But keep at work still close and silently.
These words put wings to her, and close she put
The chamber door. The court-gates then were shut
By kind Philœtius, who straight did go
From out the hall, and in the portico
Found laid a gable of a ship, compos’d
Of spongy bulrushes; with which he clos’d,
In winding round about them, the court-gates,
Then took his place again, to view the fates
That quickly follow’d. When he came, he saw
Ulysses viewing, ere he tried to draw,
The famous bow, which ev’ry way he mov’d,
Up and down turning it; in which be prov’d
The plight it was in, fearing, chiefly, lest
The horns were eat with worms in so long rest.
But what his thoughts intended turning so,
And keeping such a search about the bow,
The Wooers little knowing fell to jest,
And said: “Past doubt he is a man profest
In bowyers’ craft, and sees quite through the wood;
Or something, certain, to be understood
There is in this his turning of it still.
A cunning rogue he is at any ill.”
Then spake another proud one: “Would to heav’n,
I might, at will, get gold till he hath giv’n
That bow his draught!” With these sharp jests did these
Delightsome Woo’rs their fatal humours please.
But when the wise Ulysses once had laid
His fingers on it, and to proof survey’d
The still sound plight it held, as one of skill
In song, and of the harp, doth at his will,
In tuning of his instrument, extend
A string out with his pin, touch all, and lend
To ev’ry well-wreath’d string his perfect sound,
Struck all together; with such ease drew round
The King the bow. Then twang’d he up the string,
That as a swallow in the air doth sing
With no continued tune, but, pausing still,
Twinks out her scatter’d voice in accents shrill;
So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch,
Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much
Amaz’d the Wooers, that their colours went
And came most grievously. And then Jove rent
The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer
The now-enough-sustaining traveller,
That Jove again would his attempt enable.
Then took he into hand, from off the table,
The first drawn arrow: and a number more
Spent shortly on the Wooers; but this one
He measur’d by his arm, as if not known
The length were to him, nock’d it then, and drew;
And through the axes, at the first hole, flew
The steel-charg’d arrow; which when he had done
He thus bespake the Prince: “You have not won
Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook
The mark I shot at, and no such toil took
In wearying the bow with fat and fire
As did the Wooers. Yet reserv’d entire,
Thank Heav’n, my strength is, and myself am tried,
No man to be so basely vilified
As these men pleas’d to think me. But, free way
Take that, and all their pleasures; and while day
Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast
Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest,
Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill’d board.”
This said, he beckon’d to his son; whose sword
He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance,
And cómplete-arm’d did to his sire advance.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] Εὐπηγής, bene compactus et coagmentatus.

THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

The Wooers in Minerva’s sight
Slain by Ulysses; all the light
And lustful housewives by his son
And servants are to slaughter done.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Χι̑.
The end of pride,
And lawless lust,
Is wretched tried
With slaughters just.

The upper rags that wise Ulysses wore
Cast off, he rusheth to the great hall door
With bow and quiver full of shafts, which down
He pour’d before his feet, and thus made known
His true state to the Wooers: “This strife thus
Hath harmless been decided; now for us
There rests another mark, more hard to hit,
And such as never man before hath smit;
Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay,
And try if Phœbus will give me his day.”
He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust
Right at Antinous; and struck him just
As he was lifting up the bowl, to show
That ’twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow.
Death touch’d not at his thoughts at feast; for who
Would think that he alone could perish so
Amongst so many, and he best of all?
The arrow in his throat took full his fall,
And thrust his head far through the other side.
Down fell his cup, down he, down all his pride;
Straight from his nostrils gush’d the human gore;
And, as he fell, his feet far overbore
The feastful table; all the roast and bread
About the house strew’d. When his high-born head
The rest beheld so low, up rush’d they all,
And ransack’d ev’ry corner of the hall
For shields and darts; but all fled far their reach.
Then fell they foul on him with terrible speech,
And told him it should prove the dearest shaft
That ever pass’d him; and that now was saft
No shift for him, but sure and sudden death;
For he had slain a man, whose like did breathe
In no part of the kingdom; and that now
He should no more for games strive with his bow,
But vultures eat him there. These threats they spent,
Yet ev’ry man believ’d that stern event
Chanc’d ’gainst the author’s will. O fools, to think
That all their rest had any cup to drink
But what their great Antinous began!
He, frowning, said: “Dogs, see in me the man
Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is
That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries
File with my women’s rapes; in which ye woo
The wife of one that lives, and no thought show
Of man’s fit fear, or God’s, your present fame,
Or any fair sense of your future name;
And, therefore, present and eternal death
Shall end your base life.” This made fresh fears breathe
Their former boldness. Ev’ry man had eye
On all the means, and studied ways to fly
So deep deaths imminent. But seeing none,
Eurymachus began with suppliant moan
To move his pity, saying: “If you be
This isle’s Ulysses, we must all agree,
In grant of your reproof’s integrity,
The Greeks have done you many a wrong at home,
At field as many. But of all the sum
Lies here contract in death; for only he
Impos’d the whole ill-offices that we
Are now made guilty of, and not so much
Sought his endeavours, or in thought did touch
At any nuptials, but a greater thing
Employ’d his forces; for to be our king
Was his chief object; his sole plot it was
To kill your son, which Jove’s hand would not pass,
But set it to his own most merited end.
In which end your just anger, nor extend
Your stern wreak further; spend your royal pow’rs
In mild ruth of your people; we are yours;
And whatsoever waste of wine or food
Our liberties have made, we’ll make all good
In restitutions. Call a court, and pass
A fine of twenty oxen, gold, and brass,
On ev’ry head, and raise your most rates still,
Till you are pleas’d with your confesséd fill.
Which if we fail to tender, all your wrath
It shall be justice in our bloods to bathe.”
“Eurymachus,” said he, “if you would give
All that your fathers’ hoard, to make ye live,
And all that ever you yourselves possess,
Or shall by any industry increase,
I would not cease from slaughter, till your bloods
Had bought out your intemp’rance in my goods.
It rests now for you that you either fight
That will ’scape death, or make your way by flight.
In whose best choice, my thoughts conceive, not one
Shall shun the death your first hath undergone.”
This quite dissolv’d their knees. Eurymachus,
Enforcing all their fears, yet counsell’d thus:
“O friends! This man, now he hath got the bow
And quiver by him, ever will bestow
His most inaccessible hands at us,
And never leave, if we avoid him thus,
Till he hath strewn the pavement with us all;
And, therefore, join we swords, and on him fall
With tables forc’d up, and borne in oppos’d
Against his sharp shafts; when, being round-enclos’d
By all our onsets, we shall either take
His horrid person, or for safety make
His rage retire from out the hall and gates;
And then, if he escape, we’ll make our states
Known to the city by our gen’ral cry.
And thus this man shall let his last shaft fly
That ever his hand vaunted.” Thus he drew
His sharp-edg’d sword; and with a table flew
In on Ulysses, with a terrible throat
His fierce charge urging. But Ulysses smote
The board, and cleft it through from end to end
Borne at his breast; and made his shaft extend
His sharp head to his liver, his broad breast
Pierc’d at his nipple; when his hand releast
Forthwith his sword, that fell and kiss’d the ground,
With cups and victuals lying scatter’d round
About the pavement; amongst which his brow
Knock’d the imbrued earth, while in pains did flow
His vital spirits, till his heels shook out
His feastful life, and hurl’d a throne about
That way-laid death’s convulsions in his feet;
When from his tender eyes the light did fleet.
Then charg’d Amphinomus with his drawn blade
The glorious king, in purpose to have made
His feet forsake the house; but his assay
The prince prevented, and his lance gave way
Quite through his shoulder, at his back; his breast
The fierce pile letting forth. His ruin prest
Groans from the pavement, which his forehead strook.
Telemachus his long lance then forsook—
Left in Amphinomus—and to his sire
Made fiery pass, not staying to acquire
His lance again, in doubt that, while he drew
The fixéd pile, some other might renew
Fierce charge upon him, and his unharm’d head
Cleave with his back-drawn sword; for which he fled
Close to his father, bade him arm, and he
Would bring him shield and jav’lins instantly,
His own head arming, more arms laying by
To serve the swine-herd and the oxen-herd.
Valour well arm’d is ever most preferr’d.
“Run then,” said he, “and come before the last
Of these auxiliary shafts are past,
For fear, lest, left alone, they force my stand
From forth the ports.” He flew, and brought to hand
Eight darts, four shields, four helms. His own parts then
First put in arms, he furnish’d both his men,
That to their king stood close; but he, as long
As he had shafts to friend, enough was strong
For all the Wooers, and some one man still
He made make even with earth, till all a hill
Had rais’d in th’ even-floor’d hall. His last shaft spent,
He set his bow against a beam, and went
To arm at all parts, while the other three
Kept off the Wooers, who, unarm’d, could be
No great assailants. In the well-built wall
A window was thrust out, at end of all
The house’s entry; on whose utter side
There lay a way to town, and in it wide
And two-leav’d folds were forg’d, that gave fit mean
For flyers-out; and, therefore, at it then
Ulysses plac’d Eumæus in close guard;
One only pass ope to it, which (prepar’d
In this sort by Ulysses ’gainst all pass)
By Agelaus’ tardy memory was
In question call’d, who bade some one ascend
At such a window, and bring straight to friend
The city with his clamour, that this man
Might quickly shoot his last. “This no one can
Make safe access to,” said Melanthius,
“For ’tis too near the hall’s fair doors, whence thus
The man afflicts ye; for from thence there lies
But one strait passage to it, that denies
Access to all, if any one man stand,
Being one of courage, and will countermand
Our offer to it. But I know a way
To bring you arms, from where the King doth lay
His whole munition; and believe there is
No other place to all the armories
Both of himself and son.” This said, a pair
Of lofty stairs he climb’d, and to th’ affair
Twelve shields, twelve lances brought, as many casques
With horsehair plumes; and set to bitter tasks
Both son and sire. Then shrunk Ulysses’ knees,
And his lov’d heart, when thus in arms he sees
So many Wooers, and their shaken darts;
For then the work show’d as it ask’d more parts
To safe performance, and he told his son
That or Melanthius or his maids had done
A deed that foul war to their hands conferr’d.
“O father,” he replied, “’tis I have err’d
In this caus’d labour; I, and none but I,
That left the door ope of your armoury.
But some, it seems, hath set a sharper eye
On that important place. Eumæus! Haste
And shut the door, observing who hath past
To this false action; any maid, or one
That I suspect more, which is Dolius’ son.”
While these spake thus, Melanthius went again
For more fair arms; when the renownéd swain
Eumæus saw, and told Ulysses straight
It was the hateful man that his conceit
Before suspected, who had done that ill;
And, being again there, ask’d if he should kill,
If his pow’r serv’d, or he should bring the swain
To him, t’ inflict on him a sev’ral pain
For ev’ry forfeit he had made his house.
He answer’d: “I and my Telemachus
Will here contain these proud ones in despite,
How much soever these stol’n arms excite
Their guilty courages, while you two take
Possession of the chamber. The doors make
Sure at your back, and then, surprising him,
His feet and hands bind, wrapping ev’ry limb
In pliant chains; and with a halter cast
Above the wind-beam—at himself made fast—
Aloft the column draw him; where alive
He long may hang, and pains enough deprive
His vexéd life before his death succeed.”
This charge, soon heard, as soon they put to deed,
Stole on his stealth, and at the further end
Of all the chamber saw him busily bend
His hands to more arms, when they, still at door,
Watch’d his return. At last he came, and bore
In one hand a fair helm, in th’ other held
A broad and ancient rusty-rested shield,
That old Laertes in his youth had worn,
Of which the cheek-bands had with age been torn.
They rush’d upon him, caught him by the hair,
And dragg’d him in again; whom, crying out,
They cast upon the pavement, wrapp’d about
With sure and pinching cords both foot and hand,
And then, in full act of their King’s command,
A pliant chain bestow’d on him, and hal’d
His body up the column, till he scal’d
The highest wind-beam; where made firmly fast,
Eumæus on his just infliction past
This pleasurable cavil: “Now you may
All night keep watch here, and the earliest day
Discern, being hung so high, to rouse from rest
Your dainty cattle to the Wooers’ feast.
There, as befits a man of means so fair,
Soft may you sleep, nought under you but air;
And so long hang you.” Thus they left him there,
Made fast the door, and with Ulysses were
All arm’d in th’ instant. Then they all stood close,
Their minds fire breath’d in flames against their foes,
Four in th’ entry fighting all alone;
When from the hall charg’d many a mighty one.
But to them then Jove’s seed, Minerva, came,
Resembling Mentor both in voice and frame
Of manly person. Passing well apaid
Ulysses was, and said: “Now, Mentor, aid
’Gainst these odd mischiefs; call to memory now
My often good to thee, and that we two
Of one year’s life are.” Thus he said, but thought
ft was Minerva, that had ever brought
To her side safety. On the other part,
The Wooers threaten’d; but the chief in heart
Was Agelaus, who to Mentor spake:
“Mentor! Let no words of Ulysses make
Thy hand a fighter on his feeble side
‘Gainst all us Wooers; for we firm abide
In this persuasion, that when sire and son
Our swords have slain, thy life is sure to run
One fortune with them. What strange acts hast thou
Conceit to form here? Thy head must bestow
The wreak of theirs on us. And when thy pow’rs
Are taken down by these fierce steels of ours,
All thy possessions, in-doors and without,
Must raise on heap with his; and all thy rout
Of sons and daughters in thy turrets bleed
Wreak off’rings to us; and our town stand freed
Of all charge with thy wife.” Minerva’s heart
Was fir’d with these braves, the approv’d desert
Of her Ulysses chiding, saying: “No more
Thy force nor fortitude as heretofore
Will gain thee glory; when nine years at Troy
White-wristed Helen’s rescue did employ
Thy arms and wisdom, still and ever us’d,
The bloods of thousands through the field diffus’d
By thy vast valour; Priam’s broad-way’d town
By thy grave parts was sack’d and overthrown;
And now, amongst thy people and thy goods,
Against the Wooers’ base and petulant bloods
Stint’st thou thy valour? Rather mourning here
Than manly fighting? Come, friend, stand we near,
And note my labour, that thou may’st discern
Amongst thy foes how Mentor’s nerves will earn
All thy old bounties.” This she spake, but stay’d
Her hand from giving each-way-often-sway’d
Uncertain conquest to his certain use,
But still would try what self-pow’rs would produce
Both in the father and the glorious son.
Then on the wind-beam that along did ron
The smoky roof, transform’d, Minerva sat,
Like to a swallow; sometimes cuffing at
The swords and lances, rushing from her seat,
And up and down the troubl’d house did beat
Her wing at ev’ry motion. And as she
Had rous’d Ulysses; so the enemy
Damastor’s son excited, Polybus,
Amphinomus, and Demoptolemus,
Eurynomus, and Polyctorides;
For these were men that of the wooing prease
Were most egregious, and the clearly best
In strength of hand of all the desp’rate rest
That yet surviv’d, and now fought for their souls;
Which straight swift arrows sent among the fowls.
But first, Damastor’s son had more spare breath
To spend on their excitements ere his death,
And said: That now Ulysses would forbear
His dismal hand, since Mentor’s spirit was there,
And blew vain vaunts about Ulysses’ ears;
In whose trust he would cease his massacres,
Rest him, and put his friend’s huge boasts in proof;
And so was he beneath the entry’s roof
Left with Telemachus and th’ other two.
“At whom,” said he, “discharge no darts, but throw
All at Ulysses, rousing his faint rest;
Whom if we slaughter, by our interest
In Jove’s assistance, all the rest may yield
Our pow’rs no care, when he strews once the field.”
As he then will’d, they all at random threw
Where they suppos’d he rested; and then flew
Minerva after ev’ry dart, and made
Some strike the threshold, some the walls invade,
Some beat the doors, and all acts render’d vain
Their grave steel offer’d. Which escap’d, again
Came on Ulysses, saying: “O that we
The Wooers’ troop with our joint archery
Might so assail, that where their spirits dream
On our deaths first, we first may slaughter them!”
Thus the much-suff’rer said; and all let-fly,
When ev’ry man struck dead his enemy.
Ulysses slaughter’d Demoptolemus.
Euryades by young Telemachus
His death encounter’d. Good Eumæus slew
Elatus. And Philœtius overthrew
Pisander. All which tore the pavéd floor
Up with their teeth. The rest retir’d before
Their second charge to inner rooms; and then
Ulysses follow’d; from the slaughter’d men
Their darts first drawing. While which work was done,
The Wooers threw with huge contention
To kill them all; when with her swallow-wing
Minerva cuff’d, and made their jav’lins ring
Against the doors and thresholds, as before.
Some yet did graze upon their marks. One tore
The prince’s wrist, which was Amphimedon,
Th’ extreme part of the skin but touch’d upon.
Ctesippus over good Eumeeus’ shield
His shoulder’s top did taint; which yet did yield
The lance free pass, and gave his hurt the ground.
Again then charg’d the Wooers, and girt round
Ulysses with their lances; who turn’d head,
And with his jav’lin struck Eurydamas dead.
Telemachus disliv’d Amphimedon;
Eumæus, Polybus; Philœtius won
Ctesippus’ bosom with his dart, and said,
In quittance of the jester’s part he play’d,
The neat’s foot hurling at Ulysses: “Now,
Great son of Polytherses, you that vow
Your wit to bitter taunts, and love to wound
The heart of any with a jest, so crown’d
Your wit be with a laughter, never yielding
To fools in folly, but your glory building
On putting down in fooling, spitting forth
Puff’d words at all sorts, cease to scoff at worth,
And leave revenge of vile words to the Gods,
Since their wits bear the sharper edge by odds;
And, in the mean time, take the dart I drave,
For that right hospitable foot you gave
Divine Ulysses, begging but his own.”
Thus spake the black-ox-herdsman; and straight down
Ulysses struck another with his dart—
Damastor’s son. Telemachus did part,
Just in the midst, the belly of the fair
Evenor’s son; his fierce pile taking air
Out at his back. Flat fell he on his face,
His whole brows knocking, and did mark the place.
And now man-slaught’ring Pallas took in hand
Her snake-fring’d shield, and on that beam took stand
In her true form, where swallow-like she sat.
And then, in this way of the house and that,
The Wooers, wounded at the heart with fear,
Fled the encounter; as in pastures where
Fat herds of oxen feed, about the field
(As if wild madness their instincts impell’d)
The high-fed bullocks fly, whom in the spring,
When days are long, gad-bees or breezes sting.
Ulysses and his son the flyers chas’d,
As when, with crooked beaks and seres, a cast
Of hill-bred eagles, cast-off at some game,
That yet their strengths keep, but, put up, in flame
The eagle stoops; from which, along the field
The poor fowls make wing, this and that way yield
Their hard-flown pinions, then the clouds assay
For ’scape or shelter, their forlorn dismay
All spirit exhaling, all wings’ strength to carry
Their bodies forth, and, truss’d up, to the quarry
Their falconers ride-in, and rejoice to see
Their hawks perform a flight so fervently;
So, in their flight, Ulysses with his heir
Did stoop and cuff the Wooers, that the air
Broke in vast sighs, whose heads they shot and cleft,
The pavement boiling with the souls they reft.
Liodes, running to Ulysses, took
His knees, and thus did on his name invoke;
“Ulysses! Let me pray thee to my place
Afford the rev’rence, and to me the grace;
That never did or said, to any dame
Thy court contain’d, or deed, or word to blame;
But others so affected I have made
I lay down their insolence; and, if the trade
They kept with wickedness have made them still
Despise my speech, and use their wonted ill,
They have their penance by the stroke of death,
Which their desert divinely warranteth.
But I am priest amongst them, and shall I
That nought have done worth death amongst them die?
From thee this proverb then will men derive:
Good turns do never their mere deeds survive.”
He, bending his displeaséd forehead, said:
“If you be priest among them, as you plead,
Yet you would marry, and with my wife too,
And have descent by her. For all that woo
Wish to obtain, which they should never do,
Dames’ husbands living. You must therefore pray
Of force, and oft in Court here, that the day
Of my return for him might never shine;
The death to me wish’d, therefore, shall be thine.”
This said, he took a sword up that was cast
From Agelaus, having struck his last,
And on the priest’s mid neck he laid a stroke
That struck his head off, tumbling as he spoke.
Then did the poet Phemius (whose surname
Was call’d Terpiades; who thither came
Forc’d by the Wooers) fly death; but being near
The court’s great gate, he stood, and parted there
In two his counsels; either to remove
And take the altar of Herceian Jove
(Made sacred to him, with a world of art
Engrav’n about it, where were wont t’ impart
Laertes and Ulysses many a thigh
Of broad-brow’d oxen to the Deity)
Or venture to Ulysses, clasp his knee,
And pray his ruth. The last was the decree
His choice resolv’d on. ’Twixt the royal throne
And that fair table that the bowl stood on
With which they sacrific’d, his harp he laid
Along the earth, the King’s knees hugg’d, and said:
“Ulysses! Let my pray’rs obtain of thee
My sacred skill’s respect, and ruth to me!
It will hereafter grieve thee to have slain
A poet, that doth sing to Gods and men.
I of myself am taught, for God alone
All sorts of song hath in my bosom sown,
And I, as to a God, will sing to thee;
Then do not thou deal like the priest with me.
Thine own lov’d son Telemachus will say,
That not to beg here, nor with willing way
Was my access to thy high court addrest,
To give the Wooers my song after feast,
But, being many, and so much more strong,
They forced me hither, and compell’d my song.”
This did the prince’s sacred virtue hear,
And to the King, his father, said: “Forbear
To mix the guiltless with the guilty’s blood.
And with him likewise let our mercies save
Medon the herald, that did still behave
Himself with care of my good from a child;
If by Eumæus yet he be not kill’d,
Or by Philœtius, nor your fury met,
While all this blood about the house it swet.”
This Medon heard, as lying hid beneath
A throne set near, half-dead with fear of death;
A new-flay’d ox-hide, as but there thrown by,
His serious shroud made, he lying there to fly.
But hearing this he quickly left the throne,
His ox-hide cast as quickly, and as soon
The prince’s knees seiz’d, saying: “O my love,
I am not slain, but here alive and move.
Abstain yourself, and do not see your sire
Quench with my cold blood the unmeasur’d fire
That flames in his strength, making spoil of me,
His wrath’s right, for the Wooers’ injury.”
Ulysses smil’d, and said: “Be confident
This man hath sav’d and made thee different,
To let thee know, and say, and others see,
Good life is much more safe than villany.
Go then, sit free without from death within.
This much-renownéd singer from the sin
Of these men likewise quit. Both rest you there,
While I my house purge as it fits me here.”
This said, they went and took their seat without
At Jove’s high altar, looking round about,
Expecting still their slaughter. When the King
Search’d round the hall, to try life’s hidden wing
Made from more death. But all laid prostrate there
In blood and gore he saw. Whole shoals they were,
And lay as thick as in a hollow creek
Without the white sea, when the fishers break
Their many-mesh’d draught-net up, there lie
Fish frisking on the sands, and fain the dry
Would for the wet change, but th’ all-seeing beam
The sun exhales hath suck’d their lives from them;
So one by other sprawl’d the Wooers there.
Ulysses and his son then bid appear
The nurse Euryclea, to let her hear
His mind in something fit for her affair.
He op’d the door, and call’d, and said: “Repair,
Grave matron long since born, that art our spy
To all this house’s servile housewif’ry;
My father calls thee, to impart some thought
That asks thy action.” His word found in nought
Her slack observance, who straight op’d the door
And enter’d to him; when himself before
Had left the hall. But there the King she view’d
Amongst the slain, with blood and gore imbrued.
And as a lion skulking all in night,
Far-off in pastures, and come home, all dight
In jaws and breast-locks with an ox’s blood
New feasted on him, his looks full of mood;
So look’d Ulysses, all his hands and feet
Freckled with purple. When which sight did greet
The poor old woman (such works being for eyes
Of no soft temper) out she brake in cries,
Whose vent, though throughly open’d, he yet clos’d,
Call’d her more near, and thus her plaints compos’d:
“Forbear, nor shriek thus, but vent joys as loud.
It is no piety to bemoan the proud,
Though ends befall them moving ne’er so much,
These are the portions of the Gods to such.
Men’s own impieties in their instant act
Sustain their plagues, which are with stay but rackt.
But these men Gods nor men had in esteem,
Nor good nor bad had any sense in them,
Their lives directly ill were, therefore, cause
That Death in these stern forms so deeply draws.
Recount, then, to me those licentious dames
That lost my honour and their sex’s shames.”
“I’ll tell you truly,” she replied: “There are
Twice five-and-twenty women here that share
All work amongst them; whom I taught to spin,
And bear the just bands that they suffer’d in.
Of all which only there were twelve that gave
Themselves to impudence and light behave,
Nor me respecting, nor herself—the Queen.
And for your son he hath but lately been
Of years to rule; nor would his mother bear
His empire where her women’s labours were,
But let me go and give her notice now
Of your arrival. Sure some God doth show
His hand upon her in this rest she takes,
That all these uproars bears and never wakes.”
“Nor wake her yet,” said he, “but cause to come
Those twelve light women to this utter room.”
She made all utmost haste to come and go,
And bring the women he had summon’d so.
Then both his swains and son he bade go call
The women to their aid, and clear the hall
Of those dead bodies, cleanse each board and throne
With wetted sponges. Which with fitness done,
He bade take all the strumpets ’twixt the wall
Of his first court and that room next the hall,
In which the vessels of the house were scour’d,
And in their bosoms sheath their ev’ry sword,
Till all their souls were fled, and they had then
Felt ’twas but pain to sport with lawless men.
This said, the women came all drown’d in moan,
And weeping bitterly. But first was done
The bearing thence the dead; all which beneath
The portico they stow’d, where death on death
They heap’d together. Then took all the pains
Ulysses will’d. His son yet and the swains
With paring-shovels wrought. The women bore
Their parings forth, and all the clotter’d gore.
The house then cleans’d, they brought the women out,
And put them in a room so wall’d about
That no means serv’d their sad estates to fly.
Then said Telemachus: “These shall not die
A death that lets out any wanton blood,
And vents the poison that gave lust her food,
The body cleansing, but a death that chokes
The breath, and altogether that provokes
And seems as bellows to abhorréd lust,
That both on my head pour’d depraves unjust,
And on my mother’s, scandalling the Court,
With men debauch’d, in so abhorr’d a sort.”
This said, a halser of a ship they cast
About a cross-beam of the roof, which fast
They made about their necks, in twelve parts cut,
And hal’d them up so high they could not put
Their feet to any stay. As which was done,
Look how a mavis, or a pigeon,
In any grove caught with a springe or net,
With struggling pinions ’gainst the ground doth beat
Her tender body, and that then strait bed
Is sour to that swing in which she was bred;
So striv’d these taken birds, till ev’ry one
Her pliant halter had enforc’d upon
Her stubborn neck, and then aloft was haul’d
To wretched death. A little space they sprawl’d,
Their feet fast moving, but were quickly still.
Then fetch’d they down Melanthius, to fulfill
The equal execution; which was done
In portal of the hall, and thus begun:
They first slit both his nostrils, cropp’d each ear,
His members tugg’d off, which the dogs did tear
And chop up bleeding sweet; and, while red-hot
The vice-abhorring blood was, off they smote
His hands and feet; and there that work had end.
Then wash’d they hands and feet that blood had stain’d,
And took the house again. And then the King
Euryclea calling, bade her quickly bring
All-ill-expelling brimstone, and some fire,
That with perfumes cast he might make entire
The house’s first integrity in all.
And then his timely will was, she should call
Her Queen and ladies; still yet charging her
That all the handmaids she should first confer.
She said he spake as fitted; but, before,
She held it fit to change the weeds he wore,
And she would others bring him, that not so
His fair broad shoulders might rest clad, and show
His person to his servants was to blame.
“First bring me fire,” said he. She went and came
With fire and sulphur straight; with which the hall
And of the huge house all rooms capital
He throughly sweeten’d. Then went nurse to call
The handmaid servants down; and up she went
To tell the news, and will’d them to present
Their service to their sov’reign. Down they came
Sustaining torches all, and pour’d a flame
Of love about their lord, with welcomes home,
With huggings of his hands, with laboursome
Both heads and foreheads kisses, and embraces,
And plied him so with all their loving graces
That tears and sighs took up his whole desire;
For now he knew their hearts to him entire.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses to his wife is known.
A brief sum of his travels shown.
Himself, his son, and servants go
T’ approve the Wooers’ overthrow.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Ψι̑.
For all annoys
Sustain’d before,
The true wife’s joys
Now made the more.

The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes
Up where the Queen was cast in such repose,
Affected with a fervent joy to tell
What all this time she did with pain conceal.
Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet
Were borne above the ground with wings to greet
The long-griev’d Queen with news her King was come;
And, near her, said: “Wake, leave this withdrawn room,
That now your eyes may see at length, though late,
The man return’d, which, all the heavy date
Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see.
Ulysses is come home, and hath set free
His court of all your Wooers, slaught’ring all
For wasting so his goods with festival,
His house so vexing, and for violence done
So all ways varied to his only son.”
She answer’d her: “The Gods have made thee mad,
Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had.
The Gods can blind with follies wisest eyes,
And make men foolish so to make them wise.
For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore
An understanding spirit heretofore.
Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when Moan
Hath turn’d my mind, with tears into her own?
Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies
Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes
Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them,
That now had bound me in his sweet extreme,
T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres:
I have not slept so much this twenty years,
Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone
For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion.
Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid
Of all my train besides a part had play’d
So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies,
I had return’d her to her housewif’ries
With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames.
But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.”
She answer’d her: “I nothing wrong your ear,
But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here,
And, with the Wooers’ slaughter, his own hand,
In chief exploit, hath to his own command
Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he,
That all those Wooers wrought such injury.
Telemachus had knowledge long ago
That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so
Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end
To that great work to which they did contend.”
This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places;
She sprung for joy from blames into embraces
Of her grave nurse, wip’d ev’ry tear away
From her fair cheeks, and then began to say
What nurse said over thus: “O nurse, can this
Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his
Alone destroy so many? They would still
Troop all together. How could he then kill
Such numbers so united?” “How,” said she,
“I have not seen nor heard; but certainly
The deed is done. We sat within in fear,
The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear
The sighs and groans of ev’ry man he slew,
But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew
Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me,
And bade me then come forth, and then I see
Ulysses standing in the midst of all
Your slaughter’d Wooers, heap’d up, like a wall,
One on another round about his side.
It would have done you good to have descried
Your conqu’ring lord all-smear’d with blood and gore
So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore
The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before
The fore-court gates lie, one on another pil’d.
And now your victor all the hall, defil’d
With stench of hot death, is perfuming round,
And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.

“Thus, all the death remov’d, and ev’ry room
Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come
His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now
Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you
Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length,
Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength
Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d
A happy end to. He that long hath err’d
Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son,
Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done
On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d,
His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.”
She answer’d: “Do not you now laugh and boast
As you had done some great act, seeing most
Into his being; for you know he won—
Ev’n through his poor and vile condition—
A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d
Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d
By all the house, but most of all by me,
And by my son that was the progeny
Of both our loves. And yet it is not he,
For all the likely proofs ye plead to me,—
Some God hath slain the Wooers in disdain
Of the abhorréd pride he saw so reign
In those base works they did. No man alive,
Or good or bad, whoever did arrive
At their abodes once, ever could obtain
Regard of them; and therefore their so vain
And vile deserts have found as vile an end.
But, for Ulysses, never will extend
His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.”
“How strange a Queen are you,” said she, “that gives
No truth your credit, that your husband, set
Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet
No faith of you, but that he still is far
From any home of his! Your wit’s at war
With all credulity ever! And yet now,
I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you:
I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar
That still remains a mark too ocular
To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then
Had run and told you, but his hand was fain
To close my lips from th’ acclamation
My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won
My still retention, till he gave me leave
And charge to tell you this. Now then receive
My life for gage of his return; which take
In any cruel fashion, if I make
All this not clear to you.” “Lov’d nurse,” said she,
“Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be
Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated Gods
Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods
’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come,
Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom
They had their slaughter.” This said, down they went;
When, on the Queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent,
If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand
Aloof, and question more; or his hugg’d hand
And lovéd head she should at first assay
With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way
Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat
Against her husband, in the opposite heat
The fire then cast upon the other wall.
Himself set by the column of the hall,
His looks cast downwards, and expected still
When her incredulous and curious will
To shun ridiculous error, and the shame
To kiss a husband that was not the same,
Would down, and win enough faith from his sight.
She silent sat, and her perplexéd plight
Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear
He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear
His person had put on transform’d him so
That yet his stamp would hardly current go.
Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus:
“Mother, ungentle mother! tyrannous!
In this too-curious modesty you show.
Why sit you from my father, nor bestow
A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt
As may perplex you? Found man ever out
One other such a wife that could forbear
Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year
In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart.
No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.”
“Son,” said she, “amaze contains my mind,
Nor can I speak and use the common kind
Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see
With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be
My true Ulysses now return’d, there are
Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far
To give me argument he is my lord;
And my assurance of him may afford
My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes
With more decorum than objéct their guise
To public notice.” The much-suff’rer brake
In laughter out, and to his son said: “Take
Your mother from the prease, that she may make
Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give
More cause to the acknowledgments that drive
Their show thus off. But now, because I go
So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know
So loath’d a creature for her lovéd lord.
Let us consult, then, how we may accord
The town to our late action. Some one slain
Hath made the all-left slaughterer of him fain
To fly his friends and country; but our swords
Have slain a city’s most supportful lords,
The chief peers of the kingdom, therefore see
You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.”
“See you to that, good father,” said the son,
“Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won
From all men living. None will strive with you,
But with unquestion’d girlands grace your brow,
To whom our whole alacrities we vow
In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave
Your onsets needy of supplies to give
All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.”
“Then this,” said he, “to me seems capital
Of all choice courses: Bathe we first, and then
Attire we freshly; all our maids and men
Enjoining likewise to their best attire.
The sacred singer then let touch his lyre,
And go before us all in graceful dance,
That all without, to whose ears shall advance
Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by,
Or firm inhabitants, solemnity
Of frolic nuptials may imagine here.
And this perform we, lest the massacre
Of all our Wooers be divulg’d about
The ample city, ere ourselves get out
And greet my father in his grove of trees,
Where, after, we will prove what policies
Olympius shall suggest to overcome
Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.”
This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire
Both men and women did. Then took his lyre
The holy singer, and set thirst on fire
With songs and faultless dances; all the court
Rung with the footings that the numerous sport
From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames;
Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames:
“This sure the day is when the much-woo’d Queen
Is richly wed. O wretch! That hath not been
So constant as to keep her ample house
Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.”
Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing.
And now Eurynomé had bath’d the King,
Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d
In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d
The Goddess Pallas, deck’d his head and face
With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace
Of stature to him, a much plumper plight
Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright
Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show
As if the flow’ry hyacinth did grow
In all his pride there, in the gen’ral trim
Of ev’ry lock and ev’ry curious limb.
Look how a skilful artizan, well-seen
In all arts metalline, as having been
Taught by Minerva and the God of fire,
Doth gold with silver mix so that entire
They keep their self-distinction, and yet so
That to the silver from the gold doth flow
A much more artificial lustre than his own,
And thereby to the gold itself is grown
A greater glory than if wrought alone,
Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion;
So did Minerva her’s and his combine,
He more in her, she more in him, did shine.
Like an Immortal from the bath he rose,
And to his wife did all his grace dispose,
Encount’ring this her strangeness: “Cruel dame
Of all that breathe, the Gods past steel and flame
Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one
Of all dames else that bears so overgrown
A mind with abstinence, as twenty years
To miss her husband drown’d in woes and tears,
And at his coming keep aloof, and fare
As of his so long absence and his care
No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed,
That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead
To all reflection!” To him thus replied
The wise Penelope: “Man half-deified,
’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight
With bravest men, nor poorest use to sleight.
Your mean appearance made not me retire,
Nor this your rich show makes me now admire,
Nor moves at all; for what is all to me
If not my husband? All his certainty
I knew at parting; but, so long apart,
The outward likeness holds no full desert
For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see addrest
A soft bed for him, and the single rest
Himself affects so. Let it be the bed
That stands within our bridal chamber-sted,
Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence,
And see it furnish’d with magnificence.”
This said she to assay him, and did stir
Ev’n his establish’d patience; and to her
Whom thus he answer’d: “Woman! your words prove
My patience strangely. Who is it can move
My bed out of his place? It shall oppress
Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless
Ev’n God himself come, that can eas’ly grace
Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place;
For man he lives not that (as not most skill’d,
So not most young) shall easily make it yield,
If, building on the strength in which he flows,
He adds both levers too and iron crows:
For in the fixture of the bed is shown
A master-piece, a wonder; and ’twas done
By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought:
There was an olive-tree that had his grought
Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud,
Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d,
His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye
It show’d a column for solidity.
To this had I a comprehension
To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone,
Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast
A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d,
Put glued doors to it, that op’d art enough,
Then from the olive ev’ry broad-leav’d bough
I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree; and then
Went over it both with my axe and plane,
Both govern’d by my line, And then I hew’d
My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d
Work of no common hand. All this begun,
I could not leave till to perfection
My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d
The holes, as fitted, and did last afford
The varied ornament, which show’d no want
Of silver, gold, and polish’d elephant.
An ox-hide dyed in purple then I threw
Above the cords. And thus to curious view
I hope I have objected honest sign
To prove I author nought that is not mine.
But if my bed stand unremov’d or no,
O woman, passeth human wit to know.”
This sunk her knees and heart, to hear so true
The signs she urg’d; and first did tears ensue
Her rapt assurance; then she ran and spread
Her arms about his neck, kiss’d oft his head,
And thus the curious stay she made excus’d:
“Ulysses! Be not angry that I us’d
Such strange delays to this, since heretofore
Your suff’ring wisdom hath the garland wore
From all that breathe; and ’tis the Gods that, thus
With mutual miss so long afflicting us,
Have caus’d my coyness; to our youths envied
That wish’d society that should have tied
Our youths and years together; and since now
Judgment and Duty should our age allow
As full joys therein as in youth and blood,
See all young anger and reproof withstood
For not at first sight giving up my arms,
My heart still trembling lest the false alarms
That words oft strike-up should ridiculize me.
Had Argive Helen known credulity
Would bring such plagues with it, and her again,
As authoress of them all, with that foul stain
To her and to her country, she had stay’d
Her love and mixture from a stranger’s bed;
But God impell’d her to a shameless deed,
Because she had not in herself decreed,
Before th’ attempt, that such acts still were shent
As simply in themselves as in th’ event
By which not only she herself sustains,
But we, for her fault, have paid mutual pains.
Yet now, since these signs of our certain bed
You have discover’d, and distinguishéd
From all earth’s others, no one man but you
Yet ever getting of it th’ only show,
Nor one of all dames but myself and she
My father gave, old Actor’s progeny,
Who ever guarded to ourselves the door
Of that thick-shaded chamber, I no more
Will cross your clear persuasion, though till now
I stood too doubtful and austere to you,”
These words of hers, so justifying her stay,
Did more desire of joyful moan convey
To his glad mind than if at instant sight
She had allow’d him all his wishes’ right.
He wept for joy, t’ enjoy a wife so fit
For his grave mind, that knew his depth of wit,
And held chaste virtue at a price so high,
And as sad men at sea when shore is nigh,
Which long their hearts have wish’d, their ship quite lost
By Neptune’s rigour, and they vex’d and tost
’Twixt winds and black waves, swimming for their lives,
A few escap’d, and that few that survives,
All drench’d in foam and brine, crawl up to land,
With joy as much as they did worlds command;
So dear to this wife was her husband’s sight,
Who still embrac’d his neck, and had, till light
Display’d her silver ensign, if the Dame,
That bears the blue sky intermix’d with flame
In her fair eyes, had not infix’d her thought
On other joys, for loves so hardly brought
To long’d-for meeting; who th’ extended night
Withheld in long date, nor would let the light
Her wing-hoov’d horse join—Lampus, Phaeton—
Those ever-colts that bring the morning on
To worldly men, but, in her golden chair,
Down to the ocean by her silver hair
Bound her aspirings. Then Ulysses said:
“O wife! Nor yet are my contentions stay’d.
A most unmeasur’d labour long and hard
Asks more performance; to it being prepar’d
By grave Tiresiás, when down to hell
I made dark passage, that his skill might tell
My men’s return and mine. But come, and now
Enjoy the sweet rest that our Fates allow.”
“The place of rest is ready,” she replied,
“Your will at full serve, since the Deified
Have brought you where your right is to command.
But since you know, God making understand
Your searching mind, inform me what must be
Your last set labour; since ’twill fall to me,
I hope, to hear it after, tell me now.
The greatest pleasure is before to know.”
“Unhappy!” said Ulysses; “To what end
Importune you this labour? It will lend
Nor you nor me delight, but you shall know
I was commanded yet more to bestow
My years in travel, many cities more
By sea to visit; and when first for shore
I left my shipping, I was will’d to take
A naval oar in hand, and with it make
My passage forth till such strange men I met
As knew no sea, nor ever salt did eat
With any victuals, who the purple beaks
Of ships did never see, nor that which breaks
The waves in curls, which is a fan-like oar,
And serves as wings with which a ship doth soar.
To let me know, then, when I was arriv’d
On that strange earth where such a people liv’d,
He gave me this for an unfailing sign:
When any one that took that oar of mine,
Borne on my shoulder, for a corn-cleanse fan,
I met ashore, and show’d to be a man
Of that land’s labour, there had I command
To fix mine oar, and offer on that strand
T’ imperial Neptune, whom I must implore,
A lamb, a bull, and sow-ascending boar;
And then turn home, where all the other Gods
That in the broad heav’n made secure abodes
I must solicit—all my curious heed
Giv’n to the sev’ral rites they have decreed—
With holy hecatombs; and then, at home,
A gentle death should seize me that would come
From out the sea, and take me to his rest
In full ripe age, about me living blest
My loving people; to which, he presag’d,
The sequel of my fortunes were engag’d.”
“If then,” said she, “the Gods will please t’ impose
A happier being to your fortune’s close
Than went before, your hope gives comfort strength
That life shall lend you better days at length.”
While this discourse spent mutual speech, the bed
Eurynomé and nurse had made, and spread
With richest furniture, while torches spent
Their parcel-gilt thereon. To bed then went
The aged nurse; and, where their sov’reigns were,
Eurynomé, the chambermaid, did bear
A torch, and went before them to their rest;
To which she left them and for her’s addrest.
The King and Queen then now, as newly-wed,
Resum’d the old laws of th’ embracing bed.
Telemachus and both his herdsmen then
Dissolv’d the dances both to maids and men;
Who in their shady roofs took timely sleep.
The bride and bridegroom having ceas’d to keep
Observéd love-joys, from their fit delight
They turn’d to talk. The Queen then did recite
What she had suffer’d by the hateful rout
Of harmful Wooers, who had eat her out
So many oxen and so many sheep,
How many tun of wine their drinking deep
Had quite exhausted. Great Ulysses then
Whatever slaughters he had made of men,
Whatever sorrows he himself sustain’d,
Repeated amply; and her ears remain’d
With all delight attentive to their end,
Nor would one wink sleep till he told her all,
Beginning where he gave the Cicons fall;
From thence his pass to the Lotophagi;
The Cyclop’s acts, the putting out his eye,
And wreak of all the soldiers he had eat,
No least ruth shown to all they could entreat;
His way to Æolus; his prompt receit
And kind dismission; his enforc’d retreat
By sudden tempest to the fishy main,
And quite distraction from his course again;
His landing at the Læstrigonian port,
Where ships and men in miserable sort
Met all their spoils, his ship and he alone
Got off from the abhorr’d confusión;
His pass to Circe, her deceits and arts;
His thence descension to th’ Infernal parts;
His life’s course of the Theban prophet learn’d,
Where all the slaughter’d Grecians he discern’d,
And lovéd mother; his astonish’d ear
With what the Siren’s voices made him hear;
His ’scape from th’ erring rocks, which Scylla was,
And rough Charybdis, with the dang’rous pass
Of all that touch’d there; his Sicilian
Offence giv’n to the Sun; his ev’ry man
Destroy’d by thunder vollied out of heav’n,
That split his ship; his own endeavours driv’n
To shift for succours on th’ Ogygian shore,
Where Nymph Calypso such affection bore
To him in his arrival, that with feast
She kept him in her caves, and would have blest
His welcome life with an immortal state
Would he have stay’d and liv’d her nuptial mate,
All which she never could persuade him to;
His pass to the Phæacians spent in woe;
Their hearty welcome of him, as he were
A God descended from the starry sphere;
Their kind dismission of him home with gold,
Brass, garments, all things his occasions would.
This last word us’d, sleep seiz’d his weary eye
That salves all care to all mortality.
In mean space Pallas entertain’d intent
That when Ulysses thought enough time spent
In love-joys with his wife, to raise the day,
And make his grave occasions call away.
The morning rose and he, when thus he said:
“O Queen, now satiate with afflictions laid
On both our bosoms,—you oppresséd here
With cares for my return, I ev’rywhere
By Jove and all the other Deities tost
Ev’n till all hope of my return was lost,—
And both arriv’d at this sweet haven, our bed,
Be your care us’d to see administ’red
My house-possessions left. Those sheep, that were
Consum’d in surfeits by your Wooers here,
I’ll forage to supply with some; and more
The suff’ring Grecians shall be made restore,
Ev’n till our stalls receive their wonted fill.

“And now, to comfort my good father’s ill
Long suffer’d for me, to the many-tree’d
And ample vineyard grounds it is decreed
In my next care that I must haste and see
His long’d-for presence. In the mean time, be
Your wisdom us’d, that since, the sun ascended,
The fame will soon be through the town extended
Of those I here have slain, yourself, got close
Up to your chamber, see you there repose,
Cheer’d with your women, and nor look afford
Without your court, nor any man a word.”
This said, he arm’d; to arms both son and swain
His pow’r commanding, who did entertain
His charge with spirit, op’d the gates and out,
He leading all. And now was hurl’d about
Aurora’s ruddy fire; through all whose light
Minerva led them through the town from sight.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

By Mercury the Wooers’ souls
Are usher’d to th’ infernal pools.
Ulysses with Laertes met,
The people are in uproar set
Against them, for the Wooers’ ends;
Whom Pallas stays and renders friends.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Ω.
The uproar’s fire,
The people’s fall:
The grandsire, sire,
And son, to all.

Cyllenian Hermes, with his golden rod,
The Wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode
Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout
Forth to th’ Infernals; who came murmuring out.
And as amidst the desolate retreat
Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat
Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings
Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings,
But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise
And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise
About the cavern; so these, grumbling, rose
And flock’d together. Down before them goes
None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways,
And straight to those straits; where the ocean stays
His lofty current in calm deeps, they flew,
Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew,
And to the close of Phœbus’ orient gates,
The nation then of dreams, and then the states
Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead
Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead
Had habitable situatión.
And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son,
Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus,
And Ajax, the supremely strenuous
Of all the Greek host next Pelëion;
All which assembled about Maia’s son.
And to them, after, came the mournful ghost
Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost
In false Ægisthus’ court. Achilles then
Beholding there that mighty king of men,
Deplor’d his plight, and said: “O Atreus’ son!
Of all heroës, all opinion
Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command
Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand
At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so.
And is the issue this, that first in woe
Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down?
None borne past others’ Fates can pass his own.
I wish to heav’n that in the height of all
Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall,
That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee
A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see
Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end!
But now a wretched death did Fate extend
To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.”
“O Thetis’ son,” said he, “the vital flame
Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields,
The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields.
About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy
Were sacrific’d to slaughter. Thy just joy
Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot
In such a death as great Apollo shot
At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay
Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way
With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state
Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate.
All day we fought about thee; nor at all
Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall
A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet.
But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet,
Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid
Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid
The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease,
Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase.
Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas
That started up thy mother from the waves;
And all the márine Godheads left their caves,
Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair.
The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air
And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense,
Had taken ship and fled for ever thence,
If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d
Their rushing off; his counsels having sway’d
In all times former with such cause their courses;
Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces,
For all they saw was Thetis come from sea,
With others of the wat’ry progeny,
To see and mourn for her deceaséd son.
Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won;
And round about thee stood th’ old sea-God’s Seeds
Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds
Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine
Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine,
By varied turns their heav’nly voices venting,
All in deep passion for thy death consenting.
And then of all our army not an eye
You could have seen undrown’d in misery,
The moving Muse so rul’d in ev’ry mind.
Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d
To celebration of thy mournéd end;
Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend.
The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap
Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep
We slew past number. Then the precious spoil,
Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil
And pleasant honey we embalm’d, and then
Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the Gods did rain.
In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame;
To which a number of heroical name,
As prest to sacrifice their vital right
To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d.
Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d
In infinite tumult. But when all the night
The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite
Thy body was with the enamour’d fire:
We came in early morn, and an entire
Collection made of ev’ry ivory bone;
Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fit unctión,
A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave,
By Bacchus giv’n her and did form receive
From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d
Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d
Mix’d with the bones of Menœtiades
And brave Antilochus; who, in decease
Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear.
About thee then a matchless sepulchre
The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d
Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d,
For height and conspicuity, the eyes
Of living men and their posterities.
Thy mother then obtain’d the Gods’ consent
To institute an honour’d game, that spent
The best approvement of our Grecian fames.
In whose praise I must say that many games
About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes
Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize
With miracles to me from all before.
In which thy silver-footed mother bore
The institution’s name, but thy deserts,
Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts.
And thus, through all the worst effects of Fate,
Achilles’ fame ev’n Death shall propagate.
While anyone shall lend the light an eye
Divine Æacides shall never die.
But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d
As rights to me? When, having quite achiev’d
An end with safety, and with conquest, too,
Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do
Of all our enemies there, at home a friend
And wife have giv’n me inglorious end?”
While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy
Brought-near Ulysses’ noble victory
To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends
The Wooers’ suffer’d, and show’d those his friends;
Whom now amaze invaded with the view
And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew
Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon,
Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown
To great Atrides; who first spake, and said:
“Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid
On your alive parts that hath made you make
This land of darkness the retreat you take,
So all together, all being like in years,
Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers
A city honours, men to make a part
More strong for any object? Hath your smart
Been felt from Neptune, being at sea—his wrath
The winds and waves exciting to your scathe?
Or have offensive men impos’d this fate—
Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate?
Or for your city fighting and your wives,
Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives?
Inform me truly. I was once your guest,
When I and Menelaus had profest
First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore
On Ithaca, with purpose to implore
Ulysses’ aid, that city-racing man,
In wreak of the adult’rous Phrygian.
Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date
We spent at sea, in hope to instigate
In our arrival old Laertes’ son,
Whom, hardly yet, to our design we won.”
The soul made answer: “Worthiest king of men,
I well remember ev’ry passage then
You now reduce to thought, and will relate
The truth in whole form of our timeless fate:
“We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king,
Who (though her second marriage were a thing
Of most hate to her) she would yet deny
At no part our affections, nor comply
With any in performance, but decreed,
In her delays, the cruel Fates we feed.
Her craft was this: She undertook to weave
A funeral garment destin’d to receive
The corse of old Laertes; being a task
Of infinite labour, and which time would ask.
In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay
With this attraction: ‘Youths, that come in way
Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord
Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board
My choice for present nuptials, and sustain,
Lest what is past me of this web be vain,
Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed
Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need
The old Laertes; who, possessing much,
Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch
My honour highly with each vulgar dame.’
Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame
All-day she labour’d, her day’s work not small,
But ev’ry night-time she unwrought it all.
Three years continuing this imperfect task;
But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask
In no more covert, since her trusted maid
Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d.
With which surpriz’d, she could no more protract
Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact
To what remain’d, wash’d-up, and set thereon
A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon
The whole work show’d together. And when now
Of mere necessity her honour’d vow
She must make good to us, ill-fortune brought
Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought
Of his arrival, but far-off at field
Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield
Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest,
Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profest.
At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand,
And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land,
When yet not home he went, but laid his way
Up to his herdsman where his father lay;
And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore
The swine-herd and his King, the swain before,
Telemachus in other ways bestow’d
His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d.
The swain the King led after, who came on
Raggéd and wretched, and still lean’d upon
A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home,
Where (on the sudden and so wretched come)
Nor we nor much our elders once did dream
Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme
Of words and blows to him; all which he bore
With that old patience he had learn’d before.
But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own,
His son and he fetch’d all their armour down,
Fast-lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use,
He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce
His bow to us to draw; of which no one
Could stir the string; himself yet set upon
The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease,
Shot through the steels, and then began to seize
Our armless bosoms; striking first the breast
Of king Antinous, and then the rest
In heaps turn’d over; hopeful of his end
Because some God, he knew, stood firm his friend.
Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood
The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood.
And thus our souls came here; our bodies laid
Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d
To any friend to take us home and give
Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live
Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed
Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.”
Atrides’ ghost gave answer: “O bless’d son
Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won
With mighty virtue thy unmatchéd wife.
How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life,
Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid
Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid!
For which her virtues shall extend applause,
Beyond the circles frail mortality draws;
The deathless in this vale of death comprising
Her praise in numbers into infinites rising.
The daughter Tyndarus begat begot
No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot
That knit her spouse and her with murd’rous swords.
For which posterities shall put hateful words
To notes of her that all her sex defam’d,
And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.”
To this effect these these digressions made
In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade.
Ulysses and his son, now past the town,
Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown
By old Laertes’ labour, when, with cares
For his lost son, he left all court affairs,
And took to this rude upland; which with toil
He made a sweet and habitable soil;
Where stood a house to him; about which ran,
In turnings thick and labyrinthian,
Poor hovels, where his necessary men
That did those works (of pleasure to him then)
Might sit, and eat, and sleep. In his own house
An old Sicilian dame liv’d, studious
To serve his sour age with her cheerful pains.
Then said Ulysses to his son and swains:
“Go you to town, and for your dinner kill
The best swine ye can choose; myself will still
Stay with my father, and assay his eye
If my acknowledg’d truth it can descry,
Or that my long time’s travel doth so change
My sight to him that I appear as strange.”
Thus gave he arms to them, and home they hied.
Ulysses to the fruitful field applied
His present place; nor found he Dolius there,
His sons, or any servant, anywhere
In all that spacious ground; all gone from thence
Were dragging bushes to repair a fence,
Old Dolius leading all. Ulysses found
His father far above in that fair ground,
Employ’d in proining of a plant; his weeds
All torn and tatter’d, fit for homely deeds,
But not for him. Upon his legs he wore
Patch’d boots to guard him from the bramble’s gore;
His hands had thorn-proof hedging mittens on;
His head a goat-skin casque; through all which shone
His heart giv’n over to abjectest moan.
Him when Ulysses saw consum’d with age,
And all the ensigns on him that the rage
Of grief presented, he brake out in tears;
And, taking stand then where a tree of pears
Shot high his forehead over him, his mind
Had much contention, if to yield to kind,
Make straight way to his father, kiss, embrace,
Tell his return, and put on all the face
And fashion of his instant-told return;
Or stay th’ impulsion, and the long day burn
Of his quite loss giv’n in his father’s fear
A little longer, trying first his cheer
With some free dalliance, th’ earnest being so near.
This course his choice preferr’d, and forth he went.
His father then his aged shoulders bent
Beneath what years had stoop’d, about a tree
Busily digging: “O, old man,” said he,
“You want no skill to dress and deck your ground,
For all your plants doth order’d distance bound.
No apple, pear, or olive, fig; or vine,
Nor any plat or quarter you confine
To grass or flow’rs stands empty of your care,
Which shows exact in each peculiar;
And yet (which let not move you) you bestow
No care upon yourself, though to this show
Of outward irksomeness to what you are
You labour with an inward froward care,
Which is your age, that should wear all without
More neat and cherishing. I make no doubt
That any sloth you use procures your lord
To let an old man go so much abhorr’d
In all his weeds; nor shines there in your look
A fashion and a goodliness so took
With abject qualities to merit this
Nasty entreaty. Your resemblance is
A very king’s, and shines through this retreat.
You look like one that having wash’d and eat
Should sleep securely, lying sweet and neat.
It is the ground of age, when cares abuse it,
To know life’s end, and, as ’tis sweet, so use it.
“But utter truth, and tell what lord is he
That rates your labour and your liberty?
Whose orchard is it that you husband thus?
Or quit me this doubt, for if Ithacus
This kingdom claims for his, the man I found
At first arrival here is hardly sound
Of brain or civil, not enduring stay
To tell nor hear me my inquiry out
Of that my friend, if still he bore about
His life and being, or were div’d to death,
And in the house of him that harboureth
The souls of men. For once he liv’d my guest;
My land and house retaining interest
In his abode there; where there sojourn’d none
As guest from any foreign region
Of more price with me. He deriv’d his race
From Ithaca, and said his father was
Laertes, surnam’d Arcesiades,
I had him home, and all the offices
Perform’d to him that fitted any friend,
Whose proof I did to wealthy gifts extend:
Seven talents gold; a bowl all-silver, set
With pots of flowers; twelve robes that had no pleat!
Twelve cloaks, or mantles, of delicious dye;
Twelve inner weeds; twelve suits of tapestry.
I gave him likewise women skill’d in use
Of loom and needle, freeing him to choose
Four the most fair.” His father, weeping, said:
“Stranger! The earth to which you are convey’d
Is Ithaca; by such rude men possess’d,
Unjust and insolent, as first address’d
To your encounter; but the gifts you gave
Were giv’n, alas! to the ungrateful grave.
If with his people, where you now arrive,
Your fate had been to find your friend alive,
You should have found like guest-rites from his hand,
Like gifts, and kind pass to your wishéd land.
But how long since receiv’d you for your guest
Your friend, my son, who was th’ unhappiest
Of all men breathing, if he were at all?
O born when Fates and ill-aspects let fall
A cruel influence for him! Far away
From friends and country destin’d to allay.
The sea-bred appetites, or, left ashore,
To be by fowls and upland monsters tore,
His life’s kind authors nor his wealthy wife
Bemoaning, as behov’d, his parted life,
Nor closing, as in honour’s course it lies
To all men dead, in bed his dying eyes.
But give me knowledge of your name and race.
What city bred you? Where the anchoring-place
Your ship now rides-at lies that shor’d you here
And where your men? Or, if a passenger
In other keels you came, who (giving land
To your adventures here, some other strand
To fetch in further course) have left to us
Your welcome presence?” His reply was thus:
“I am of Alybandé, where I hold
My name’s chief house, to much renown extoll’d.
My father Aphidantes, fam’d to spring
From Polypemon, the Molossian king.
My name Eperitus. My taking land
On this fair Isle was rul’d by the command
Of God or fortune, quite against consent
Of my free purpose, that in course was bent
For th’ isle Sicania. My ship is held
Far from the city, near an ample field.
And for Ulysses, since his pass from me
’Tis now five years. Unbless’d by destiny,
That all this time hath had the fate to err!
Though, at his parting, good birds did augur
His putting-off, and on his right hand flew,
Which to his passage my affection drew,
His spirit joyful; and my hope was now
To guest with him, and see his hand bestow
Rites of our friendship.” This a cloud of grief
Cast over all the forces of his life.
With both his hands the burning dust he swept
Up from the earth, which on his head he heapt,
And fetch’d a sigh as in it life were broke.
Which grieved his son, and gave so smart a stroke
Upon his nostrils with the inward stripe,
That up the vein rose there; and weeping ripe
He was to see his sire feel such woe
For his dissembled joy; which now let go,
He sprung from earth, embrac’d and kiss’d his sire,
And said: “O father! He of whom y’ enquire
Am I myself, that, from you twenty years,
Is now return’d. But do not break in tears,
For now we must not forms of kind maintain,
But haste and guard the substance. I have slain
All my wife’s Wooers, so revenging now
Their wrong so long time suffer’d. Take not you
The comfort of my coming then to heart
At this glad instant, but, in prov’d desert
Of your grave judgment, give moan glad suspense,
And on the sudden put this consequence
In act as absolute, as all time went
To ripening of your resolute assent.”
All this haste made not his staid faith so free
To trust his words; who said: “If you are he,
Approve it by some sign.” “This scar then see,”
Replied Ulysses, “giv’n me by the boar
Slain in Parnassus, I being sent before
By your’s and by my honour’d mother’s will,
To see your sire Autolycus fulfill
The gifts he vow’d at giving of my name.
I’ll tell you, too, the trees, in goodly frame
Of this fair orchard, that I ask’d of you
Being yet a child, and follow’d for your show
And name of ev’ry tree. You gave me then
Of fig-trees forty, apple-bearers ten,
Pear-trees thirteen, and fifty ranks of vine;
Each one of which a season did confine
For his best eating. Not a grape did grow
That grew not there, and had his heavy brow
When Jove’s fair daughters, the all ripening Hours,
Gave timely date to it.” This charg’d the pow’rs
Both of his knees and heart with such impression
Of sudden comfort, that it gave possession
Of all to Trance, the signs were all so true,
And did the love that gave them so renew.
He cast his arms about his son and sunk,
The circle slipping to his feet; so shrunk
Were all his age’s forces with the fire
Of his young love rekindled. The old sire
The son took up quite lifeless. But his breath
Again respiring, and his soul from death
His body’s pow’r recov’ring, out he cried,
And said: “O Jupiter! I now have tried
That still there live in heav’n rememb’ring Gods
Of men that serve them; though the periods
They set on their appearances are long
In best men’s suff’rings, yet as sure as strong
They are in comforts, be their strange delays
Extended never so from days to days.
Yet see the short joys or the soon-mix’d fears
Of helps withheld by them so many years!
For if the Wooers now have paid the pain
Due to their impious pleasures, now again
Extreme fear takes me, lest we straight shall see
The Ithacensians here in mutiny,
Their messengers dispatch’d to win to friend
The Cephallenian cities.” “Do not spend
Your thoughts on these cares,” said his suff’ring son,
“But be of comfort, and see that course run
That best may shun the worst. Our house is near,
Telemachus and both his herdsmen there
To dress our supper with their utmost haste;
And thither haste we.” This said, forth they past,
Came home, and found Telemachus at feast
With both his swains; while who had done, all drest
With baths and balms and royally array’d
The old king was by his Sicilian maid.
By whose side Pallas stood, his crook’d-age straight’ning,
His flesh more plumping, and his looks enlight’ning.
Who issuing then to view, his son admir’d
The Gods’ aspects into his form inspir’d,
And said: “O father, certainly some God
By your addression in this state hath stood,
More great, more rev’rend, rend’ring you by far
At all your parts than of yourself you are!”
“I would to Jove,” said he, “the Sun, and She
That bears Jove’s shield, the state had stood with me
That help’d me take-in the well-builded tow’rs
Of strong Nericus (the Cephalian pow’rs
To that fair city leading) two days past,
While with the Wooers thy conflict did last,
And I had then been in the Wooers’ wreak!
I should have help’d thee so to render weak
Their stubborn knees, that in thy joy’s desert
Thy breast had been too little for thy heart.”
This said, and supper order’d by their men,
They sat to it; old Dolius ent’ring then,
And with him, tried with labour, his sons came,
Call’d by their mother, the Sicilian dame
That brought them up and dress’d their father’s fare,
As whose age grew, with it increas’d her care
To see him serv’d as fitted. When thus set
These men beheld Ulysses there at meat,
They knew him, and astonish’d in the place
Stood at his presence; who, with words of grace,
Call’d to old Dolius, saying: “Come and eat,
And banish all astonishment. Your meat
Hath long been ready, and ourselves made stay,
Expecting ever when your wishéd way
Would reach amongst us.” This brought fiercely on
Old Dolius from his stand; who ran upon,
With both his arms abroad, the King, and kiss’d
Of both his rapt up hands the either wrist,
Thus welcoming his presence: “O my love,
Your presence here, for which all wishes strove,
No one expected. Ev’n the Gods have gone
In guide before you to your mansión.
Welcome, and all joys to your heart contend.
Knows yet Penelope? Or shall we send
Some one to tell her this?” “She knows,” said he,
“What need these troubles, father, touch at thee?”
Then came the sons of Dolius, and again
Went over with their father’s entertain,
Welcom’d, shook hands, and then to feast sat down.
About which while they sat, about the town
Fame flew, and shriek’d about the cruel death
And fate the Wooers had sustain’d beneath
Ulysses’ roofs. All heard; together all
From hence and thence met in Ulysses’ hall,
Short-breath’d and noiseful, bore out all the dead
To instant burial, while their deaths were spread
To other neighbour cities where they liv’d,
From whence in swiftest fisher-boats arriv’d
Men to transfer them home. In mean space here
The heavy nobles all in council were;
Where, met in much heap, up to all arose
Extremely-griev’d Eupitheus so to lose
His son Antinous, who, first of all,
By great Ulysses’ hand had slaught’rous fall.
Whose father, weeping for him, said: “O friends,
This man hath author’d works of dismal ends,
Long since conveying in his guide to Troy
Good men, and many that did ships employ,
All which are lost, and all their soldiers dead;
And now the best men Cephallenia bred
His hand hath slaughter’d. Go we then (before
His ’scape to Pylos, or the Elians’ shore,
Where rule the Epeans) ’gainst his horrid hand;
For we shall grieve, and infamy will brand
Our fames for ever, if we see our sons
And brothers end in these confusions,
Revenge left uninflicted. Nor will I
Enjoy one day’s life more, but grieve and die
With instant onset. Nor should you survive
To keep a base and beastly name alive.
Haste, then, lest flight prevent us.” This with tears
His griefs advis’d, and made all sufferers
In his affliction. But by this was come
Up to the council from Ulysses’ home—
When sleep had left them, which the slaughters there
And their self-dangers from their eyes in fear
Had two nights intercepted—those two men
That just Ulysses sav’d out of the slain,
Which Medon and the sacred singer were.
These stood amidst the council; and the fear
The slaughter had impress’d in either’s look
Stuck still so ghastly, that amaze it strook
Through ev’ry there beholder. To whose ears
One thus enforc’d, in his fright, cause of theirs:
“Attend me, Ithacensians! This stern fact
Done by Ulysses was not put in act
Without the Gods’ assistance. These self eyes
Saw one of the immortal Deities
Close by Ulysses, Mentor’s form put on
At ev’ry part. And this sure Deity shone
Now near Ulysses, setting on his bold
And slaught’rous spirit, now the points controll’d
Of all the Wooers’ weapons, round about
The arm’d house whisking, in continual rout
Their party putting, till in heaps they fell.”
This news new fears did through their spirits impell,
When Halitherses (honour’d Mastor’s son,
Who of them all saw only what was done
Present and future) the much-knowing man
And aged heroë this plain course ran
Amongst their counsels: “Give me likewise ear,
And let me tell ye, friends, that these ills bear
On your malignant spleens their sad effects,
Who not what I persuaded gave respects,
Nor what the people’s pastor, Mentor, said,—
That you should see your issues’ follies stay’d
In those foul courses, by their petulant life
The goods devouring, scandalling the wife
Of no mean person, who, they still would say,
Could never more see his returning-day.
Which yet appearing now, now give it trust,
And yield to my free counsels: Do not thrust
Your own safe persons on the acts your sons
So dearly bought, lest their confusions
On your lov’d heads your like addictions draw.”
This stood so far from force of any law
To curb their loose attempts, that much the more
They rush’d to wreak, and made rude tumult roar.
The greater part of all the court arose;
Good counsel could not ill designs dispose.
Eupitheus was persuader of the course,
Which, cómplete-arm’d, they put in present force;
The rest sat still in council. These men met
Before the broad town, in a place they set
All girt in arms; Eupitheus choosing chief
To all their follies, who put grief to grief,
And in his slaughter’d son’s revenge did burn.
But Fate gave never feet to his return,
Ordaining there his death. Then Pallas spake
To Jove, her Father, with intent to make
His will high arbiter of th’ act design’d,
And ask’d of him what his unsearchéd mind
Held undiscover’d? If with arms, and ill,
And grave encounter he, would first fulfill
His sacred purpose, or both parts combine
In peaceful friendship? He ask’d: “Why incline
These doubts thy counsels? Hast not thou decreed
That Ithacus should come and give his deed
The glory of revenge on these and theirs?
Perform thy will; the frame of these affairs
Have this fit issue: When Ulysses’ hand
Hath reach’d full wreak, his then renown’d command
Shall reign for ever, faithful truces strook
’Twixt him and all; for ev’ry man shall brook
His sons’ and brothers’ slaughters; by our mean
To send Oblivion in, expunging clean
The character of enmity in them all,
As in best leagues before. Peace, festival,
And riches in abundance, be the state
That crowns the close of wise Ulysses’ Fate.”
This spurr’d the free, who from heav’n’s continent
To th’ Ithacensian isle made straight descent.
Where, dinner past, Ulysses said: “Some one
Look out to see their nearness.” Dolius’ son
Made present speed abroad, and saw them nigh,
Ran back, and told, bade arm; and instantly
Were all in arms. Ulysses’ part was four,
And six more sons of Dolius; all his pow’r
Two only more, which were his aged sire
And like-year’d Dolius, whose lives’-slak’d fire
All-white had left their heads, yet, driv’n by need,
Made soldiers both of necessary deed.
And now, all-girt in arms, the ports set wide,
They sallied forth, Ulysses being their guide;
And to them in the instant Pallas came,
In form and voice like Mentor, who a flame
Inspir’d of comfort in Ulysses’ heart
With her seen presence. To his son, apart,
He thus then spake: “Now, son, your eyes shall see,
Expos’d in slaught’rous fight, the enemy,
Against whom who shall best serve will be seen.
Disgrace not then your race, that yet hath been
For force and fortitude the foremost tried
Of all earth’s offsprings.” His true son replied:
“Yourself shall see, lov’d father, if you please,
That my deservings shall in nought digress
From best fame of our race’s foremost merit.”
The old king sprung for joy to hear his spirit,
And said: “O lov’d Immortals, what a day
Do your clear bounties to my life display!
I joy, past measure, to behold my son
And nephew close in such contention
Of virtues martial.” Pallas, standing near,
Said: “O my friend! Of all supremely dear,
Seed of Arcesius, pray to Jove and Her
That rules in arms, his daughter, and a dart,
Spritefully brandish’d, hurl at th’ adverse part.”
This said, he pray’d; and she a mighty force
Inspir’d within him, who gave instant course
To his brave-brandish’d lance, which struck the brass
That cheek’d Eupitheus’ casque, and thrust his pass
Quite through his head; who fell, and sounded falling,
His arms the sound again from earth recalling.
Ulysses and his son rush’d on before,
And with their both-way-headed darts did gore
Their enemies’ breasts so thick, that all had gone
The way of slaughter, had not Pallas thrown
Her voice betwixt them, charging all to stay
And spare expense of blood. Her voice did fray
The blood so from their faces that it left
A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft
Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth;
And to the common mother of their birth,
The city, all fled, in desire to save
The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave
A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew
In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw
His smoking lightning ’twixt them, that had fall
Before Minerva, who then out did call
Thus to Ulysses: “Born of Jove! Abstain
From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain
Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee.
Abstain, then, lest you move the Deity.”
Again then, ’twixt both parts the Seed of Jove,
Athenian Pallas, of all future love
A league compos’d, and for her form took choice
Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.