To alien death was doomed.
2a.
Weep for him, ye that around his board
Sit in the bright fire-shine:
No more shall Ithaca’s lord
Stretch his hand to the wine.
Sing a mournful strain!
Alas, he counteth not loss nor gain;
His wife is wooed, and he makes no sign;
Thralls go here and there, but another beckoneth.