ACT · II
The hut of EUMÆUS. (Same background as Act I.)
Some swine seen thro’ pens.
EUMÆUS (who is cutting a thong for his sandal).
Let man serve God, but not for that require
An answerable favour: there is none
Outside himself: but yet within himself
He hath his guerdon and may be content.
Some three and thirty years of servitude
Have taught me this; dependence on the gods
Wins independence of the gods and fate.
I that was born a prince have lived a slave,—
No fault of mine;—and still if Zeus so willed
That man might look for favour, I might hope
Once more, ere I grow old, to make return
Unto my royal home and kingly sire,
—If yet he lives,—and rule myself the realm
I was born heir to: be good king Eumæus,
So should it be, Eumæus, king of men.
Nay—I must play the king over these swine;
This homestead for my kingdom, this hut for palace,
This bench my throne, these crowded pens and styes
My city; and I will boast ’twere hard to find
A commonwealth of men, whom equal justice
Flattered in distribution to this pitch
Of general content, such fat well-being
As holds among my folk, their laws regardant
Of them they govern and their good alone.
Ay, so: a king of beasts, no king at all.
Swineherd Eumæus; who would call me king?
Fool, fool! Serve God, Eumæus, and mend thy shoes.
And why complain? Had not Laertes too
A son that feared the gods? and where is he?
Would he not now be glad to be alive,
Were’t but to envy me who feed his swine,
And guard his goods from robbers, and pretend
The hope of his return; which is less like
For that Ulysses than for this Eumæus;—
There too I best him,—since ’tis easier
For any living slave to climb a throne,
Than for a king once dead to step again
Upon the joyous threshold of his house,
And take the loving kisses from the lips
Of wife and child.—Hark to the hounds. What foe
Invades my kingdom? O a piteous sight.
Off, dogs;—why they will rend him—Mesaulius, ho!
Cottus, call off the dogs! Will they not leave him?
To kennel, curs!—Ye heavens! Beggary
Is beggared in this miserable beggar.
Enter Ulysses (disguised).
How wast thou near, old man, to end thy days
Beside my gate, and bring me shame and sorrow:
And that no fault of mine, so suddenly
Hast thou appeared. Come, come, sir; step within.
Surely ’tis food thou needest. On this table
Are bread and wine, and I can bring thee meat:
Sit and be satisfied.
ULYSSES.
Now may the gods,
Since thou this day giv’st me so good a welcome,
Grant thee thy dearest wish, whate’er it be.
Eum. Thou art my guest, old man: and if there came
A meaner even than thou, I should not stint
To offer of my best. Strangers and beggars
Are sent from Zeus: and tho’ a poor man’s gift
Be poor, a hearty welcome makes it rich.
Ul. I pray the gods reward thee.
Eum.Nay, there’s the meat;
I’ll fetch it thee. [Exit.
Ul.Was ever sound on earth
So musical as the remembered voice
That welcomes home? By heaven, ’twas yesterday
That I was here. No change at all: this bench,
This board:—the very hogs might be the same.
O my good bread and wine! And here’s his loaf,
The shape he ever made; and cut the same,
Scooped to the thumb. Hail, grape of Ithaca!
Good day to thee! (Drinks.)
Eum. (re-entering). See, here is meat in plenty:
Fall to and spare not.
Ul.Thank thee, sir; I thank thee.
Eum. Art thou of Ithaca, old man?
Ul.Nay, sir;
Indeed I am not.
Eum.When cam’st thou then among us?
Ul. With this day’s sun I first beheld your isle.
Eum. Eh! hath a ship arrived so late in harbour?
Whence hails she?
Ul.From Thesprotia coasting south;
But driven far out to sea in beating back
Put in for water; when the notion took me
To leave her, and pursue my own starvation
Without the risk of drowning.
Eum.And how then
Cam’st thou aboard a vessel so ill-found?
Ul. My tale were long, sir, should I once begin:
And since I have seen no food since yestermorn,
Believe I’d lend thee ear rather than mouth.
Eum. Ay, so, no fool, and I was but a churl
To bid thee talk and eat: eat, sir, in peace.
Ul. I pray thee while I eat tell of thyself,
Whom here thou servest, and who rules this isle.
Eum. I am a servant, sir, that hath no master:
These swine I tend are no man’s: those I kill
I kill for any one; for on this isle
We pay our service to a gap between
A grandsire and a grandchild. Dost thou take me?
Ul. Yes, friend: thy master is away or dead.
Eum. Both as I think. The while, for lack of tidings,
We make believe he lives. His ancient father,
Decrepit and despairing, lies aloof,—
We call him king no longer;—and his son,
The old man’s grandchild, is away on quest
Of any tidings to be gleaned from those
Who years agone fought with his sire at Troy.
His widow keeps his house, and hath in hand
Some five or six score suitors. Judge from this
What hope hath beggary in Ithaca.
Ul. In all my wanderings never have I found
A kinder host. But since thou sayest thy master,
Whose absence makes thee masterless, was one
Who fought at Troy, I too was in that war;
If thou wouldst tell his name, I may know somewhat
To cheer his wife and child.
Eum.Try not that talk,
Old man. No more of him shall traveller hither
Come bringing tidings that may win their ear.
Lightly indeed for welcome’s sake will vagrants
Speak false, nor have they cause to wish for truth.
Nay, and there’s none strays to this isle, but goes
Seeking my mistress, and there spins his lie;
While she with tender care asks of each thing,
And from her sorrowing eyes the tears fall fast,
Hearing the name she doth not dare to speak.
And soon enough wouldst thou too coin thy tale,
Couldst thou but win a blanket for thy back:
The while for him vultures and wolves are like
To have stripped his bones of flesh—ay, ay, he is dead—
Or fish have preyed upon him, and his ribs
Bleach on the sea-shore, sunk in drifting sand.
Such fate is his, grievous to all who loved him,
And most to me; who ne’er shall find again
So kind a lord, wherever I may go:
Not even again if home to father and mother
I should return, where I was bred and born.
Nor are my tears for them, yearn as I do
With these eyes to behold them, and my country;
But my desire is for Ulysses gone:
Speaking whose name, stranger, tho’ far from hearing
I do obeisance (towards Ul.); for he loved me well;
And worshipful I call him, be he dead.
Ul. If ’tis Ulysses, friend, whom thou lamentest,
I know he lives.
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Eum.Try not that tale, I say.
Ul. Now, sir, tho’ thou deny it and think I lie,
Ulysses will return, and on that day
Give me my due; since I dare call on Zeus,
First of the gods, and by this friendly table
Swear, and his dear home whither I be come,
This thing shall be, and with the running year
He shall return.
Eum.Nay, ’tis not I shall pay
Thy recompense. Content thee, man, and drink.
Why wouldst thou force persuasion? Tell me rather
Thy own true story, who thou art and whence.
Ul. Would then that thou couldst give me food and wine,
Ay, and the gods fair sunshine and no toil,
The while my tale should last: for on this bench
Would I take comfort of thee many a day.
But of thy lord ...
Eum.Wilt thou not cease from that!
Ul. With my own ships I fought at Ilion;
And tho’ I look not now, in age and rags,
A master among men, nay, nor a foe
Many would fear, yet mayst thou see on me
The sign of what I have been, and I think
Still from the gratten one may guess the grain.
Eum. (aside). How age and misery will brag! And this
To me, who really am a king.
Ul.’Twas then
I knew Ulysses, and have since, like him
And many a Greek, striven against destiny
To gain my home:—at length our ship was cast
On mountainous Thesprotia, where the king
Pheidon was kind to me, and there I heard—
Nor yet are many weeks passed since that day—
Full tidings of Ulysses, and I saw
What wealth his arm had gotten: he himself
Was travelled to Dodona, but by this
Should be returned.
Eum.Stranger, if all thy words,
That grow in number, should outreach in tale
The moments of his absence, they were vainly
Poured in mine ears.
Ul.Nay, then, and if indeed
Ulysses came himself, here of his friends
He would not be received.
Eum.Ay, that may be:
And time will change a man so from himself,
That oft I wonder none have e’er contrived
To make pretence to be Ulysses’ self.
That were a game for thee, old man, if age
Did not so far belie thee. Nay, nay, nay!
Signs there would be: and if these eyes should see him,
And seeing know not, I would serve them so
That they should see no more.
Ul.Now when he comes ...
Eum. Still harking back! I tell thee, friend, our thought
Is rather for his son Telemachus,
And his return; who when he promised well
To be his father’s match, went wandering hence
To Lacedæmon, seeking for his sire:
An idle quest and perilous, for I say
’Twould much increase the tender love of them
That woo the mother, could they kill the son,
And quarrel for the inheritance: and now
They have sent a ship to take him in the straits,
As he comes home: but may the gods protect him.
Tho’, till I see him safe, my heart is vexed.
Ul. Fear not; the gods will save him.
Eum.Thank thee, sir.
Hast ever been in Sparta?
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Ul.Ask me nought,
If thou wilt credit nought; or shall I say
I have never lodged in Pitanè, nor drunk
Out of Eurotas, nor on summer noons
Gazed on the steep sun-checquered precipices
Of huge Taygetus?
Eum.Thy pardon, sir.
Hast eaten well?
Ul.Ay, to content: but, friend,
I shall not prey upon thee: an hour or two
I’ll rest me here; then, if thou shew the road
To good Ulysses’ house, I’ll e’en be gone.
Food must be there in plenty: I make no doubt
To beg a meal till I may serve for hire.
Eum. Why, man, what put this folly in thy head?
’Twere the short way to end thy days, to go
Among that insolent and godless herd,
To tempt their violence. Not such as thou
Their servants are: they that attend on them
Are young and gaily clad and fair of face:
And though the polished tables lack not food,
’Tis not for such as thou the hot feast smokes
From morn till eve, and the red wine is poured.
Bide here; for here thou vexest none, nor me
Nor any of my fellows. Bide awhile,
And if Telemachus return, I warrant
Thou shalt have no complaint. Hark, I hear feet:
Some one now comes.
Ul.And ’tis a friend; the dogs
Bark not, but fawn around. (Aside.) If this be he!
I dare not rise and look.
Enter Telemachus.
Eum.Why he! ’tis he!
Telemachus, my son Telemachus,
Art thou returned in safety?
Ul. (aside.) Praised be the gods! I see my son indeed!
TELEMACHUS (to Eum.).
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You see me, father.
Eum. Light of mine eyes, thou’rt come, Telemachus;
All shall go forward with us once again.
Ul. (aside). He calls him father, and I may not speak.
Tel. Hath aught been wrong?
Eum.Nay, nought is changed for that.
’Twas only lack of thee: and with the fear
Some ill might hap to thee, what dost thou think
Must old Eumæus feel?
Tel. What couldst thou fear?
Eum. Didst thou not know? The wooers sent a ship
To take thee, son. Thou didst not? Well, some god
Protected thee. Now let me look on thee.
Come within. Sit thee down.
Tel.So will I gladly.
Ere I would venture to the house, I came
To talk with thee, and learn if aught has passed.
My mother?...
Eum.All is well, prince, yet; she bides
Patient and brave, and weeps both day and night;
Weeps too for thee. Give me thy spear, my son.
Now sit thee down. I say we have feared for thee.
Tel. (to Ul.). Nay, rise not, stranger; there be other seats,
And men to set them.—Pardon me that my joy
O’erlooked thee. Thou hast guests, Eumæus?
Eum.Nay,
None but this ancient father.
Tel.And who is he?
Eum. To me is he a stranger as to thee.
’Twas yesterday, he tells me, that his ship
Thesprotian, as he says, driven from her course,
Put in for water: when for some mistrust
Or weariness of voyage he remained.
He hath fed with me, but thou being now returned
He looks to be a suppliant at the house.
He is thy man.
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Tel.Eumæus, thou must know
I could not, whatsoe’er his claim, receive him
Where I myself am threatened: and even my mother
Holds no sure mind, wavering from day to day
Who shall be master. No: there is no place
For suppliants at the house: but as thy guest
I still may treat him well: here he shall have
Raiment and all he needs, and I will give him
A sword, and bid him fare where’er he will.
But not to the house I bid him come, for fear
Violence befall him and I be accursed.
Ul. Sir, since thy kindness makes me bold to speak,
Thou hast my thanks; nor can I hear thy wrongs,
Nor see thy shame unmoved, for thou art noble.
Hast thou provoked this, tell me, or are thy people
Moved by some god to hate, or is’t thy brethren
Play thee false?
Tel.Nay, there is neither grudge nor hate
Betwixt me and my folk, nor do my brethren
Stand faithlessly aloof. ’Tis all to say
That Zeus hath made our house of single heirs:
Arceisios gat one only son Laertes,
And he one only son, Ulysses; I,
Ulysses’ son, am too his only child:
And he hath left his house the prey of foes.
I cannot aid thee, stranger.
Ul.O would that I
Were young as thou, and in my present mood;
That I were this Ulysses or his son:
Far rather would I die slain in my halls
By my thick foes, than see this reckless wrong;
My good farms plundered, and my herds devoured,
My red wine wasted, and my handmaidens
Hither and thither haled about, at will
Of such a rabble as fear not God nor man,
Spoilers and robbers, who have set their hearts
Vainly upon a purpose, which I say
Shall never be accomplished.
Athena appears at the door to Ulysses.
Tel.I pray the gods
It never be, and thank thee well, my friend,
For thy good will.
Eum.How art thou moved, old man.
Ul. The heart unmoved by others’ wrongs is dead:
And yet maybe I am somewhat overwrought;
If I may go within ...
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Eum.Ay, go within,
And rest thee; thou hast need.
Ul.I thank thee, friend.
I’ll lay me down to sleep: here I but shackle
Your private talk.
Eum.Be at thy ease, I pray.
Tel. Go, father; rest thee well.
Ul.I thank thee, sir. [Exit.
Eum. How earnest thou, son? Where didst thou land?
Tel.Is’t true
The wooers sent a ship?
Eum.Didst thou not meet them?
Tel. Hark now, and hear in what strange manner warned
I knew their ambush, to avoid them.
Eum.Ah!
Thou knewest it, thou knewest!
Tel.Wilt thou think
I was at Sparta but three days ago?
There in my sleep the goddess, at whose word
I made this voyage, came and stood beside me,
Called me by name, and bade me quick return;
And for my safety warned me that a ship
’Twixt Ithaca and Samè lay in wait;
Which if I would avoid I must sail round,
Keeping the west of the isle; and for that voyage
She promised a fair wind. So the next morn
Was I at Pylos; whence as I set forth,
I found the wind, and sailing day and night,
With swift unbroken passage came to shore
Last evening north of the isle. Hither alone
I passed in the dark, and sent my ship about.
Eum. That was well done: I praise the gods for that.
I knew that they would save thee.
Tel.But, Eumæus,
What of the ship? What knowest thou? What means it?
Were all agreed plotting my life together,
Or whose deed is it?
Eum.One rancorous spirit rules them,—
Save Lord Amphinomus, who stands as ever
Within the bounds: of all the rest there’s none
That would not take thy life by stealth, nor one
Who openly would dare.
Tel.Who sailed the ship?
Eum. Antinous.
Tel.Ah!
Eum.And if I die to avenge it,
Son, he shall pay for it.
Tel.Talk, I pray, of safety,
Not of revenge. Shall I make bold to go
Straight to the house, or must I hide me here?
Eum. Bide, son, bide! ’Tis not safe. Let me go, son.
When once ’tis known in the isle that thou’rt returned,
Then thou mayst shew thyself. The cowards fear
The love the people bear thee. Let me go.
Tel. Is all else well?
Eum.All’s well where ill is well.
Tel. Eumæus, I’ll not venture yet: but thou
Haste to the house, and in my mother’s ear
Whisper I am here: but let none other guess
That thou hast tidings of me.
Eum.Not to tell
Thy grandsire, son? He scarce hath eat or drunk
While thou hast been away: ’twere well he knew,
And quickly; for an hour is much to one
Whose life leans on the grave.
Tel.My safe return
Can be no secret, but my hiding-place
Must not be known: therefore I would not have
Thee for my herald. Thou mayst bid my mother
Send one to comfort him; but go not thou
Wandering among the hills. My bidding done,
Make swift return. I shall be here.
Eum.I pray
Let not that old man here come round thee, son,
With idle stories of thy sire: he is full
Of tales of Troy: and if he win thine ear
He hath a purpose.
Tel.He! Nay, trust me, father.
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Eum. Well, he will try.
Tel.Fear not.
Eum.He hath a tongue:
He saith he fought at Ilion. Then, he saith
He knew Ulysses.
Tel.Saith he so?
Eum.And then
He hath been in Lacedæmon too.
Tel.His talk
While thou’rt away may well beguile the time.
Eum. Ay, and thee too. Thou hast not heard, I fear,
Aught of thy father now, where thou hast been?
Tel. Somewhat, but nothing recent. What I know
I’ll tell thee later. Thou couldst gather nought
From this old man?
Eum.He is cunning: didst thou see
How he could counterfeit? I tell thee, son,
He hath not been here an hour, and never knew
Aught of thy father; but he plucks from me
The story word by word, and then at once
Bursts out,—he knew Ulysses: ay, he stayed
Eating to speak of him.
Tel.What said he of him?
Eum. I would not hear him, son: I would not hear him.
Tel. Think you he lied?
Eum.Ay, ay. Why, how believe
Thy father now is in Thesprotia,
Where the king Pheidon hath a ship all stored
To bring him home?
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Tel.Eumæus, good Eumæus!
What if ’tis true?
Eum.True! There, ’tis as I thought:
I would not leave thee with him, son; he is quick:
He will delude thee.
Tel.I must hear his tale,
Though it be false. Go thou: my ship will else
Be round before thee. Go, and never fear
That this old man will turn my head.
Eum.Be warned.
Trust him not, son. There is something strange about him
I like not.
Tel.Come: as far as to the gate
I will go with thee. [Exeunt.
Re-enter Ulysses as himself.
Ul. Lo! now the sun in the mid goal of heaven
Hath climbed to view my fortunes, and my shade
On this well-trodden floor falls neither way:
So towers my genius; so my future and past
Lie gathered for the moment.—How oft in dreams,
When longing hath forecast this hour, I have loved
The rescuing tears that loosed my heart: and now
The womanish water wells, I bid it back:
For nature stammers in me, and I see
Imagination hath a grasp of joy
Finer than sense; and my most passionate spirit,
When most it should leap forth, hangs back unwilling
To officer the trembling instruments,
By which delight is served. Back, then, my tears!
Fate rules; reason should fashion me.—And welcome
Even this harshness of fate; for if my son
Shall know me as I am, not as a merchant
Should I return at ease, that men might ask
Whether Ulysses were returned or no;
Rather in blood than doubt.—Here on this bench
I’ll wait him, nor myself be first to speak:
And ’twill be tried for once how a man’s son
Shall know his father, never having seen him.
Re-enter Telemachus.
Tel. Why, who art thou? Not he that on this bench
Sattest so late! In truth I much mistook thee,
Or thou art changed. Thy hair was thin and white,
Thy body rough and pinched with age, thy clothes
Were meanest rags. Say art thou he, the same,
Eumæus’ guest from the Thesprotian ship?
Ul. Ay, son, I am.
Tel.Surely thou art a god.
Be gracious to our house! [Kneels.
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Ul. (rising). Nay, rise, my son.
I am no god. Why wilt thou liken me
To those immortals? I am thy father, son,
Ulysses to my home at last returned. [Kisses him.
Tel. Alas, thou art a god, and thy words mock me.
Ul. Thou knowest me not. [Sits.
Tel.Say, if thou wert a man,
How couldst thou put that change of semblance on,
Which only gods may use?
Ul.The wise Athena
Uses me as she will: then was I old
That none might know me; now I am myself
That thou mayst know.—’Tis I.
Tel.Father! my father!
O, happy day. [Weeps on his neck.
Ul.Thy kisses, O, my son:
Thy kisses and thy tears, my son, my son.
Tel. O, thou art come. O, happy, happy day.
Ul. I am come, Telemachus: but how to know
’Tis I?
Tel.O, I am sure; who could be like thee?
I knew too thou wouldst come, dear father, and yet
I never honoured thee enough: I thought
I should be worthy of thee: now I fear ...
Ul. I must be unlike thy thought, son; but in thee
I see myself again of twenty years:
Nay, I was somewhat thicker, but maybe
That will make up; and thou hast got instead
Thy mother’s grace. ’Tis true we mostly shape
Less to the father.
Tel.How, sire, didst thou come?
Ul. A good Phæacian ship brought me last night.
I came to land in the dark: and all the spoils
I have brought with me are hidden in the cave,
Till we may fetch them forth.
Tel.First come thou home.
Ul. And would I might. The hope of twenty years
Is gathered in this hour. Come home, thou sayst:
Ah, son; and would I might; but what of them
That stop the way?
Tel.The suitors of my mother?
O, they will fly to hear of thy return.
Ul. They must not fly. All, where they have done me wrong,
Must with their lives atone. This is the cause
Of my disguise, that none should know me here
But thou, to whom alone I am revealed,
That plotting with thee I may draw the net
About them. This the goddess bids me, son;
To slay thy mother’s wooers.
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Tel.Father, I know
Thou art unmatchable among the Greeks
In warriorship and wisdom, ay, and here
Is none would dare to face thee: yet by tens
They reckon, and I fear would overpower thee
By very number.
Ul.Say: how many be they?
Tel. Out of Dulichium there be two and fifty
Princes and lords, each with his serving-man:
From Samè, four and twenty: from Zakynthus
A score; and even of Ithaca itself
Twelve of the best, with Phemius the bard,
Medon, and many followers: ’gainst all these
We are but two.
Ul.I fear them not, my son.
Tel. Seek other aid, I pray, ere ’gainst so many
We venture.
Ul.What, son, sayst thou, if Athena
And father Zeus aid us? will they, thou thinkest,
Suffice, or must we cast about to find
Some other champion?
Tel.Truly they are the best
Thou namest, father; tho’ among the clouds
Their seat is, and their countenance withheld
From mortal men.
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Ul.They will not hold aloof,
When once our spears are plunging in the breasts
Of that vain rabble. Goes thy heart with mine?
Tel. With thee and for thee, father, will I fight,
Askest thou?
Ul.Wilt thou bear to look on me
As late thou sawest me, and seeing me so,
Find not the least diminishment of love?
Tel. I never shall forget this godlike mien,
Whence to disguise thou deignest as a god.
Ul. But when thou seest me mocked and scorned, a slave,
A beggar where I am lord, wilt thou discover
No indignation?
Tel.I will hide my wrath.
Ul. For I must be thy guest among my foes.
Tel. To be my guest, if they should set upon thee
To drive thee forth, will force me to resist.
Ul. Fear not the threatenings of those doomèd men.
Tel. They all are armed, and thou wilt be unarmed.
Ul. Tho’ they provoke me I will bide my time.
Tel. But how if they assault thee unprepared?
Ul. The goddess will withhold their impious hands.
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Tel. Lurk rather here until the plot be ripe.
Ul. Nay, son; and were the lure of home less strong
To me so long deprived, yet would I see
Myself the wrongs there done me, see the shame
Of which men speak; and, once within the hall,
I can take count and measure of my foes.
A just cause, bold heart, and the aid of heaven
Should still thy fear.
Tel.Tell me thy bidding, father!
Ul. Ay, so ’tis best: and thro’ thee I may come
To see thy mother;—hark, the course is plain:
Go to the town; announce thine own return;
Thence to the house, and to Eumæus say
Thou wilt receive me; he must know no more:
Bid him to-morrow fetch me to the hall.
And when thou seest thy mother, tell her thus;
Thou hast seen a stranger in Eumæus’ hut,
Who having known thy father, carries news
That he is near. As to confirm thy tale,
Bring her to speech with me when none are by.
Ourselves may meet at night, and then consult
In secret on what stratagem may grow
From that occasion, or what further thing
The goddess may command.
Tel.Now thy disguise
Is my chief fear, father; I know these men:
Their insolent assumption would not brook
Any intruder, but against a beggar
They will make sport of outrage.
Ul.Sayst thou so?
Then shall we prove them thus: be they good men
They will show pity: if they mock my rags,
Try if they honour thee; and bid them make,
Each of his own, a portion unto me.
I then shall see their hearts: the more they rage,
Force them the more with full authority.
This canst thou well do. ’Tis thy harder task
Not to betray me. Youth is bold of heart
And hot in battle, but to guard the tongue
And to restrain the hand come with long years.
Tel. Now let this trial prove me once for all,
Whether in keeping counsel and in battle
I am thy true son, or another man.
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Ul. All hangs on thee; for none but thou must know,
Not even thy mother. Tell me, I would learn
If in her thought I am alive or dead;
And what thine own mind was, fear not to say.
Tel. Truly ’twixt hope and hopelessness, we stood
In blank uncertainty; and if not yet
Our wishes wore the colour of our fears,
Now was the turn.
Ul.I come then not too soon?
Tel. Nay, nor too late.
Ul.’Tis well, but time is short;
Tarry no longer. Get thee home, and there
Ordain a sacrifice, such as befits
This day of days: such as may well content
The favourable deities, and appease
The unfriendly. Guess, son, if thy heart is stirred,
How ’tis with me. The ties of home are dear,
And what a man is born to, both the place,
Where’er it be, that hath received his being
Out of oblivion, and given his mind
The shapes and hues of earth, the sights of heaven,
The place whence he sets forth to meet strange things,
Whither returns to find his own, himself;
This bides, the harbour of his fancy,—and draws him
Spite of all else from world’s end to world’s end.
And more, more dear, are those whose place it was,
Whose name he is called by, whom he calls his own,
Whose love hath borne and nurtured him, whose life
He is offshoot of and diligent support.
This love thou knowest, and being to-day returned
But from short voyage, mayst in little gauge
My joy returning after many years.
But what thou know’st not—mayst thou come to know!—
I’ll tell thee. There be ties dearer than place
Or parents; there be bonds that break in pieces
The hearts that break them, and whose severance
Is more than banishment. Boy, ’tis thy mother
That makes this Ithaca the world to me;
These tears are hers: and seeing thee, my son,
Whose picture I have carried in my heart,
And year by year have checked and altered still
With vain imagination to thy growth
Since last I left thee fondled in her arms,
I learn how dear art thou. Now on thy brow
I’ll set this kiss. Begone and do my bidding.
The goddess calls me: I must take again
That shape which late thou saw’st me in. Farewell.
Forget not when I am changèd what I am.
Tel. Thy first commands are dear, sire; I obey.
