The Odyssey

by Homer

“Unhappy stranger! (thus the faithful swain
Began with accent gracious and humane),
What sorrow had been mine, if at my gate
Thy reverend age had met a shameful fate!
Enough of woes already have I known;
Enough my master’s sorrows and my own.
While here (ungrateful task!) his herds I feed,
Ordain’d for lawless rioters to bleed!
Perhaps, supported at another’s board!
Far from his country roams my hapless lord;
Or sigh’d in exile forth his latest breath,
Now cover’d with the eternal shade of death!

“But enter this my homely roof, and see
Our woods not void of hospitality.
Then tell me whence thou art, and what the share
Of woes and wanderings thou wert born to bear.”

He said, and, seconding the kind request,
With friendly step precedes his unknown guest.
A shaggy goat’s soft hide beneath him spread,
And with fresh rushes heap’d an ample bed;
Jove touch’d the hero’s tender soul, to find
So just reception from a heart so kind:
And “Oh, ye gods! with all your blessings grace
(He thus broke forth) this friend of human race!”

The swain replied: “It never was our guise
To slight the poor, or aught humane despise:
For Jove unfolds our hospitable door,
’Tis Jove that sends the stranger and the poor,
Little, alas! is all the good I can
A man oppress’d, dependent, yet a man:
Accept such treatment as a swain affords,
Slave to the insolence of youthful lords!
Far hence is by unequal gods removed
That man of bounties, loving and beloved!
To whom whate’er his slave enjoys is owed,
And more, had Fate allow’d, had been bestow’d:
But Fate condemn’d him to a foreign shore;
Much have I sorrow’d, but my Master more.
Now cold he lies, to death’s embrace resign’d:
Ah, perish Helen! perish all her kind!
For whose cursed cause, in Agamemnon’s name,
He trod so fatally the paths of fame.”

His vest succinct then girding round his waist,
Forth rush’d the swain with hospitable haste.
Straight to the lodgments of his herd he run,
Where the fat porkers slept beneath the sun;
Of two, his cutlass launch’d the spouting blood;
These quarter’d, singed, and fix’d on forks of wood,
All hasty on the hissing coals he threw;
And smoking, back the tasteful viands drew.
Broachers and all then an the board display’d
The ready meal, before Ulysses laid
With flour imbrown’d; next mingled wine yet new,
And luscious as the bees’ nectareous dew:
Then sate, companion of the friendly feast,
With open look; and thus bespoke his guest:
“Take with free welcome what our hands prepare,
Such food as falls to simple servants’ share;
The best our lords consume; those thoughtless peers,
Rich without bounty, guilty without fears;
Yet sure the gods their impious acts detest,
And honour justice and the righteous breast.
Pirates and conquerors of harden’d mind,
The foes of peace, and scourges of mankind,
To whom offending men are made a prey
When Jove in vengeance gives a land away;
E’en these, when of their ill-got spoils possess’d,
Find sure tormentors in the guilty breast:
Some voice of God close whispering from within,
‘Wretch! this is villainy, and this is sin.’
But these, no doubt, some oracle explore,
That tells, the great Ulysses is no more.
Hence springs their confidence, and from our sighs
Their rapine strengthens, and their riots rise:
Constant as Jove the night and day bestows,
Bleeds a whole hecatomb, a vintage flows.
None match’d this hero’s wealth, of all who reign
O’er the fair islands of the neighbouring main.
Nor all the monarchs whose far-dreaded sway
The wide-extended continents obey:
First, on the main land, of Ulysses’ breed
Twelve herds, twelve flocks, on ocean’s margin feed;
As many stalls for shaggy goats are rear’d;
As many lodgments for the tusky herd;
Two foreign keepers guard: and here are seen
Twelve herds of goats that graze our utmost green;
To native pastors is their charge assign’d,
And mine the care to feed the bristly kind;
Each day the fattest bleeds of either herd,
All to the suitors’ wasteful board preferr’d.”
Thus he, benevolent: his unknown guest
With hunger keen devours the savoury feast;
While schemes of vengeance ripen in his breast.
Silent and thoughtful while the board he eyed,
Eumaeus pours on high the purple tide;
The king with smiling looks his joy express’d,
And thus the kind inviting host address’d:

“Say now, what man is he, the man deplored,
So rich, so potent, whom you style your lord?
Late with such affluence and possessions bless’d,
And now in honour’s glorious bed at rest.
Whoever was the warrior, he must be
To fame no stranger, nor perhaps to me:
Who (so the gods and so the Fates ordain’d)
Have wander’d many a sea, and many a land.”

“Small is the faith the prince and queen ascribe
(Replied Eumaeus) to the wandering tribe.
For needy strangers still to flattery fly,
And want too oft betrays the tongue to lie.
Each vagrant traveller, that touches here,
Deludes with fallacies the royal ear,
To dear remembrance makes his image rise,
And calls the springing sorrows from her eyes.
Such thou mayst be. But he whose name you crave
Moulders in earth, or welters on the wave,
Or food for fish or dogs his relics lie,
Or torn by birds are scatter’d through the sky.
So perish’d he: and left (for ever lost)
Much woe to all, but sure to me the most.
So mild a master never shall I find;
Less dear the parents whom I left behind,
Less soft my mother, less my father kind.
Not with such transport would my eyes run o’er,
Again to hail them in their native shore,
As loved Ulysses once more to embrace,
Restored and breathing in his natal place.
That name for ever dread, yet ever dear,
E’en in his absence I pronounce with fear:
In my respect, he bears a prince’s part;
But lives a very brother in my heart.”

Thus spoke the faithful swain, and thus rejoin’d
The master of his grief, the man of patient mind:
“Ulysses, friend! shall view his old abodes
(Distrustful as thou art), nor doubt the gods.
Nor speak I rashly, but with faith averr’d,
And what I speak attesting Heaven has heard.
If so, a cloak and vesture be my meed:
Till his return no title shall I plead,
Though certain be my news, and great my need.
Whom want itself can force untruths to tell,
My soul detests him as the gates of hell.

“Thou first be witness, hospitable Jove!
And every god inspiring social love!
And witness every household power that waits,
Guard of these fires, and angel of these gates!
Ere the next moon increase or this decay,
His ancient realms Ulysses shall survey,
In blood and dust each proud oppressor mourn,
And the lost glories of his house return.”

“Nor shall that meed be thine, nor ever more
Shall loved Ulysses hail this happy shore.
(Replied Eumaeus): to the present hour
Now turn thy thought, and joys within our power.
From sad reflection let my soul repose;
The name of him awakes a thousand woes.
But guard him, gods! and to these arms restore!
Not his true consort can desire him more;
Not old Laertes, broken with despair:
Not young Telemachus, his blooming heir.
Alas, Telemachus! my sorrows flow
Afresh for thee, my second cause of woe!
Like some fair plant set by a heavenly hand,
He grew, he flourish’d, and he bless’d the land;
In all the youth his father’s image shined,
Bright in his person, brighter in his mind.
What man, or god, deceived his better sense,
Far on the swelling seas to wander hence?
To distant Pylos hapless is he gone,
To seek his father’s fate and find his own!
For traitors wait his way, with dire design
To end at once the great Arcesian line.
But let us leave him to their wills above;
The fates of men are in the hand of Jove.
And now, my venerable guest! declare
Your name, your parents, and your native air:
Sincere from whence begun, your course relate,
And to what ship I owe the friendly freight?”