Then comes the Ithacan with clamor loud,
The prophet Calchas dragging in our midst,
And bids with charge insistent that he tell
The will of heaven. And now from many lips
The grim forebodings of Ulysses’ guile
Assail my ears, while all in silence wait
To see the end. Ten days the seer was mute,
Hid in his tent, refusing steadily
By word of his to doom a man to death.
At length, his feigned reluctance at an end,