The Twelfth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
He shows from Hell his safe retreat To th’ isle Ææa, Circe’s seat; And how he ’scap’d the Sirens’ calls, With th’ erring rocks, and waters’ falls, That Scylla and Charybdis break; The Sun’ s stol’ n herds; and his sad wreak Both of Ulysses’ ship and men, His own head ’scaping scarce the pain.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Μυ̑ The rocks that err’d, The Sirens’ call. The Sun’s stol’n herd. The soldiers’ fall.
“Our ship now past the straits of th’ ocean flood, She plow’d the broad sea’s billows, and made good The isle Ææa, where the palace stands Of th’ early riser with the rosy hands, Active Aurora, where she loves to dance, And where the Sun doth his prime beams advance. When here arriv’d, we drew her up to land, And trod ourselves the re-saluted sand, Found on the shore fit resting for the night, Slept, and expected the celestial light. Soon as the white-and-red-mix’d finger’d Dame Had gilt the mountains with her saffron flame, I sent my men to Circe’s house before, To fetch deceas’d Elpenor to the shore. Straight swell’d the high banks with fell’d heaps of trees, And, full of tears, we did due exsequies To our dead friend. Whose corse consum’d with fire, And honour’d arms, whose sepulchre entire, And over that a column rais’d, his oar, Curiously carv’d, to his desire before, Upon the top of all his tomb we fix’d. Of all rites fit his funeral pile was mix’d. Nor was our safe ascent from Hell conceal’d From Circe’s knowledge; nor so soon reveal’d But she was with us, with her bread and food, And ruddy wine, brought by her sacred brood Of woods and fountains. In the midst she stood, And thus saluted us; ‘Unhappy men, That have, inform’d with all your senses, been In Pluto’s dismal mansion! You shall die Twice now, where others, that Mortality In her fair arms holds, shall but once decease. But eat and drink out all conceit of these, And this day dedicate to food and wine, The following night to sleep. When next shall shine The cheerful morning, you shall prove the seas. Your way, and ev’ry act ye must address, My knowledge of their order shall design, Lest with your own bad counsels ye incline Events as bad against ye, and sustain, By sea and shore, the woful ends that reign In wilful actions.’ Thus did she advise And, for the time, our fortunes were so wise To follow wise directions. All that day We sat and feasted. When his lower way The Sun had entered, and the Even the high, My friends slept on their gables; she and I (Led by her fair hand to place apart, By her well-sorted) did to sleep convert Our timid pow’rs; when all things Fate let fall In our affair she ask’d; I told her all. To which she answer’d: ‘These things thus took end. And now to those that I inform attend, Which you rememb’ring, God himself shall be The blesséd author of your memory. First to the Sirens ye shall come, that taint The minds of all men whom they can acquaint With their attractions. Whosoever shall, For want of knowledge mov’d, but hear the call Of any Siren, he will so despise Both wife and children, for their sorceries, That never home turns his affection’s stream, Nor they take joy in him, nor he in them. The Sirens will so soften with their song (Shrill, and in sensual appetite so strong) His loose affections, that he gives them head. And then observe: They sit amidst a mead, And round about it runs a hedge or wall Of dead men’s bones, their wither’d skins and all Hung all along upon it; and these men Were such as they had fawn’d into their fen, And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones. Sail by them therefore, thy companions Beforehand causing to stop ev’ry ear With sweet soft wax, so close that none may hear A note of all their charmings. Yet may you, If you affect it, open ear allow To try their motion; but presume not so To trust your judgment, when your senses go So loose about you, but give strait command To all your men, to bind you foot and hand Sure to the mast, that you may safe approve How strong in instigation to their love Their rapting tunes are. If so much they move, That, spite of all your reason, your will stands To be enfranchis’d both of feet and hands, Charge all your men before to slight your charge, And rest so far from fearing to enlarge That much more sure they bind you. When your friends Have outsail’d these, the danger that transcends Rests not in any counsel to prevent, Unless your own mind finds the tract and bent Of that way that avoids it. I can say That in your course there lies a twofold way, The right of which your own, taught, present wit, And grace divine, must prompt. In gen’ral yet Let this inform you: Near these Sirens’ shore Move two steep rocks, at whose feet lie and roar The black sea’s cruel billows; the bless’d Gods Call them the Rovers. Their abhorr’d abodes No bird can pass; no not the doves, whose fear[1] Sire Jove so loves that they are said to bear Ambrosia to him, can their ravine ’scape, But one of them falls ever to the rape Of those sly rocks; yet Jove another still Adds to the rest, that so may ever fill The sacred number. Never ship could shun The nimble peril wing’d there, but did run With all her bulk, and bodies of her men, To utter ruin. For the seas retain Not only their outrageous æsture there, But fierce assistants of particular fear, And supernatural mischief, they exspire, And those are whirlwinds of devouring fire Whisking about still. Th’ Argive ship alone, Which bore the care of all men, got her gone,[2] Come from Areta. Yet perhaps ev’n she Had wrack’d at those rocks, if the Deity, That lies by Jove’s side, had not lent her hand To their transmission; since the man, that mann’d In chief that voyage, she in chief did love. Of these two spiteful rocks, the one doth shove Against the height of heav’n her pointed brow. A black cloud binds it round, and never show Lends to the sharp point; not the clear blue sky Lets ever view it, not the summer’s eye, Nor fervent autumn’s. None that death could end Could ever scale it, or, if up, descend, Though twenty hands and feet he had for hold, A polish’d ice-like glibness doth enfold The rock so round, whose midst a gloomy cell Shrouds so far westward that it sees to hell. From this keep you as far, as from his bow An able young man can his shaft bestow. For here the whuling Scylla shrouds her face,[3] That breathes a voice at all parts no more base Than are a newly-kitten’d kitling’s cries, Herself a monster yet of boundless size, Whose sight would nothing please a mortal’s eyes, No nor the eyes of any God, if he (Whom nought should fright) fell foul on her, and she Her full shape show’d. Twelve foul feet bear about Her ugly bulk. Six huge long necks look out Of her rank shoulders; ev’ry neck doth let A ghastly head out; ev’ry head three set, Thick thrust together, of abhorréd teeth, And ev’ry tooth stuck with a sable death. She lurks in midst of all her den, and streaks From out a ghastly whirlpool all her necks; Where, gloting round her rock, to fish she falls; And up rush dolphins, dogfish; somewhiles whales If got within her when her rapine feeds; For ever-groaning Amphitrite breeds About her whirlpool an unmeasur’d store. No sea-man ever boasted touch of shore That there touch’d with his ship, but still she fed Of him and his; a man for ev’ry head Spoiling his ship of. You shall then descry The other humbler rock, that moves so nigh Your dart may mete the distance. It receives A huge wild fig-tree, curl’d with ample leaves, Beneath whose shades divine Charybdis sits, Supping the black deeps. Thrice a day her pits She drinking all dry, and thrice a day again All up she belches, baneful to sustain. When she is drinking, dare not near her draught, For not the force of Neptune, if once caught, Can force your freedom. Therefore, in your strife To ’scape Charybdis, labour all for life To row near Scylla, for she will but have For her six heads six men; and better save The rest, than all make off’rings to the wave.’ This need she told me of my loss, when I Desir’d to know, if that Necessity, When I had ’scap’d Charybdis’ outrages, My pow’rs might not revenge, though not redress? She answer’d: ‘O unhappy! art thou yet Enflam’d with war, and thirst to drink thy sweat? Not to the Gods give up both arms and will? She deathless is, and that immortal ill Grave, harsh, outrageous, not to be subdued, That men must suffer till they be renew’d. Nor lives there any virtue that can fly The vicious outrage of their cruelty. Shouldst thou put arms on, and approach the rock, I fear six more must expiate the shock. Six heads six men ask still. Hoise sail, and fly, And, in thy flight, aloud on Cratis cry (Great Scylla’s mother, who expos’d to light The bane of men) and she will do such right To thy observance, that she down will tread Her daughter’s rage, nor let her show a head. From thenceforth then, for ever past her care, Thou shalt ascend the isle triangular, Where many oxen of the Sun are fed, And fatted flocks. Of oxen fifty head In ev’ry herd feed, and their herds are seven; And of his fat flocks is their number even. Increase they yield not, for they never die. There ev’ry shepherdess a Deity. Fair Phaëthusa, and Lampetié, The lovely Nymphs are that their guardians be, Who to the daylight’s lofty-going Flame Had gracious birthright from the heav’nly Dame, Still young Neæra; who (brought forth and bred) Far off dismiss’d them, to see duly fed Their father’s herds and flocks in Sicily. These herds and flocks if to the Deity Ye leave, as sacred things, untouch’d, and on Go with all fit care of your home, alone, (Though through some suff’rance) you yet safe shall land In wishéd Ithaca. But if impious hand You lay on those herds to their hurts, I then Presage sure ruin to thy ship and men. If thou escap’st thyself, extending home Thy long’d-for landing, thou shalt loaded come With store of losses, most exceeding late, And not consorted with a savéd mate.’ This said, the golden-thron’d Aurora rose, She her way went, and I did mine dispose Up to my ship, weigh’d anchor, and away. When rev’rend Circe help’d us to convey Our vessel safe, by making well inclin’d A seaman’s true companion, a forewind, With which she fill’d our sails; when, fitting all Our arms close by us, I did sadly fall To grave relation what concern’d in fate My friends to know, and told them that the state Of our affairs’ success, which Circe had Presag’d to me alone, must yet be made To one nor only two known, but to all; That, since their lives and deaths were left to fall In their elections, they might life elect, And give what would preserve it fit effect. I first inform’d them, that we were to fly The heav’nly-singing Sirens’ harmony, And flow’r-adorned meadow; and that I Had charge to hear their song, but fetter’d fast In bands, unfavour’d, to th’ erected mast, From whence, if I should pray, or use command, To be enlarg’d, they should with much more band Contain my strugglings. This I simply told To each particular, nor would withhold What most enjoin’d mine own affection’s stay, That theirs the rather might be taught t’ obey. In mean time flew our ships, and straight we fetch’d The Siren’s isle; a spleenless wind so stretch’d Her wings to waft us, and so urg’d our keel. But having reach’d this isle, we could not feel The least gasp of it, it was stricken dead, And all the sea in prostrate slumber spread, The Sirens’ devil charm’d all. Up then flew My friends to work, struck sail, together drew, And under hatches stow’d them, sat, and plied The polish’d oars, and did in curls divide The white-head waters. My part then came on: A mighty waxen cake I set upon, Chopp’d it in fragments with my sword, and wrought With strong hand ev’ry piece, till all were soft. The great pow’r of the sun, in such a beam As then flew burning from his diadem, To liquefaction help’d us. Orderly I stopp’d their ears; and they as fair did ply My feet and hands with cords, and to the mast With other halsers made me soundly fast. Then took they seat, and forth our passage strook, The foamy sea beneath their labour shook. Row’d on, in reach of an erected voice, The Sirens soon took note, without our noise, Tun’d those sweet accents that made charms so strong, And these learn’d numbers made the Sirens’ song: _‘Come here, thou worthy of a world of praise, That dost so high the Grecian glory raise, Ulysses! stay thy ship, and that song hear That none pass’d ever but it bent his ear, But left him ravish’d, and instructed more By us, than any ever heard before. For we know all things whatsoever were In wide Troy labour’d; whatsoever there The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain’d By those high issues that the Gods ordain’d. And whatsoever all the earth can show T’ inform a knowledge of desert, we know.’_ This they gave accent in the sweetest strain That ever open’d an enamour’d vein. When my constrain’d heart needs would have mine ear Yet more delighted, force way forth, and hear. To which end I commanded with all sign Stern looks could make (for not a joint of mine Had pow’r to stir) my friends to rise, and give My limbs free way. They freely striv’d to drive Their ship still on. When, far from will to loose, Eurylochus and Perimedes rose To wrap me surer, and oppress’d me more With many a halser than had use before. When, rowing on without the reach of sound, My friends unstopp’d their ears, and me unbound, And that isle quite we quitted. But again Fresh fears employ’d us. I beheld a main Of mighty billows, and a smoke ascend, A horrid murmur hearing. Ev’ry friend Astonish’d sat; from ev’ry hand his Oar Fell quite forsaken; with the dismal roar Were all things there made echoes; stone-still stood Our ship itself, because the ghastly flood Took all men’s motions from her in their own. I through the ship went, labouring up and down My friends’ recover’d spirits. One by one I gave good words, and said: That well were known These ills to them before, I told them all, And that these could not prove more capital Than those the Cyclops block’d us up in, yet My virtue, wit, and heav’n-help’d counsels set Their freedoms open. I could not believe But they remember’d it, and wish’d them give My equal care and means now equal trust. The strength they had for stirring up they must Rouse and extend, to try if Jove had laid His pow’rs in theirs up, and would add his aid To ’scape ev’n that death. In particular then, I told our pilot, that past other men He most must bear firm spirits, since he sway’d The continent that all our spirits convey’d, In his whole guide of her. He saw there boil The fiery whirlpools that to all our spoil Inclos’d a rock, without which he must steer, Or all our ruins stood concluded there. All heard me and obey’d, and little knew That, shunning that rock, six of them should rue The wrack another hid. For I conceal’d The heavy wounds, that never would be heal’d, To be by Scylla open’d; for their fear Would then have robb’d all of all care to steer, Or stir an oar, and made them hide beneath, When they and all had died an idle death. But then ev’n I forgot to shun the harm Circe forewarn’d; who will’d I should not arm, Nor show myself to Scylla, lest in vain I ventur’d life. Yet could not I contain, But arm’d at all parts, and two lances took, Up to the foredeck went, and thence did look That rocky Scylla would have first appear’d And taken my life with the friends I fear’d. From thence yet no place could afford her sight, Though through the dark rock mine eye threw her light, And ransack’d all ways. I then took a strait That gave myself, and some few more, receit ’Twixt Scylla and Charybdis; whence we saw How horridly Charybdis’ throat did draw The brackish sea up, which when all aboard She spit again out, never caldron sod With so much fervour, fed with all the store That could enrage it; all the rock did roar With troubled waters; round about the tops Of all the steep crags flew the foamy drops. But when her draught the sea and earth dissunder’d, The troubled bottoms turn’d up, and she thunder’d, Far under shore the swart sands naked lay. Whose whole stern sight the startled blood did fray From all our faces. And while we on her Our eyes bestow’d thus to our ruin’s fear, Six friends had Scylla snatch’d out of our keel, In whom most loss did force and virtue feel. When looking to my ship, and lending eye To see my friends’ estates, their heels turn’d high, And hands cast up, I might discern, and hear Their calls to me for help, when now they were To try me in their last extremities. And as an angler med’cine for surprise Of little fish sits pouring from the rocks, From out the crook’d horn of a fold-bred ox, And then with his long angle hoists them high Up to the air, then slightly hurls them by, When helpless sprawling on the land they lie; So eas’ly Scylla to her rock had rapt My woeful friends, and so unhelp’d entrapt Struggling they lay beneath her violent rape, Who in their tortures, desp’rate of escape, Shriek’d as she tore, and up their hands to me Still threw for sweet life. I did never see, In all my suff’rance ransacking the seas, A spectacle so full of miseries. Thus having fled these rocks (these cruel dames Scylla, Charybdis) where the King of flames Hath off’rings burn’d to him, our ship put in The island that from all the earth doth win The epithet Faultless, where the broad-of-head And famous oxen for the Sun are fed, With many fat flocks of that high-gone God. Set in my ship, mine ear reach’d where we rode The bellowing of oxen, and the bleat Of fleecy sheep, that in my memory’s seat Put up the forms that late had been imprest By dread Ææn Circe, and the best Of souls and prophets, the blind Theban seer, The wise Tiresias, who was grave decreer Of my return’s whole means; of which this one In chief he urg’d—that I should always shun The island of the man-delighting Sun. When, sad at heart for our late loss, I pray’d My friends to hear fit counsel (though dismay’d With all ill fortunes) which was giv’n to me By Circe’s and Tiresias’ prophecy,— That I should fly the isle where was ador’d The Comfort of the world, for ills abhorr’d Were ambush’d for us there; and therefore will’d They should put off and leave the isle. This kill’d Their tender spirits; when Eurylochus A speech that vex’d me utter’d, answ’ring thus: ‘Cruel Ulysses! Since thy nerves abound In strength, the more spent, and no toils confound Thy able limbs, as all beat out of steel, Thou ablest us too, as unapt to feel The teeth of Labour, and the spoil of Sleep, And therefore still wet waste us in the deep, Nor let us land to eat, but madly now In night put forth, and leave firm land to strew The sea with errors. All the rabid flight Of winds that ruin ships are bred in night. Who is it that can keep off cruel Death, If suddenly should rush out th’ angry breath Of Notus, or the eager-spirited West, That cuff ships dead, and do the Gods their best? Serve black Night still with shore, meat, sleep, and ease, And offer to the Morning for the seas.’ This all the rest approv’d, and then knew I That past all doubt the Devil did apply His slaught’rous works. Nor would they be withheld; I was but one, nor yielded but compell’d. But all that might contain them I assay’d, A sacred oath on all their pow’rs I laid, That if with herds or any richest-flocks We chanc’d t’ encounter, neither sheep nor ox We once should touch, nor (for that constant ill That follows folly) scorn advice and kill, But quiet sit us down and take such food As the immortal Circe had bestow’d. They swore all this in all severest sort; And then we anchor’d in the winding port Near a fresh river, where the long’d-for shore They all flew out to, took in victuals store, And, being full, thought of their friends, and wept Their loss by Scylla, weeping till they slept. In night’s third part, when stars began to stoop, The Cloud-assembler put a tempest up. A boist’rous spirit he gave it, drave out all His flocks of clouds, and let such darkness fall That Earth and Seas, for fear, to hide were driv’n, For with his clouds he thrust out Night from heav’n. At morn we drew our ships into a cave, In which the Nymphs that Phœbus’ cattle drave Fair dancing-rooms had, and their seats of state. I urg’d my friends then, that, to shun their fate, They would observe their oath, and take the food Our ship afforded, nor attempt the blood Of those fair herds and flocks, because they were The dreadful God’s that all could see and hear. They stood observant, and in that good mind Had we been gone; but so adverse the wind Stood to our passage, that we could not go. For one whole month perpetually did blow Impetuous Notus, not a breath’s repair But his and Eurus’ rul’d in all the air. As long yet as their ruddy wine and bread Stood out amongst them, so long not a head Of all those oxen fell in any strife Amongst those students for the gut and life; But when their victuals fail’d they fell to prey, Necessity compell’d them then to stray In rape of fish and fowl; whatever came In reach of hand or hook, the belly’s flame Afflicted to it. I then fell to pray’r, And (making to a close retreat repair, Free from both friends and winds) I wash’d my hands, And all the Gods besought, that held commands In liberal heav’n, to yield some mean to stay Their desp’rate hunger, and set up the way Of our return restrain’d. The Gods, instead Of giving what I pray’d for—pow’r of deed— A deedless sleep did on my lids distill, For mean to work upon my friends their fill. For whiles I slept, there wak’d no mean to curb Their headstrong wants; which he that did disturb My rule in chief at all times, and was chief To all the rest in counsel to their grief, Knew well, and of my present absence took His fit advantage, and their iron strook At highest heat. For, feeling their desire In his own entrails, to allay the fire That Famine blew in them, he thus gave way To that affection: ‘Hear what I shall say, Though words will staunch no hunger, ev’ry death To us poor wretches that draw temporal breath You know is hateful; but, all know, to die The death of Famine is a misery Past all death loathsome. Let us, therefore, take The chief of this fair herd, and off’rings make To all the Deathless that in broad heav’n live, And in particular vow, if we arrive In natural Ithaca, to straight erect A temple to the Haughty-in-aspect, Rich and magnificent, and all within Deck it with relics many and divine. If yet he stands incens’d, since we have slain His high-brow’d herd, and, therefore, will sustain Desire to wrack our ship, he is but one, And all the other Gods that we atone With our divine rites will their suffrage give To our design’d return, and let us live. If not, and all take part, I rather crave To serve with one sole death the yawning wave, Than in a desert island lie and sterve, And with one pin’d life many deaths observe.’ All cried ‘He counsels nobly,’ and all speed Made to their resolute driving; for the feed Of those coal-black, fair, broad-brow’d, sun-lov’d beeves Had place close by our ships. They took the lives Of sence, most eminent; about their fall Stood round, and to the States Celestial Made solemn vows; but other rites their ship Could not afford them, they did, therefore, strip The curl’d-head oak of fresh young leaves, to make Supply of service for their barley-cake. And on the sacredly-enflam’d, for wine, Pour’d purest water, all the parts divine Spitting and roasting; all the rites beside Orderly using. Then did light divide My low and upper lids; when, my repair Made near my ship, I met the delicate air Their roast exhal’d; out instantly I cried, And said: ‘O Jove, and all ye Deified, Ye have oppress’d me with a cruel sleep, While ye conferr’d on me a loss as deep As Death descends to. To themselves alone My rude men left ungovern’d, they have done A deed so impious, I stand well assur’d, That you will not forgive though ye procur’d.’ Then flew Lampetié with the ample robe Up to her father with the golden globe, Ambassadress t’ inform him that my men Had slain his oxen. Heart-incensed then, He cried: ‘Revenge me, Father, and the rest Both ever-living and for ever blest! Ulysses’ impious men have drawn the blood Of those my oxen that it did me good To look on, walking all my starry round, And when I trod earth all with meadows crown’d. Without your full amends I’ll leave heav’n quite, Dis and the dead adorning with my light.’ The Cloud-herd answer’d: ‘Son! Thou shalt be ours, And light those mortals in that mine of flow’rs! My red-hot flash shall graze but on their ship, And eat it, burning, in the boiling deep.’ This by Calypso I was told, and she Inform’d it from the verger Mercury. Come to our ship, I chid and told by name Each man how impiously he was to blame. But chiding got no peace, and beeves were slain! When straight the Gods forewent their following pain With dire ostents. The hides the flesh had lost Crept all before them. As the flesh did roast, It bellow’d like the ox itself alive. And yet my soldiers did their dead beeves drive Through all these prodigies in daily feasts. Six days they banqueted and slew fresh beasts; And when the sev’nth day Jove reduc’d the wind That all the month rag’d, and so in did bind Our ship and us, was turn’d and calm’d, and we Launch’d, put up masts, sails hoised, and to sea. The island left so far that land nowhere But only sea and sky had pow’r t’ appear, Jove fix’d a cloud above our ship, so black That all the sea it darken’d. Yet from wrack She ran a good free time, till from the West Came Zephyr ruffling forth, and put his breast Out in a singing tempest, so most vast It burst the gables that made sure our mast. Our masts came tumbling down, our cattle down Rush’d to the pump, and by our pilot’s crown The main-mast pass’d his fall, pash’d all his skull, And all this wrack but one flaw made at full. Off from the stern the sternsman diving fell, And from his sinews flew his soul to hell. Together all this time Jove’s thunder chid, And through and through the ship his lightning glid, Till it embrac’d her round; her bulk was fill’d With nasty sulphur, and her men were kill’d, Tumbled to sea, like sea-mews swum about, And there the date of their return was out. I toss’d from side to side still, till all-broke Her ribs were with the storm, and she did choke With let-in surges; for the mast torn down Tore her up piecemeal, and for me to drown Left little undissolv’d. But to the mast There was a leather thong left, which I cast About it and the keel, and so sat tost With baneful weather, till the West had lost His stormy tyranny. And then arose The South, that bred me more abhorréd woes; For back again his blasts expell’d me quite On ravenous Charybdis. All that night I totter’d up and down, till Light and I At Scylla’s rock encounter’d, and the nigh Dreadful Charybdis. As I drave on these, I saw Charybdis supping up the seas, And had gone up together, if the tree That bore the wild figs had not rescued me; To which I leap’d, and left my keel, and high Chamb’ring upon it did as close imply My breast about it as a reremouse could; Yet might my feet on no stub fasten hold To ease my hands, the roots were crept so low Beneath the earth, and so aloft did grow The far-spread arms that, though good height I gat, I could not reach them. To the main bole flat I, therefore, still must cling; till up again She belch’d my mast, and after that amain My keel came tumbling. So at length it chanc’d To me, as to a judge that long advanc’d To judge a sort of hot young fellows’ jars, At length time frees him from their civil wars, When glad he riseth and to dinner goes; So time, at length, releas’d with joys my woes, And from Charybdis’ mouth appear’d my keel. To which, my hand now loos’d and now my heel, I altogether with a huge noise dropp’d, Just in her midst fell, where the mast was propp’d, And there row’d off with owers of my hands. God and man’s Father would not from her sands Let Scylla see me, for I then had died That bitter death that my poor friends supplied. Nine days at sea I hover’d; the tenth night In th’ isle Ogygia, where, about the bright And right renown’d Calypso, I was cast By pow’r of Deity; where I lived embrac’d With love and feasts. But why should I relate Those kind occurrents? I should iterate What I in part to your chaste queen and you So late imparted. And, for me to grow A talker-over of my tale again, Were past my free contentment to sustain.”
FINIS DUODECIMI LIBRI HOM. ODYSS.
Opus novem dierum.
Σὺν Θεᾳ.
[1] Πέλειαι τρήρωνες. Columbæ timidæ. What these doves were, and the whole mind of this place, the great Macedon asking Chiron Amphipolites, he answered: They were the Pleiades or seven Stars. One of which (besides his proper imperfection of being ἀμυδρὸς, i.e. adeo exilis, vel subobscurus, ut vix appareat) is utterly obscured or let by these rocks. Why then, or how, Jove still supplied the lost one, that the number might be full, Athenæus falls to it, and helps the other out, interpreting it to be affirmed of their perpetual septenary number, though there appeared but six. But how lame and loathsome these prosers show in their affected expositions of the poetical mind, this and an hundred others, spent in mere presumptuous guess at this inaccessible Poet, I hope will make plain enough to the most envious of any thing done, besides their own set censures and most arrogant over-weenings. In the 23 of the lliads (being ψ) at the games celebrated at Patroclus’ funerals, they tied to the top of a mast πέλειαν τρήρωνα, timidam columbam, to shoot at for a game, so that (by these great men’s abovesaid expositions) they shot at the Pleiades.Return to passage
[2] Νηυ̑ς πα̑σι μέλουσα, etc. Navis omnibus curæ: the ship that held the care of all men, or of all things: which our critics will needs restrain, omnibus heroibus, Poetis omnibus, vel Historicis, when the care of all men’s preservation is affirmed to be the freight of it; as if poets and historians comprehended all things, when I scarce know any that makes them any part of their care. But this likewise is garbage good enough for the monster. Nor will I tempt our spiced consciences with expressing the divine mind it includes. Being afraid to affirm any good of poor poesy, since no man gets any goods by it. And notwithstanding many of our bird-eyed starters at profanation are for nothing so afraid of it; as that lest their galled consciences (scarce believing the most real truth, in approbation of their lives) should be rubbed with the confirmation of it, even in these contemned vanities (as their impieties please to call them) which by much more learned and pious than themselves have ever been called the raptures of divine inspiration, by which, Homo supra humanam naturam erigitur, et in Deum transit.—Plat.Return to passage
[3] Δεινὸν λελακυι̑α, etc. Graviter vociferans; as all most untruly translate it. As they do in the next verse these words σκύλακος νεογιλη̑ς catuli leonis, no lion being here dreamed of, nor any vociferation. Δεινὸν λελακυι̑α signifying indignam, dissimilem, or horribilem vocem edens: but in what kind horribilem? Not for the gravity or greatness of her voice, but for the unworthy or disproportionable small whuling of it; she being in the vast frame of her body, as the very words πέλωρ κακὸν signify, monstrum ingens; whose disproportion and deformity is too poetically (and therein elegantly) ordered for fat and flat prosers to comprehend. Nor could they make the Poet’s words serve their comprehension; and therefore they add of their own, λάσκω, from whence λελακυι̑α is derived, signifying crepo, or stridulê clamo. And σκύλακος νεογιλη̑ς is to be expounded, catuli nuper or recens nati, not leonis. But thus they botch and abuse the incomparable expressor, because they knew not how otherwise to be monstrous enough themselves to help out the monster. Imagining so huge a great body must needs have a voice as huge; and then would not our Homer have likened it to a lion’s whelp’s voice, but to the lion’s own; and all had been much too little to make a voice answerable to her hugeness. And therefore found our inimitable master a new way to express her monstrous disproportion; performing it so, as there can be nihil suprâ. And I would fain learn of my learned detractor, that will needs have me only translate out of the Latin, what Latin translation tells me this? Or what Grecian hath ever found this and a hundred other such? Which may be some poor instance, or proof, of my Grecian faculty, as far as old Homer goes in his two simple Poems, but not a syllable further will my silly spirit presume.Return to passage
The Thirteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses (shipp’d, but in the even, With all the presents he was given, And sleeping then) is set next morn In full scope of his wish’d return, And treads unknown his country-shore, Whose search so many winters wore. The ship (returning, and arriv’d Against the city) is depriv’d Of form, and, all her motion gone, Transform’d by Neptune to a stone. Ulysses (let to know the strand Where the Phæacians made him land) Consults with Pallas, for the life Of ev’ry wooer of his wife. His gifts she hides within a cave, And him into a man more grave, All hid in wrinkles, crookéd, gray, Transform’d; who so goes on his way.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Νυ̑. Phæacia Ulysses leaves; Whom Ithaca, Unwares, receives.
He said; and silence all their tongues contain’d, In admiration, when with pleasure chain’d Their ears had long been to him. At last brake Alcinous silence, and in this sort spake To th’ Ithacensian, Laertes’ son: “O Ithacus! However over-run With former suff’rings in your way for home, Since ’twas, at last, your happy fate to come To my high-roof’d and brass-foundation’d house, I hope, such speed and pass auspicious Our loves shall yield you, that you shall no more Wander, nor suffer, homewards, as before. You then, whoever that are ever grac’d With all choice of authoriz’d pow’r to taste Such wine with me as warms the sacred rage, And is an honorary giv’n to age,[1] With which ye likewise hear divinely sing, In honour’s praise, the poet of the king, I move, by way of my command, to this: That where in an elaborate chest there lies A present for our guest, attires of price, And gold engrav’n with infinite device, I wish that each of us should add beside A tripod, and a caldron, amplified With size, and metal of most rate, and great; For we, in council of taxation met, Will from our subjects gain their worth again; Since ’tis unequal one man should sustain A charge so weighty, being the grace of all, Which borne by many is a weight but small.” Thus spake Alcinous, and pleas’d the rest; When each man clos’d with home and sleep his feast. But when the colour-giving light arose, All to the ship did all their speeds dispose,[2] And wealth, that honest men makes, brought with them.[3] All which ev’n he that wore the diadem Stow’d in the ship himself, beneath the seats The rowers sat in, stooping, lest their lets In any of their labours he might prove. Then home he turn’d, and after him did move The whole assembly to expected feast. Among whom he a sacrifice addrest, And slew an ox, to weather-wielding Jove, Beneath whose empire all things are, and move. The thighs then roasting, they made glorious cheer Delighted highly; and amongst them there The honour’d-of-the-people us’d his voice, Divine Demodocus. Yet, through this choice Of cheer and music, had Ulysses still An eye directed to the Eastern hill, To see Him rising that illustrates all; For now into his mind a fire did fall Of thirst for home. And as in hungry vow To needful food a man at fixéd plow (To whom the black ox all day long hath turn’d The stubborn fallows up, his stomach burn’d With empty heat and appetite to food, His knees afflicted with his spirit-spent blood) At length the long-expected sunset sees, That he may sit to food, and rest his knees; So to Ulysses set the friendly light The sun afforded, with as wish’d a sight. Who straight bespake that oar-affecting State, But did in chief his speech appropriate To him by name, that with their rule was crown’d. “Alcinous, of all men most renown’d, Dismiss me with as safe pass as you vow (Your off’ring past) and may the Gods to you In all contentment use as full a hand; For now my landing here and stay shall stand In all perfection with my heart’s desire, Both my so safe deduction to aspire, And loving gifts; which may the Gods to me As blest in use make as your acts are free, Ev’n to the finding firm in love, and life, With all desir’d event, my friends, and wife. When, as myself shall live delighted there, May you with your wives rest as happy here, Your sons and daughters, in particular state, With ev’ry virtue render’d consummate; And, in your gen’ral empire, may ill never Approach your land, but good your good quit ever.” This all applauded, and all jointly cried: “Dismiss the stranger! He hath dignified With fit speech his dismission.” Then the king Thus charg’d the herald: “Fill for offering A bowl of wine; which through the whole large house Dispose to all men, that, propitious Our father Jove made with our pray’rs, we may Give home our guest in full and wishéd way.” This said, Pontonous commix’d a bowl Of such sweet wine as did delight the soul. Which making sacred to the blessed Gods, That hold in broad heav’n their supreme abodes, God-like Ulysses from his chair arose, And in the hands of th’ empress did impose The all-round cup; to whom, fair spoke, he said: “Rejoice, O queen, and be your joys repaid By heav’n, for me, till age and death succeed; Both which inflict their most unwelcome need On men and dames alike. And, first, for me, I must from hence, to both: Live you here free, And ever may all living blessings spring, Your joy in children, subjects, and your king.” This said, divine Ulysses took his way; Before whom the unalterable sway Of king Alcinous’ virtue did command A herald’s fit attendance to the strand, And ship appointed. With him likewise went Handmaids, by Arete’s injunction sent. One bore an out and in-weed, fair and sweet, The other an embroider’d cabinet, The third had bread to bear, and ruddy wine; All which, at sea and ship arriv’d, resign Their freight conferr’d. With fair attendants then, The sheets and bedding of the man of men, Within a cabin of the hollow keel, Spread, and made soft, that sleep might sweetly seel His restful eyes, he enter’d, and his bed In silence took. The rowers orderéd Themselves in sev’ral seats, and then set gone The ship, the gable from the hollow stone Dissolv’d and weigh’d-up, all, together, close Then beat the sea. His lids in sweet repose Sleep bound so fast, it scarce gave way to breath Inexcitable, most dear, next of all to death. And as amids a fair field four brave horse Before a chariot stung into their course With fervent lashes of the smarting scourge, That all their fire blows high, and makes them urge To utmost speed the measure of their ground; So bore the ship aloft her fiery bound; About whom rush’d the billows black and vast, In which the sea-roars burst. As firm as fast She ply’d her course yet; nor her wingéd speed The falcon-gentle could for pace exceed; So cut she through the waves, and bore a man Even with the Gods in counsels, that began And spent his former life in all misease, Battles of men, and rude waves of the seas, Yet now securely slept, forgetting all. And when heav’n’s brightest star, that first doth call The early morning out, advanc’d her head, Then near to Ithaca the billow-bred Phræcian ship approach’d. There is a port, That th’ aged sea-God Phorcys makes his fort, Whose earth the Ithacensian people own, In which two rocks inaccessible are grown Far forth into the sea, whose each strength binds The boist’rous waves in from the high-flown winds On both the out-parts so, that all within The well-built ships, that once their harbour win In his calm bosom, without anchor rest, Safe, and unstirr’d. From forth the haven’s high crest Branch the well-brawn’d arms of an olive-tree; Beneath which runs a cave from all sun free, Cool, and delightsome, sacred to th’ access Of Nymphs whose surnames are the Naiadés; In which flew humming bees, in which lay thrown Stone cups, stone vessels, shittles all of stone, With which the Nymphs their purple mantles wove, In whose contexture art and wonder strove; In which pure springs perpetually ran; To which two entries were; the one for man, On which the North breath’d; th’ other for the Gods, On which the South; and that bore no abodes For earthy men, but only deathless feet Had there free way. This port these men thought meet To land Ulysses, being the first they knew, Drew then their ship in, but no further drew Than half her bulk reach’d, by such cunning hand Her course was manag’d. Then her men took land, And first brought forth Ulysses, bed, and all That richly furnish’d it, he still in thrall Of all-subduing sleep. Upon the sand They set him softly down; and then the strand They strew’d with all the goods he had, bestow’d By the renown’d Phæacians, since he show’d So much Minerva. At the olive root They drew them then in heap, most far from foot Of any traveller, lest, ere his eyes Resum’d their charge, they might be others’ prise. These then turn’d home; nor was the sea’s Supreme Forgetful of his threats, for Polypheme Bent at divine Ulysses, yet would prove (Ere their performance) the decree of Jove. “Father! no more the Gods shall honour me, Since men despise me, and those men that see The light in lineage of mine own lov’d race.[4] I vow’d Ulysses should, before the grace Of his return, encounter woes enow To make that purchase dear; yet did not vow Simply against it, since thy brow had bent To his reduction, in the fore-consent Thou hadst vouchsaf’d it; yet, before my mind Hath full pow’r on him, the Phæacians find Their own minds’ satisfaction with his pass, So far from suff’ring what my pleasure was, That ease and softness now is habited In his secure breast, and his careless head Return’d in peace of sleep to Ithaca, The brass and gold of rich Phæacia Rocking his temples, garments richly wov’n, And worlds of prise, more than was ever strov’n From all the conflicts he sustain’d at Troy, If safe he should his full share there enjoy.” The Show’r-dissolver answer’d: “What a speech Hath pass’d thy palate, O thou great in reach Of wrackful empire! Far the Gods remain From scorn of thee, for ’twere a work of pain To prosecute with ignominies one That sways our ablest and most ancient throne. For men, if any so beneath in pow’r Neglect thy high will, now, or any hour That moves hereafter, take revenge to thee, Soothe all thy will, and be thy pleasure free.” “Why then,” said he, “thou blacker of the fumes That dim the sun, my licens’d pow’r resumes Act from thy speech; but I observe so much And fear thy pleasure, that, I dare not touch At any inclination of mine own, Till thy consenting influence be known. But now this curious-built Phæacian ship, Returning from her convoy, I will strip Of all her fleeting matter, and to stone Transform and fix it, just when she hath gone Her full time home, and jets before their prease In all her trim, amids the sable seas, That they may cease to convoy strangers still, When they shall see so like a mighty hill Their glory stick before their city’s grace, And my hands cast a mask before her face.”[5] “O friend,” said Jove, “it shows to me the best Of all earth’s objects, that their whole prease, drest In all their wonder, near their town shall stand, And stare upon a stone, so near the land, So like a ship, and dam up all their lights, As if a mountain interpos’d their sights.” When Neptune heard this, he for Scheria went, Whence the Phæacians took their first descent. Which when he reach’d, and, in her swiftest pride, The water-treader by the city’s side Came cutting close, close he came swiftly on, Took her in violent hand, and to a stone Turn’d all her sylvan substance; all below Firm’d her with roots, and left her. This strange show When the Phæacians saw, they stupid stood, And ask’d each other, who amids the flood Could fix their ship so in her full speed home, And quite transparent make her bulk become? Thus talk’d they; but were far from knowing how These things had issue. Which their king did show, And said: “O friends, the ancient prophecies My father told to me, to all our eyes Are now in proof. He said, the time would come, When Neptune, for our safe conducting home All sorts of strangers, out of envy fir’d, Would meet our fairest ship as she retir’d, And all the goodly shape and speed we boast Should like a mountain stand before us lost Amids the moving waters; which we see Perform’d in full end to our prophecy. Hear then my counsel, and obey me then: Renounce henceforth our convoy home of men, Whoever shall hereafter greet our town; And to th’ offended Deity’s renown Twelve chosen oxen let us sacred make, That he may pity us, and from us take This shady mountain.” They, in fear, obey’d, Slew all the beeves, and to the Godhead pray’d, The dukes and princes all ensphering round The sacred altar; while whose tops were crown’d, Divine Ulysses, on his country’s breast Laid bound in sleep, now rose out of his rest, Nor (being so long remov’d) the region knew. Besides which absence yet, Minerva threw A cloud about him, to make strange the more His safe arrival, lest upon his shore He should make known his face, and utter all That might prevent th’ event that was to fall. Which she prepar’d so well, that not his wife, Presented to him, should perceive his life, No citizen, no friend, till righteous fate Upon the Wooer’s wrongs were consummate. Through which cloud all things show’d now to the king Of foreign fashion; the enflow’réd spring Amongst the trees there, the perpetual waves, The rocks, that did more high their foreheads raise To his wrapt eye than naturally they did, And all the haven, in which a man seem’d hid From wind and weather, when storms loudest chid. He therefore, being risen, stood and view’d His country-earth; which, not perceiv’d, he rued, And, striking with his hurl’d-down hands his thighs, He mourn’d, and said: “O me! Again where lies My desert way? To wrongful men and rude, And with no laws of human right endued? Or are they human, and of holy minds? What fits my deed with these so many kinds Of goods late giv’n? What with myself will floods And errors do? I would to God, these goods Had rested with their owners, and that I Had fall’n on kings of more regality, To grace out my return, that lov’d indeed, And would have giv’n me consorts of fit speed To my distresses’ ending! But, as now All knowledge flies me where I may bestow My labour’d purchase, here they shall not stay, Lest what I car’d for others make their prey. O Gods! I see the great Phæacians then Were not all just and understanding men, That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended, Assuring me my country should see ended My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts. O Jove! Great Guardian of poor suppliants, That others sees, and notes too, shutting in All in thy plagues that most presume on sin, Revenge me on them. Let me number now The goods they gave, to give my mind to know If they have stol’n none in their close retreat.” The goodly caldrons then, and tripods, set In sev’ral ranks from out the heap, he told, His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold, And nothing lack’d; and yet this man did mourn The but suppos’d miss of his home-return, And creeping to the shore with much complaint; Minerva (like a shepherd, young, and quaint,[6] As king sons are, a double mantle cast Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac’d With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart) Appear’d to him, whose sight rejoic’d his heart, To whom he came, and said: “O friend! Since first I meet your sight here, be all good the worst That can join our encounter. Fare you fair, Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair, But guard these goods of mine, and succour me. As to a God I offer pray’rs to thee, And low access make to thy lovéd knee. Say truth, that I may know, what country then, What common people live here, and what men? Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent, Being near the sea, to some rich continent?” She answer’d: “Stranger, whatsoe’er you are, Y’are either foolish, or come passing far, That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble, For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble, But passing many know it; and so many, That of all nations there abides not any, From where the morning rises and the sun, To where the even and night their courses run, But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough, And so for use of horse unapt enough, Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,[7] Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested, And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great, The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat. It feeds a goat and ox well, being still Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill With heav’n’s continual show’rs; and wooded so, It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow. And therefore, Stranger, the extended name Of this dominion makes access by fame From this extreme part of Achaia As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.” This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high, That other end he put to his reply Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d A veil on truth; for evermore did wind About his bosom a most crafty mind, Which thus his words show’d: “I have far at sea, In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca, Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore, With these my fortunes; whose whole value more I left in Crete amongst my children there, From whence I fly for being the slaughterer Of royal Idomen’s most-lovéd son, Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew, Because he would deprive me of my due In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so (The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe Of mind and body in the wars of men. Nor did I gratify his father then With any service, but, as well as he Sway’d in command of other soldiery, So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him, When gloomy night the cope of heav’n did dim, And no man knew; but, we lodg’d close, he came, And I put out to him his vital flame. Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword, I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard A ship of the renown’d Phœnician state; When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate, Obtain’d my pass of men in her command; Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine, Where the Epeïans in great empire shine. But force of weather check’d that course to them, Though (loth to fail me) to their most extreme They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence, We err’d, and put in here, with much expence Of care and labour; and in dead of night, When no man there serv’d any appetite So much as with the memory of food, Though our estates exceeding needy stood. But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep My weary pow’rs invaded, and from ship They fetching these my riches, with just hand About me laid them, while upon the sand Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they (Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay, Left sad alone.” The Goddess laugh’d, and took His hand in hers, and with another look (Assuming then the likeness of a dame, Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame Of virtuous housewif’ries) she answer’d thus: “He should be passing-sly, and covetous Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee[8] In any craft, though any God should be Ambitious to exceed in subtilty. Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate[9] In over-reaches! Not secure thy state Without these wiles, though on thy native shore Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth Is known to either. Thou of men art far, For words and counsels, the most singular, But I above the Gods in both may boast My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost The knowledge ev’n of me, the Seed of Jove, Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove In all thy labours their extremes, and stood Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good Known to the good Phæacians, and receiv’d. And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me The close reserving of these goods for thee, Which the renown’d Phæacian states bestow’d At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace I now will amplify, and tell what case Thy household stands in, utt’ring all those pains That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins. Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live, But silent suffer over all again Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.” “Goddess,” said he, “unjust men, and unwise, That author injuries and vanities, By vanities and wrongs should rather be Bound to this ill-abearing destiny, Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n, That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n Up to all domage those poor few that strive To imitate it, and like the Deities live? But where you wonder that I know you not Through all your changes, that skill is not got By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face Is still distinguish’d by thy free-giv’n grace; And therefore, truly to acknowledge thee In thy encounters, is a mastery In men most-knowing; for to all men thou Tak’st sev’ral likeness. All men think they know Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few, Through all thy changes to discern thee right Asks chief love to thee, and inspiréd light. But this I surely know, that, some years past, I have been often with thy presence grac’d, All time the sons of Greece wag’d war at Troy; But when Fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town, Our ships all boarded, and when God had blown Our fleet in sunder, I could never see The Seed of Jove, nor once distinguish thee Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me. But only in my proper spirit involv’d, Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace By open speech confirm’d me, in a place Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou Didst give me guide, and all their city show; And that was the renown’d Phæacian earth. Now then, ev’n by the Author of thy birth, Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch At some far shore, and that thy wit is such Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?” “I see,” said she, “thou wilt be ever thus In ev’ry worldly good incredulous, And therefore have no more the pow’r to see Frail life more plagued with infelicity In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise. Another man, that so long miseries Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire What states they hold, affects not thy desire, Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee In loving tears, that then the sight may prove A full reward for either’s mutual love. But I would never credit in you both Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth Of this thine own return, though all thy friends, I knew as well, should make returnless ends; Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so To stand their safeguard, since so high did go His wrath for thy extinction of the eye Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground Thy credit on my words: This haven is own’d By th’ agéd sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow This is the olive with the ample bough, And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave That to the Fount-Nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave, As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done Hundreds of off’rings to the Naiades, Here Mount Neritus shakes his curléd tress Of shady woods.” This said, she clear’d the cloud That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d His country to him. Glad he stood with sight Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight; And instantly to all the Nymphs he paid (With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said: “Ye Nymphs the Naiades, great Seed of Jove, I had conceit that never more should move Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes, And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more I pay your names in off’rings as before; Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent, The mighty Pillager, with life convent My person home, and to my sav’d decease Of my lov’d son’s sight add the sweet increase.” “Be confident,” said Pallas, “nor oppress Thy spirits with care of these performances, But these thy fortunes let us straight repose In this divine cave’s bosom, that may close Reserve their value; and we then may see How best to order other acts to thee.” Thus enter’d she the light-excluding cave, And through it sought some inmost nook to save The gold, the great brass, and robes richly-wrought, Giv’n to Ulysses. All which in he brought, Laid down in heap; and she impos’d a stone Close to the cavern’s mouth. Then sat they on The sacred olive’s root, consulting how To act th’ insulting Wooers’ overthrow; When Pallas said: “Examine now the means That best may lay hands on the impudence Of those proud Wooers, that have now three years Thy roof’s rule sway’d, and been bold offerers Of suit and gifts to thy renownéd wife, Who for thy absence all her desolate life Dissolves in tears till thy desir’d return; Yet all her Wooers, while she thus doth mourn, She holds in hope, and ev’ry one affords (In fore-sent message) promise; but her words Bear other utt’rance than her heart approves.” “O Gods,” said Ithacus, “it now behoves My fate to end me in the ill decease That Agamemnon underwent, unless You tell me, and in time; their close intents. Advise then means to the reveng’d events We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind To stand close to me, and but such a mind Breathe in my bosom, as when th’ Ilion tow’rs We tore in cinders. O if equal pow’rs Thou wouldst enflame amidst my nerves as then, I could encounter with three hundred men, Thy only self, great Goddess, had to friend, In those brave ardors thou wert wont t’ extend!” “I will be strongly with thee,” answer’d she, “Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me. When both whose pow’rs combine, I hope the bloods And brains of some of these that waste thy goods Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then: I first will render thee unknown to men, And on thy solid lineaments make dry Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe In such a cloak as ev’ry eye shall lothe; Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange To all the Wooers, thy young son, and wife. But to thy herdsman first present thy life, That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee, That loves thy son and wife Penelopé. Thy search shall find him set aside his herd, That are with taste-delighting acorns rear’d, And drink the dark-deep water of the spring, Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing Raiser of herds. There stay, and, taking seat Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat Of home-occurrents, while I make access To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress Of lov’d Telemachus, who went in quest Of thy lov’d fame, and liv’d the welcome guest Of Menelaus.” The much-knower said: “Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred The art to order all acts, tell in this His error to him? Let those years of his Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain The woes there raging, while unworthy men Devour his fortunes?” “Let not care extend Thy heart for him,” said she, “myself did send His person in thy search; to set his worth, By good fame blown, to such a distance forth. Nor suffers he in any least degree The grief you fear, but all variety That Plenty can yield in her quiet’st fare, In Menelaus’ court, doth sit and share. In whose return from home, the Wooers yet Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set To sea, to intercept his life before He touch again his birth’s attempted shore. All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do, But rather, that the earth shall overgo Some one at least of these love-making men, By which thy goods so much impair sustain.” Thus using certain secret words to him, She touch’d him with her rod; and ev’ry limb Was hid all-over with a wither’d skin; His bright eyes blear’d; his brow-curls white and thin; And all things did an agéd man present. Then, for his own weeds, shirt and coat, all-rent, Tann’d, and all-sootiéd with noisome smoke, She put him on; and, over all, a cloke Made of a stag’s huge hide, of which was worn The hair quite off; a scrip, all-patch’d and torn, Hung by a cord, oft broke and knit again; And with a staff did his old limbs sustain. Thus having both consulted of th’ event, They parted both; and forth to Sparta went The gray-eyed Goddess, to see all things done That appertain’d to wise Ulysses’ son.
THE END OF THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
[1] Γερούσιος οι͒νος, quod pro honorario senibus datur. And because the word so Englished hath no other to express it, sounding well, and helping our language, it is here used.Return to passage
[2] Intending in chief the senators, with every man’s addition of gift.Return to passage
[3] Εὐήνορα χαλκὸν, bene honestos faciens æs.Return to passage
[4] The Phæacians were descended originally from Neptune.Return to passage
[5] Αμϕικαλύπτω, superinjicio aliquid tanquam tegmen seu operimentum.Return to passage
[6] Minerva like a shepherd (such as kings’ sons used at those times to be) appears to Ulysses.Return to passage
[7] Λυπρὸς, velut tristis, jejunaque naturâ.Return to passage
[8] Επίκλοπος, furandi avidus.Return to passage
[9] Σχέτλιε, ποικλομη̑τα, varia et multiplicia habens consilia.Return to passage
The Fourteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses meets amids the field His swain Eumæus: who doth yield Kind guest-rites to him, and relate Occurrents of his wrong’d estate.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ξι̑. Ulysses fains For his true good: His pious swain’s Faith understood.
But he the rough way took from forth the port, Through woods and hill-tops, seeking the resort Where Pallas said divine Eumæus liv’d; Who of the fortunes, that were first achiev’d By God-like Ithacus in household rights, Had more true care than all his prosylites.[1] He found him sitting in his cottage door, Where he had rais’d to ev’ry airy blore A front of great height, and in such a place That round ye might behold, of circular grace A walk so wound about it; which the swain (In absence of his far-gone sovereign) Had built himself, without his queen’s supply, Or old Laertes’, to see safely lie His houséd herd. The inner part he wrought Of stones, that thither his own labours brought, Which with an hedge of thorn he fenc’d about, And compass’d all the hedge with pales cleft out Of sable oak, that here and there he fix’d Frequent and thick. Within his yard he mix’d Twelve styes to lodge his herd; and ev’ry stye Had room and use for fifty swine to lie; But those were females all. The male swine slept Without doors ever; nor was their herd kept Fair like the females, since they suffer’d still Great diminution, he being forc’d to kill And send the fattest to the dainty feasts Affected by th’ ungodly wooing guests. Their number therefore but three hundred were And sixty. By them mastiffs, as austere As savage beasts, lay ever, their fierce strain Bred by the herdsman, a mere prince of men, Their number four. Himself was then applied In cutting forth a fair-hued ox’s hide, To fit his feet with shoes. His servants held Guard of his swine: three, here and there, at field, The fourth he sent to city with a sow, Which must of force be offer’d to the vow The Wooers made to all satiety, To serve which still they did those off’rings ply. The fate-born-dogs-to-bark took sudden view[2] Of Odyssëus, and upon him flew With open mouth. He, cunning to appall A fierce dog’s fury, from his hand let fall His staff to earth, and sat him careless down. And yet to him had one foul wrong been shown Where most his right lay, had not instantly The herdsman let his hide fall, and his cry (With frequent stones flung at the dogs) repell’d This way and that their eager course they held; When through the entry past, he thus did mourn: “O father! How soon had you near been torn By these rude dogs, whose hurt had branded me With much neglect of you! But Deity Hath giv’n so many other sighs and cares To my attendant state, that well unwares You might be hurt for me, for here I lie Grieving and mourning for the Majesty That, God-like, wonted to be ruling here, Since now I fat his swine for others’ cheer, Where he, perhaps, errs hungry up and down, In countries, nations, cities, all unknown; If any where he lives yet, and doth see The sun’s sweet beams. But, father, follow me, That, cheer’d with wine and food, you may disclose From whence you truly are, and all the woes Your age is subject to.” This said, he led Into his cottage, and of osiers spread A thicken’d hurdle, on whose top he strow’d A wild-goat’s shaggy skin, and then bestow’d His own couch on it, that was soft and great. Ulysses joy’d to see him so entreat His uncouth presence, saying: “Jove requite, And all th’ immortal Gods, with that delight Thou most desir’st, thy kind receipt of me, friend to human hospitality!” Eumæus answer’d: “Guest! If one much worse Arriv’d here than thyself, it were a curse To my poor means, to let a stranger taste Contempt for fit food. Poor men, and unplac’d In free seats of their own, are all from Jove Commended to our entertaining love. But poor is th’ entertainment I can give, Yet free and loving. Of such men as live The lives of servants, and are still in fear Where young lords govern, this is all the cheer They can afford a stranger. There was one That us’d to manage this now desert throne, To whom the Gods deny return, that show’d His curious favour to me, and bestow’d Possessions on me, a most-wishéd wife, A house, and portion, and a servant’s life, Fit for the gift a gracious king should give; Who still took pains himself, and God made thrive His personal endeavour, and to me His work the more increas’d, in which you see I now am conversant. And therefore much His hand had help’d me, had Heav’n’s will been such, He might have here grown old. But he is gone, And would to God the whole successión Of Helen might go with him, since for her So many men died, whose fate did confer My liege to Troy, in Agamemnon’s grace, To spoil her people, and her turrets race!” This said, his coat to him he straight did gird, And to his styes went that contain’d his herd; From whence he took out two, slew both, and cut Both fairly up; a fire enflam’d, and put To spit the joints; which roasted well, he set With spit and all to him, that he might eat From thence his food in all the singeing heat, Yet dredg’d it first with flour; then fill’d his cup With good sweet wine; sat then, and cheer’d him up “Eat now, my guest, such lean swine as are meat For us poor swains; the fat the Wooers eat, In whose minds no shame, no remorse, doth move, Though well they know the bless’d Gods do not love Ungodly actions, but respect the right, And in the works of pious men delight. But these are worse than impious, for those That vow t’ injustice, and profess them foes To other nations, enter on their land, And Jupiter (to show his punishing hand Upon th’ invaded, for their penance then) Gives favour to their foes, though wicked men, To make their prey on them; who, having freight Their ships with spoil enough, weigh anchor straight, And each man to his house; (and yet ev’n these, Doth pow’rful fear of God’s just vengeance seize Ev’n for that prize in which they so rejoice) But these men, knowing (having heard the voice Of God by some means) that sad death hath reft The ruler here, will never suffer left Their unjust wooing of his wife, nor take Her often answer, and their own roofs make Their fit retreats, but (since uncheck’d they may) They therefore will make still his goods their prey, Without all spare or end. There is no day, Nor night, sent out from God, that ever they Profane with one beast’s blood, or only two, But more make spoil of; and the wrongs they do In meat’s excess to wine as well extend, Which as excessively their riots spend, Yet still leave store, for sure his means were great, And no heroë, that hath choicest seat Upon the fruitful neighbour-continent, Or in this isle itself, so opulent Was as Ulysses; no, nor twenty such, Put altogether, did possess so much. Whose herds and flocks I’ll tell to ev’ry head: Upon the continent he daily fed Twelve herds of oxen, no less flocks of sheep, As many herds of swine, stalls large and steep, And equal sorts of goats, which tenants there, And his own shepherds, kept. Then fed he here Eleven fair stalls of goats, whose food hath yield In the extreme part of a neighbour-field. Each stall his herdsman hath, an honest swain, Yet ev’ry one must ev’ry day sustain The load of one beast (the most-fat, and best Of all the stall-fed) to the Wooers’ feast. And I, for my part, of the swine I keep (With four more herdsmen) ev’ry day help steep The Wooers’ appetites in blood of one, The most select our choice can fall upon.” To this Ulysses gave good ear, and fed, And drunk his wine, and vex’d, and ravishéd His food for mere vexation. Seeds of ill His stomach sow’d, to hear his goods go still To glut of Wooers. But his dinner done, And stomach fed to satisfactión, He drunk a full bowl, all of only wine, And gave it to the guardian of his swine, Who took it, and rejoic’d; to whom he said: “O friend, who is it that, so rich, hath paid Price for thy service, whose commended pow’r, Thou sayst, to grace the Grecian conquerour, At Ilion perish’d? Tell me. It may fall I knew some such. The great God knows, and all The other deathless Godheads, if I can, Far having travell’d, tell of such a man.” Eumæus answer’d: “Father, never one, Of all the strangers that have touch’d upon This coast, with his life’s news could ever yet Of queen, or lov’d son, any credit get. These travellers, for clothes, or for a meal, At all adventures, any lie will tell. Nor do they trade for truth. Not any man That saw the people Ithacensian, Of all their sort, and had the queen’s supplies, Did ever tell her any news, but lies. She graciously receives them yet, inquires Of all she can, and all in tears expires. It is th’ accustom’d law, that women keep, Their husbands elsewhere dead, at home to weep. But do thou quickly, father, forge a tale, Some coat, or cloak, to keep thee warm withal, Perhaps some one may yield thee; but for him, Vultures and dogs have torn from ev’ry limb His porous skin, and forth his soul is fled, His corse at sea to fishes forfeited, Or on the shore lies hid in heaps of sand, And there hath he his ebb, his native strand With friends’ tears flowing. But to me past all Were tears created, for I never shall Find so humane a royal master more, Whatever sea I seek, whatever shore. Nay, to my father, or my mother’s love Should I return, by whom I breathe and move, Could I so much joy offer; nor these eyes (Though my desires sustain extremities For their sad absence) would so fain be blest With sight of their lives, in my native nest, As with Ulysses dead; in whose last rest, O friend, my soul shall love him. He’s not here Nor do I name him like a flatterer, But as one thankful for his love and care To me a poor man; in the rich so rare. And be he past all shores where sun can shine, I will invoke him as a soul divine.” “O friend,” said he, “to say, and to believe, He cannot live, doth too much licence give To incredulity; for, not to speak At needy randon, but my breath to break In sacred oath, Ulysses shall return. And when his sight recomforts those that mourn In his own roofs, then give me cloak, and coat, And garments worthy of a man of note. Before which, though need urg’d me never so, I’ll not receive a thread, but naked go. No less I hate him than the gates of hell, That poorness can force an untruth to tell. Let Jove then (Heav’n’s chief God) just witness bear, And this thy hospitable table here, Together with unblam’d Ulysses’ house, In which I find receipt so gracious, What I affirm’d of him shall all be true. This instant year thine eyes ev’n here shall view Thy lord Ulysses. Nay, ere this month’s end, Return’d full-home, he shall revenge extend To ev’ry one, whose ever deed hath done Wrong to his wife and his illustrious son.” “O father,” he replied, “I’ll neither give Thy news reward, nor doth Ulysses live. But come, enough of this, let’s drink and eat, And never more his memory repeat. It grieves my heart to be remember’d thus By anyone of one so glorious. But stand your oath in your assertion strong, And let Ulysses come, for whom I long, For whom his wife, for whom his agéd sire, For whom his son consumes his god-like fire, Whose chance I now must mourn, and ever shall. Whom when the Gods had brought to be as tall As any upright plant, and I had said, He would amongst a court of men have sway’d In counsels, and for form have been admir’d Ev’n with his father, some God misinspir’d, Or man took from him his own equal mind, And pass’d him for the Pylian shore to find His long-lost father. In return from whence, The Wooers’ pride way-lays his innocence, That of divine Arcesius all the race May fade to Ithaca, and not the grace Of any name left to it. But leave we His state, however, if surpris’d he be, Or if he scape. And may Saturnius’ hand Protect him safely to his native land. Do thou then, father, show your griefs, and cause Of your arrival here; nor break the laws That truth prescribes you, but relate your name, And of what race you are, your father’s fame, And native city’s; ship and men unfold, That to this isle convey’d you, since I hold Your here arrival was not all by shore, Nor that your feet your agéd person bore.” He answer’d him: “I’ll tell all strictly true, If time, and food, and wine enough, accrue Within your roof to us, that freely we May sit and banquet. Let your business be Discharg’d by others; for, when all is done, I cannot easily, while the year doth run His circle round, run over all the woes, Beneath which, by the course the Gods dispose, My sad age labours. First, I’ll tell you then, From ample Crete I fetch my native strain; My father wealthy, whose house many a life Brought forth and bred besides by his true wife, But me a bond-maid bore, his concubine. Yet tender’d was I as his lawful line By him of whose race I my life profess. Castor his name, surnam’d Hylacides. A man, in fore-times, by the Cretan state, For goods, good children, and his fortunate Success in all acts, of no mean esteem. But death-conferring Fates have banish’d him To Pluto’s kingdom. After whom, his sons By lots divided his possessions, And gave me passing little; yet bestow’d A house on me, to which my virtues woo’d A wife from rich men’s roofs; nor was borne low, Nor last in fight, though all nerves fail me now. But I suppose, that you, by thus much seen, Know by the stubble what the corn hath been. For, past all doubt, affliction past all mean Hath brought my age on; but, in seasons past, Both Mars and Pallas have with boldness grac’d, And fortitude, my fortunes, when I chus’d Choice men for ambush, prest to have produc’d Ill to mine enemies; my too vent’rous spirit Set never death before mine eyes, for merit, But, far the first advanc’d still, still I strook Dead with my lance whoever overtook My speed of foot. Such was I then for war. But rustic actions ever fled me far, And household thrift, which breeds a famous race. In oar-driv’n ships did I my pleasures place, In battles, light darts, arrows. Sad things all, And into others’ thoughts with horror fall. But what God put into my mind, to me I still esteem’d as my felicity. As men of sev’ral metals are address’d, So sev’ral forms are in their souls impress’d. Before the sons of Greece set foot in Troy, Nine times, in chief, I did command enjoy Of men and ships against our foreign foe, And all I fitly wish’d succeeded so. Yet, after this, I much exploit achiev’d, When straight my house in all possessions thriv’d. Yet, after that, I great and rev’rend grew Amongst the Cretans, till the Thund’rer drew Our forces out in his foe-Troy decrees; A hateful service that dissolv’d the knees Of many a soldier. And to this was I, And famous Idomen, enjoin’d t’ apply Our ships and pow’rs, Nor was there to be heard One reason for denial, so preferr’d Was the unreasonable people’s rumour. Nine years we therefore fed the martial humour, And in the tenth, de-peopling Priam’s town, We sail’d for home. But God had quickly blown Our fleet in pieces; and to wretched me The counsellor Jove did much mishap decree, For, only one month, I had leave t’ enjoy My wife and children, and my goods t’ employ. But, after this, my mind for Ægypt stood, When nine fair ships I rigg’d forth for the flood, Mann’d them with noble soldiers, all things fit For such a voyage soon were won to it. Yet six days after stay’d my friends in feast, While I in banquets to the Gods addrest Much sacred matter for their sacrifice. The seventh, we boarded; and the Northern skies Lent us a frank and passing prosp’rous gale, ‘Fore which we bore us free and easy sail As we had back’d a full and frolic tide; Nor felt one ship misfortune for her pride, But safe we sat, our sailors and the wind Consenting in our convoy. When heav’n shin’d In sacred radiance of the fifth fair day, To sweetly-water’d Egypt reach’d our way, And there we anchor’d; where I charg’d my men To stay aboard, and watch. Dismissing then Some scouts to get the hill-tops, and discover, They (to their own intemperance giv’n over). Straight fell to forage the rich fields, and thence Enforce both wives and infants, with th’ expence Of both their bloods. When straight the rumour flew Up to the city. Which heard, up they drew By day’s First break, and all the field was fill’d With foot and horse, whose arms did all things gild. And then the lightning-loving Deity cast A foul flight on my soldiers; nor stood fast One man of all. About whom mischief stood, And with his stern steel drew in streams the blood The greater part fed in their dissolute veins; The rest were sav’d, and made enthralléd swains To all the basest usages there bred. And then, ev’n Jove himself supplied my head With saving counsel; though I wish’d to die, And there in Egypt with their slaughters lie, So much grief seiz’d me, but Jove made me yield, Dishelm my head, take from my neck my shield, Hurl from my hand my lance, and to the troop Of horse the king led instantly made up, Embrace, and kiss his knees; whom pity won To give me safety, and (to make me shun The people’s outrage, that made in amain, All jointly fir’d with thirst to see me slain) He took me to his chariot, weeping, home, Himself with fear of Jove’s wrath overcome, Who yielding souls receives, and takes most ill All such as well may save yet love to kill. Seven years I sojourn’d here, and treasure gat In good abundance of th’ Ægyptian state, For all would give; but when th’ eighth year began, A knowing fellow (that would gnaw a man[3] Like to a vermin, with his hellish brain, And many an honest soul ev’n quick had slain, Whose name was Phœnix) close accosted me, And with insinuations, such as he Practis’d on others, my consent he gain’d To go into Phœnicia, where remain’d His house, and living. And with him I liv’d A cómplete year; but when were all arriv’d The months and days, and that the year again Was turning round, and ev’ry season’s reign Renew’d upon us, we for Libya went, When, still inventing crafts to circumvent, He made pretext, that I should only go And help convey his freight; but thought not so, For his intent was to have sold me there, And made good gain for finding me a year. Yet him I follow’d, though suspecting this, For, being aboard his ship, I must be his Of strong necessity. She ran the flood (Driven with a northern gale, right free, and good) Amids the full stream, full on Crete. But then Jove plotted death to him and all his men, For (put off quite from Crete, and so far gone That shore was lost, and we set eye on none, But all show’d heav’n and sea) above our keel Jove pointed right a cloud as black as hell, Beneath which all the sea hid, and from whence Jove thunder’d as his hand would never thence, And thick into our ship he threw his flash;[4] That ’gainst a rock, or flat, her keel did dash With headlong rapture. Of the sulphur all Her bulk did savour; and her men let fall Amids the surges, on which all lay tost, Like sea-gulls, round about her sides, and lost. And so God took all home-return from them. But Jove himself, though plung’d in that extreme, Recover’d me by thrusting on my hand The ship’s long mast. And, that my life might stand A little more up, I embrac’d it round; And on the rude winds, that did ruins sound, Nine days we hover’d. In the tenth black night A huge sea cast me on Thesprotia’s height, Where the heroë Phidon, that was chief Of all the Thesprots, gave my wrack relief, Without the price of that redemptión[5] That Phœnix fish’d for. Where the king’s lov’d son Came to me, took me by the hand, and led Into his court my poor life, surfeited With cold and labour; and because my wrack Chanc’d on his father’s shore, he let not lack My plight or coat, or cloak, or anything Might cherish heat in me. And here the king Said, he receiv’d Ulysses as his guest, Observ’d him friend-like, and his course addrest Home to his country, showing there to me Ulysses’ goods, a very treasury Of brass, and gold, and steel of curious frame. And to the tenth succession of his name He laid up wealth enough, to serve beside In that king’s house, so hugely amplified His treasure was. But from his court the king Affirm’d him shipp’d for the Dodonean spring, To hear, from out the high-hair’d oak of Jove, Counsel from him for means to his remove To his lov’d country, whence so many a year He had been absent; if he should appear Disguis’d, or manifest; and further swore In his mid court, at sacrifice, before These very eyes, that he had ready there Both ship and soldiers, to attend and bear Him to his country. But, before, it chanc’d That a Thesprotian ship was to be launch’d For the much-corn-renown’d Dulichian land, In which the king gave to his men command To take, and bring me under tender hand To king Acastus. But, in ill design Of my poor life, did their desires combine, So far forth, as might ever keep me under In fortune’s hands, and tear my state in sunder. And when the water-treader far away Had left the land, then plotted they the day Of my long servitude, and took from me Both coat and cloak, and all things that might be Grace in my habit, and in place put on These tatter’d rags, which now you see upon My wretched bosom. When heav’n’s light took sea,[6] They fetch’d the field-works of fair Ithaca, And in the arm’d ship, with a well-wreath’d cord, They straitly bound me, and did all disboard To shore to supper, in contentious rout. Yet straight the Gods themselves took from about My pressed limbs the bands, with equal ease, And I, my head in rags wrapp’d, took the seas, Descending by the smooth stern, using then My hands for oars, and made from these bad men Long way in little time. At last, I fetch’d A goodly grove of oaks, whose shore I reach’d, And cast me prostrate on it. When they knew My thus-made ‘scape, about the shores they flew, But, soon not finding, held it not their best To seek me further, but return’d to rest Aboard their vessel. Me the Gods lodg’d close, Conducting me into the safe repose A good man’s stable yielded. And thus Fate This poor hour added to my living date.” “O wretch of guests,” said he, “thy tale hath stirr’d My mind to much ruth, both how thou hast err’d, And suffer’d, hearing in such good parts shown. But, what thy chang’d relation would make known About Ulysses, I hold neither true, Nor will believe. And what need’st thou pursue A lie so rashly, since he sure is so As I conceive, for which my skill shall go? The safe return my king lacks cannot be, He is so envied of each Deity, So clear, so cruelly. For not in Troy They gave him end, nor let his corpse enjoy The hands of friends (which well they might have done, He manag’d arms to such perfection, And should have had his sepulchre, and all, And all the Greeks to grace his funeral, And this had giv’n a glory to his son Through all times future) but his head is run Unseen, unhonour’d, into Harpies’ maws. For my part, I’ll not meddle with the cause, I live a separate life amongst my swine, Come at no town for any need of mine, Unless the circularly-witted queen[7] (When any far-come guest is to be seen That brings her news) commands me bring a brawn, About which (all things being in question drawn, That touch the king) they sit, and some are sad For his long absence, some again are glad To waste his goods unwreak’d, all talking still. But, as for me, I nourish’d little will T’ inquire or question of him, since the man That feign’d himself the fled Ætolian, For slaught’ring one, through many regions stray’d, In my stall, as his diversory, stay’d. Where well entreating him, he told me then, Amongst the Cretans, with king Idomen, He saw Ulysses at his ship’s repair, That had been brush’d with the enragéd air; And that in summer, or in autumn, sure, With all his brave friends and rich furniture, He would be here; and nothing so, nor so. But thou, an old man, taught with so much woe As thou hast suffer’d, to be season’d true, And brought by his fate, do not here pursue His gratulations with thy cunning lies, Thou canst not soak so through my faculties For I did never either honour thee Or give thee love, to bring these tales to me, But in my fear of hospitable Jove Thou didst to this pass my affections move.” “You stand exceeding much incredulous,” Replied Ulysses, “to have witness’d thus My word and oath, yet yield no trust at all. But make me now a covenant here, and call The dreadful Gods to witness, that take seat In large Olympus: If your king’s retreat Prove made, ev’n hither, you shall furnish me With cloak, and coat, and make my passage free For lov’d Dulichius; if, as fits my vow, Your king return not, let your servants throw My old limbs headlong from some rock most high, That other poor men may take fear to lie.” The herdsman, that had gifts in him divine, Replied: “O guest, how shall this fame of mine And honest virtue, amongst men, remain Now, and hereafter, without worthy stain, If I, that led thee to my hovel here, And made thee fitting hospitable cheer, Should after kill thee, and thy lovéd mind Force from thy bones? Or how should stand inclin’d With any faith my will t’ importune Jove, In any pray’r hereafter for his love? Come, now ’tis supper’s hour, and instant haste My men will make home, when our sweet repast We’ll taste together.” This discourse they held In mutual kind, when from a neighbour-field His swine and swine-herds came, who in their cotes Inclos’d their herds for sleep, which mighty throats Laid out in ent’ring. Then the God-like swain His men enjoin’d thus: “Bring me to be slain A chief swine female, for my stranger guest, When altogether we will take our feast, Refreshing now our spirits, that all day take Pains in our swine’s good, who may therefore make For our pains with them all amends with one, Since others eat our labours, and take none.” This said, his sharp steel hew’d down wood, and they A passing fat swine hal’d out of the sty, Of five years old, which to the fire they put. When first Eumæus from the front did cut The sacred hair, and cast it in the fire, Then pray’d to heav’n; for still before desire Was serv’d with food, in their so rude abodes, Not the poor swine-herd would forget the Gods, Good souls they bore, how bad soever were The habits that their bodies’ parts did bear. When all the deathless Deities besought, That wise Ulysses might be safely brought Home to his house; then with a log of oak Left lying by, high lifting it, a stroke He gave so deadly it made life expire. Then cut the rest her throat, and all in fire They hid and sing’d her, cut her up; and then, The master took the office from the men, Who on the altar did the parts impose That serv’d for sacrifice; beginning close About the belly, thorough which he went. And (all the chief fat gath’ring) gave it vent (Part dredg’d with flour) into the sacred flame; Then cut they up the joints, and roasted them, Drew all from spit, and serv’d in dishes all. Then rose Eumæus (who was general In skill to guide each act his fit event) And, all in seven parts cut, the first part went To service of the Nymphs and Mercury, To whose names he did rites of piety In vows particular; and all the rest He shar’d to ev’ry one, but his lov’d guest He grac’d with all the chine, and of that king, To have his heart cheer’d, set up ev’ry string. Which he observing said: “I would to Jove, Eumæus, thou liv’dst in his worthy love As great as mine, that giv’st to such a guest As my poor self of all thy goods the best.” Eumæus answer’d: “Eat, unhappy wretch, And to what here is at thy pleasure reach. This I have, this thou want’st; thus God will give, Thus take away, in us, and all that live. To his will’s equal centre all things fall, His mind he must have, for he can do all.” Thus having eat, and to his wine descended, Before he serv’d his own thirst, he commended The first use of it in fit sacrifice (As of his meat) to all the Deities, And to the city-racer’s hand applied The second cup, whose place was next his side. Mesauliús did distribute the meat, (To which charge was Eumæus solely set, In absence of Ulysses, by the queen And old Laertes) and this man had been Bought by Eumæus, with his faculties, Employ’d then in the Taphian merchandise. But now, to food appos’d, and order’d thus, All fell. Desire suffic’d, Mesauliús Did take away. For bed then next they were, All thoroughly satisfied with cómplete cheer. The night then came, ill, and no taper shin’d; Jove rain’d her whole date; th’ ever-wat’ry wind Zephyr blew loud; and Laertiades (Approving kind Eumæus’ carefulness For his whole good) made far about assay, To get some cast-off cassock (lest he lay That rough night cold) of him, or anyone Of those his servants; when he thus begun: “Hear me, Eumæus, and my other friends, I’ll use a speech that to my glory tends, Since I have drunk wine past my usual guise. Strong wine commands the fool and moves the wise, Moves and impels him too to sing and dance, And break in pleasant laughters, and, perchance, Prefer a speech too that were better in. But when my spirits once to speak begin, I shall not then dissemble. Would to heav’n, I were as young, and had my forces driv’n As close together, as when once our pow’rs We led to ambush under th’ Ilion tow’rs! Where Ithacus and Menelaus were The two commanders, when it pleas’d them there To take myself for third, when to the town And lofty walls we led, we couch’d close down, All arm’d, amids the osiers and the reeds, Which oftentimes th’ o’er-flowing river feeds. The cold night came, and th’ icy northern gale Blew bleak upon us, after which did fall A snow so cold, it cut as in it beat A frozen water, which was all concrete About our shields like crystal. All made feign Above our arms to clothe, and clothe again. And so we made good shift, our shields beside Clapp’d close upon our clothes, to rest and hide From all discovery. But I, poor fool, Left my weeds with my men, because so cool I thought it could not prove; which thought my pride A little strengthen’d, being loth to hide A goodly glitt’ring garment I had on; And so I follow’d with my shield alone, And that brave weed. But when the night near ended Her course on earth, and that the stars descended, I jogg’d Ulysses, who lay passing near, And spake to him, that had a nimble ear, Assuring him, that long I could not lie Amongst the living, for the fervency Of that sharp night would kill me, since as then My evil angel made me with my men Leave all weeds but a fine one. But I know ’Tis vain to talk; here wants all remedy now. This said, he bore that understanding part In his prompt spirit that still show’d his art In fight and counsel, saying (in a word, And that low whisper’d) peace, lest you afford Some Greek note of your softness. No word more, But made as if his stern austerity bore My plight no pity; yet, as still he lay His head reposing on his hand, gave way To this invention: ‘Hear me friends, a dream (That was of some celestial light a beam) Stood in my sleep before me, prompting me With this fit notice: ‘We are far,’ said he, ‘From out our fleet. Let one go then, and try If Agamemnon will afford supply To what we now are strong.’ This stirr’d a speed In Thoas to th’ affair; whose purple weed He left for haste; which then I took, and lay In quiet after, till the dawn of day. This shift Ulysses made for one in need, And would to heav’n, that youth such spirit did feed Now in my nerves, and that my joints were knit With such a strength as made me then held fit To lead men with Ulysses! I should then Seem worth a weed that fits a herdsman’s men, For two respects, to gain a thankful friend, And to a good man’s need a good extend.” “O father,” said Eumæus “thou hast shown Good cause for us to give thee good renown, Not using any word that was not freed From all least ill. Thou, therefore, shalt not need Or coat, or other thing, that aptly may Beseem a wretched suppliant for defray Of this night’s need. But, when her golden throne The morn ascends, you must resume your own, For here you must not dream of many weeds, Or any change at all. We serve our needs As you do yours; one back, one coat. But when Ulysses’ lovéd son returns, he then Shall give you coat and cassock, and bestow Your person where your heart and soul is now,” This said, he rose, made near the fire his bed, Which all with goats’ and sheep skins he bespread. All which Ulysses with himself did line, With whom; besides, he chang’d a gaberdine, Thick lin’d, and soft, which still he made his shift When he would dress him ’gainst the horrid drift Of tempest, when deep winter’s season blows. Nor pleas’d it him to lie there with his sows, But while Ulysses slept there, and close by The other younkers, he abroad would lie, And therefore arm’d him. Which set cheerful fare Before Ulysses’ heart, to see such care Of his goods taken, how far off soever His fate his person and his wealth should sever. First then, a sharp-edg’d sword he girt about His well-spread shoulders, and (to shelter out The sharp West wind that blew) he put him on A thick-lin’d jacket, and yet cast upon All that the large hide of a goat well-fed. A lance then took he, with a keen steel head, To be his keep-off both ’gainst men and dogs. And thus went he to rest with his male hogs, That still abroad lay underneath a rock, Shield to the North wind’s ever-eager shock.
THE END OF THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
[1] Πρόσυλος, materiæ adhærens: item, qui rebus mundanis deditus est.Return to passage
[2] ‘ϒλακόμωρος, ad latrandum fato quodam natus.Return to passage
[3] Ανὴρ ἀπατήλια εἰδὼς, τρώκτης.Return to passage
[4] ‘Ελελίχθη qui terram rapido motu concutit.Return to passage
[5] ‘Απριάτην sine emptionis seu redemptionis pretio.Return to passage
[6] At sunset.Return to passage
[7] Περίϕρων.Return to passage
The Fifteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Minerva to his native seat. Exhorts Ulysses’ son’s retreat, In bed, and waking. He receives Gifts of Atrides, and so leaves The Spartan court. And, going aboard, Doth favourable way afford To Theoclymenus, that was The Argive augur, and sought pass, Fled for a slaughter he had done. Eumæus tells Laertes’ son, How he became his father’s man, Being sold by the Phœnician For some agreed-on faculties, From forth the Syrian isle made prise. Telemachus, arrived at home, Doth to Eumæus’ cottage come.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
O. From Sparta’s strand Makes safe access To his own land Ulyssides.
In Lacedæmon, large, and apt for dances,[1] Athenian Pallas her access advances Up to the great-in-soul Ulysses’ seed, Suggesting his return now fit for deed. She found both him and Nestor’s noble son In bed, in front of that fair mansión, Nestorides surpris’d with pleasing sleep, But on the watch Ulysses’ son did keep, Sleep could not enter, cares did so excite His soul, through all the solitary night, For his lov’d father. To him, near, she said: “Telemachus! ’Tis time that now were stay’d Thy foreign travels, since thy goods are free For those proud men that all will eat from thee, Divide thy whole possessións, and leave Thy too-late presence nothing to receive. Incite the shrill-voic’d Menelaus then, To send thee to thy native seat again, While thou mayst yet find in her honour strong Thy blameless mother, ’gainst thy fathers’ wrong. For both the father, and the brothers too, Of thy lov’d mother, will not suffer so Extended any more her widow’s bed, But make her now her richest wooer wed, Eurymachus, who chiefly may augment Her gifts, and make her jointure eminent. And therefore haste thee, lest, in thy despite, Thy house stand empty of thy native right. For well thou know’st what mind a woman bears; The house of him, whoever she endears Herself in nuptials to, she sees increas’d, The issue of her first lov’d lord deceas’d Forgotten quite, and never thought on more. In thy return then, the re-counted store Thou find’st reserv’d, to thy most trusted maid Commit in guard, till Heav’n’s Pow’rs have purvey’d A wife, in virtue and in beauty’s grace, Of fit sort for thee, to supply her place. And this note more I’ll give thee, which repose In sure remembrance: The best sort of those That woo thy mother watchful scouts address Both in the straits of th’ Ithacensian seas, And dusty Samos, with intent t’ invade And take thy life, ere thy return be made. Which yet I think will fail, and some of them That waste thy fortunes taste of that extreme They plot for thee. But keep off far from shore, And day and night sail, for a fore-right blore, Whoever of th’ Immortals that vow guard And ’scape to thy return, will see prepar’d. As soon as thou arriv’st, dismiss to town Thy ship and men, and first of all make down To him that keeps thy swine, and doth conceive A tender care to see thee well survive. There sleep; and send him to the town, to tell The chaste Penelopé, that safe and well Thou liv’st in his charge, and that Pylos’ sands The place contain’d from whence thy person lands.” Thus she to large Olympus made ascent. When with his heel a little touch he lent To Nestor’s son, whose sleep’s sweet chains he loos’d, Bad rise, and see in chariot inclos’d Their one-hoof’d horse, that they might straight be gone. “No such haste,” he replied, “Night holds her throne, And dims all way to course of chariot. The morn will soon get up. Nor see forgot The gifts with haste, that will, I know, be rich, And put into our coach with gracious speech By lance-fam’d Menelaus. Not a guest Shall touch at his house, but shall store his breast With fit mind of an hospitable man, To last as long as any daylight can His eyes recomfort, in such gifts as he Will proofs make of his hearty royalty.” He had no sooner said, but up arose Aurora, that the golden hills repose. And Menelaus, good-at-martial-cries, From Helen’s bed rais’d, to his guest applies His first appearance. Whose repair made known T’ Ulysses’ lov’d son, on his robe was thrown About his gracious body, his cloak cast Athwart his ample shoulders, and in haste Abroad he went, and did the king accost: “Atrides, guarded with heav’n’s deified host, Grant now remission to my native right, My mind now urging mine own house’s sight.” “Nor will I stay,” said he, “thy person long, Since thy desires to go are grown so strong. I should myself be angry to sustain The like detention urg’d by other men. Who loves a guest past mean, past mean will hate, The mean in all acts bears the best estate. A like ill ’tis, to thrust out such a guest As would not go, as to detain the rest. We should a guest love, while he loves to stay, And, when he likes not, give him loving way. Yet suffer so, that we may gifts impose In coach to thee; which ere our hands inclose, Thine eyes shall see, lest else our loves may glose. Besides, I’ll cause our women to prepare What our house yields, and merely so much fare As may suffice for health. Both well will do, Both for our honour and our profit too. And, serving strength with food, you after may As much earth measure as will match the clay. If you will turn your course from sea, and go Through Greece and Argos (that myself may so Keep kind way with thee) I’ll join horse, and guide T’ our human cities. Nor ungratified Will anyone remit us; some one thing Will each present us, that along may bring Our pass with love, and prove our virtues blaz’d: A caldron, or a tripod, richly-braz’d, Two mules, a bowl of gold, that hath his price Heighten’d with emblems of some rare device.” The wise prince answer’d: “I would gladly go Home to mine own, and see that govern’d so That I may keep what I for certain hold, Not hazard that for only hop’d-for gold. I left behind me none so all ways fit To give it guard, as mine own trust with it. Besides, in this broad course which you propose, My father seeking I myself may lose.” When this the shrill-voic’d Menelaus heard, He charg’d his queen and maids to see prepar’d Breakfast, of what the whole house held for best. To him rose Eteoneus from his rest, Whose dwelling was not far off from the court, And his attendance his command did sort With kindling fires, and furth’ring all the roast, In act of whose charge heard no time he lost. Himself then to an odorous room descended, Whom Megapenthe and his queen attended. Come to his treasury, a two-ear’d cup He choos’d of all, and made his son bear up A silver bowl. The queen then taking stand Aside her chest, where by her own fair hand Lay vests of all hues wrought, she took out one Most large, most artful, chiefly fair, and shone Like to a star, and lay of all the last. Then through the house with either’s gift they past; When to Ulysses’ son Atrides said: “Telemachus, since so entirely sway’d Thy thoughts are with thy vow’d return now tender’d, May Juno’s thund’ring husband see it render’d Perfect at all parts, action answ’ring thought. Of all the rich gifts, in my treasure sought, I give thee here the most in grace and best. A bowl but silver, yet the brim’s comprest With gold, whose fabric his desert doth bring From Vulcan’s hand, presented by the king And great heroë of Sidonia’s state, When at our parting he did consummate His whole house-keeping. This do thou command.” This said, he put the round bowl in his hand, And then his strong son Megapenthe plac’d The silver cup before him, amply grac’d With work and lustre. Helen (standing by, And in her hand the robe, her housewifery) His name rememb’ring, said: “And I present, Lov’d son, this gift to thee, the monument Of the so-many-lovéd Helen’s hands, Which, at the knitting of thy nuptial bands, Present thy wife. In mean space, may it lie By thy lov’d mother; but to me apply Thy pleasure in it, and thus take thy way To thy fair house, and country’s wishéd stay.” Thus gave she to his hands the veil, and he The acceptation author’d joyfully. Which in the chariot’s chest Pisistratus Plac’d with the rest, and held miraculous. The yellow-headed king then led them all To seats and thrones plac’d in his spacious hall. The hand-maid water brought, and gave it stream From out a fair and golden ewer to them, From whose hands to a silver caldron fled The troubled wave. A bright board then she spread, On which another rev’rend dame set bread. To which more servants store of victuals serv’d. Eteonëus was the man that kerv’d, And Megapenthe fill’d them all their wine. All fed and drank, till all felt care decline For those refreshings. Both the guests did go To horse, and coach, and forth the portico A little issued, when the yellow King Brought wine himself, that, with an offering To all the Gods, they might their journey take. He stood before the Gods, and thus he spake: “Farewell young Princes! To grave Nestor’s ear This salutation from my gratitude bear: That I profess, in all our Ilion wars, He stood a careful father to my cares.” To whom the wise Ulyssides replied: “With all our utmost shall be signified, Jove-kept Atrides, your right royal will; And would to God, I could as well fulfill Mine own mind’s gratitude, for your free grace, In telling to Ulysses, in the place Of my return, in what accomplish’d kind I have obtain’d the office of a friend At your deservings; whose fair end you crown With gifts so many, and of such renown!” His wish, that he might find in his retreat His father safe return’d (to so repeat The king’s love to him) was saluted thus: An eagle rose, and in her seres did truss A goose, all-white, and huge, a household one, Which men and women, crying out upon, Pursued, but she, being near the guests, her flight Made on their right hand, and kept still fore-right Before their horses; which observ’d by them, The spirits in all their minds took joys extreme, Which Nestor’s son thus question’d: “Jove-kept king,[2] Yield your grave thoughts, if this ostentful thing (This eagle, and this goose) touch us, or you?” He put to study, and not knowing how To give fit answer, Helen took on her Th’ ostent’s solution, and did this prefer: “Hear me, and I will play the prophet’s part, As the Immortals cast it in my heart, And as, I think, will make the true sense known: As this Jove’s bird, from out the mountains flown, (Where was her eyrie, and whence rose her race,) Truss’d up this goose, that from the house did graze, So shall Ulysses, coming from the wild Of seas and suff’rings, reach, unreconcil’d, His native home, where ev’n this hour he is, And on those house-fed Wooers those wrongs of his Will shortly wreak, with all their miseries.” “O,” said Telemachus, “if Saturnian Jove To my desires thy dear presage approve, When I arrive, I will perform to thee My daily vows, as to a Deity.” This said, he us’d his scourge upon the horse, That through the city freely made their course To field, and all day made that first speed good. But when the sun set, and obscureness stood In each man’s way, they ended their access At Pheras, in the house of Diocles, Son to Orsilochus, Alphëus’ seed, Who gave them guest-rites; and sleep’s natural need They that night served there. When Aurora rose, They join’d their horse, took coach, and did dispose Their course for Pylos; whose high city soon They reach’d. Nor would Telemachus be won To Nestor’s house, and therefore order’d thus His speech to Nestor’s son, Pisistratus: “How shall I win thy promise to a grace That I must ask of thee? We both embrace The names of bed-fellows, and in that name Will glory as an adjunct of our fame; Our fathers’ friendship, our own equal age, And our joint travel, may the more engage Our mutual concord. Do not then assay, My God-lov’d friend, to lead me from my way To my near ship, but take a course direct And leave me there, lest thy old sire’s respect, In his desire to love me, hinder so My way for home, that have such need to go.” This said, Nestorides held all discourse In his kind soul, how best he might enforce Both promise and performance; which, at last; He vow’d to venture, and directly cast His horse about to fetch the ship and shore. Where come, his friends’ most lovely gifts he bore Aboard the ship, and in her hind-deck plac’d The veil that Helen’s curious hand had grac’d, And Menelaus’ gold, and said: “Away, Nor let thy men, in any least date, stay, But quite put off, ere I get home, and tell The old duke, you are past; for passing well I know his mind to so exceed all force Of any pray’r, that he will stay your course, Himself make hither, all your course call back, And, when he hath you, have no thought to rack Him from his bounty, and to let you part Without a present, but be vex’d at heart With both our pleadings, if we once put move The least repression of his fiery love.” Thus took he coach, his fair-man’d steeds scourg’d on Along the Pylian city, and anon His father’s court reach’d; while Ulysses’ son Bade board, and arm; which with a thought was done. His rowers set, and he rich odours firing In his hind-deck, for his secure retiring, To great Athenia, to his ship came flying A stranger, and a prophet, as relying On wishéd passage, having newly slain A man at Argos, yet his race’s vein Flow’d from Melampus, who in former date In Pylos liv’d, and had a huge estate, But fled his country, and the punishing hand Of great-soul’d Neleus, in a foreign land, From that most famous mortal, having held A world of riches, nor could be compell’d To render restitution in a year. In mean space, living as close prisoner In court of Phylacus, and for the sake Of Neleus’ daughter mighty cares did take, Together with a grievous languor sent From grave Erinnys, that did much torment His vexéd conscience; yet his life’s expence He scap’d, and drave the loud-voiced oxen thence, To breed-sheep Pylos, bringing vengeance thus Her foul demerit to great Neleüs, And to his brother’s house reduc’d his wife. Who yet from Pylos did remove his life For feed-horse Argos, where his fate set down A dwelling for him, and in much renown Made govern many Argives, where a spouse He took to him, and built a famous house. There had he born to him Antiphates, And forceful Mantius. To the first of these Was great Oïcleus born: Oïcleus gat Amphiaraus, that the popular state Had all their health in, whom ev’n from his heart Jove lov’d, and Phœbus in the whole desert Of friendship held him; yet not bless’d so much That age’s threshold he did ever touch, But lost his life by female bribery.[3] Yet two sons author’d his posterity, Alcmæon, and renown’d Amphilochus. Mantius had issue Polyphidius, And Clytus, but Aurora ravish’d him, For excellence of his admiréd limb, And interested him amongst the Gods. His brother knew men’s good and bad abodes The best of all men, after the decease Of him that perish’d in unnatural peace At spacious Thebes. Apollo did inspire His knowing soul with a prophetic fire. Who, angry with his father, took his way To Hyperesia; where, making stay, He prophesied to all men, and had there A son call’d Theoclymenus, who here Came to Telemachus, and found aboard Himself at sacrifice, whom in a word He thus saluted: “O friend, since I find, Ev’n here at ship, a sacrificing mind Inform your actions, by your sacrifice, And by that worthy choice of Deities To whom you offer, by yourself, and all These men that serve your course maritimal, Tell one that asks the truth, nor give it glose, Both who, and whence, you are? From what seed rose Your royal person? And what city’s tow’rs Hold habitation to your parents’ pow’rs?” He answer’d: “Stranger! The sure truth is this: I am of Ithaca; my father is (Or was) Ulysses, but austere death now Takes his state from him; whose event to know Himself being long away, I set forth thus With ship and soldiers.” Theoclymenus As freely said: “And I to thee am fled From forth my country, for a man struck dead By my unhappy hand, who was with me Of one self-tribe, and of his pedigree Are many friends and brothers, and the sway Of Achive kindred reacheth far away. From whom, because I fear their spleens suborn Blood and black fate against me (being born To be a wand’rer among foreign men) Make thy fair ship my rescue, and sustain My life from slaughter. Thy deservings may Perform that mercy, and to them I pray.” “Nor will I bar,” said he, “thy will to make My means and equal ship thy aid, but take (With what we have here, in all friendly use) Thy life from any violence that pursues.” Thus took he in his lance, and it extended Aloft the hatches, which himself ascended. The prince took seat at stern, on his right hand Set Theoclymenus, and gave command To all his men to arm, and see made fast Amidst the hollow keel the beechen mast With able halsers, hoise sail, launch; which soon He saw obey’d. And then his ship did run A merry course; blue-eyed Minerva sent A fore-right gale, tumultuous, vehement, Along the air, that her way’s utmost yield The ship might make, and plough the brackish field. Then set the sun, and night black’d all the ways. The ship, with Jove’s wind wing’d, where th’ Epian sways, Fetch’d Pheras first, then Elis the divine, And then for those isles made, that sea-ward shine For form and sharpness like a lance’s head, About which lay the Wooers ambushéd; On which he rush’d, to try if he could ’scape His plotted death, or serve her treach’rous rape. And now return we to Eumæus’ shed, Where, at their food with others marshalléd, Ulysses and his noble herdsman sate. To try if whose love’s curious estate Stood firm to his abode, or felt it fade, And so would take each best cause to persuade His guest to town, Ulysses thus contends: “Hear me, Eumæus, and ye other friends. Next morn to town I covet to be gone, To beg some others’ alms, not still charge one. Advise me well then, and as well provide I may be fitted with an honest guide, For through the streets, since need will have it so, I’ll tread, to try if any will bestow A dish of drink on me, or bit of bread, Till to Ulysses’ house I may be led; And there I’ll tell all-wise Penelope news, Mix with the Wooers’ pride, and, since they use To fare above the full, their hands excite To some small feast from out their infinite: For which, I’ll wait, and play the servingman, Fairly enough, command the most they can. For I will tell thee, note me well, and hear, That, if the will be of Heav’n’s Messenger, (Who to the works of men, of any sort, Can grace infuse, and glory) nothing short Am I of him, that doth to most aspire In any service, as to build a fire, To cleave sere wood, to roast or boil their meat, To wait at board, mix wine, or know the neat, Or any work, in which the poor-call’d worst To serve the rich-call’d best in Fate are forc’d.” He, angry with him, said: “Alas, poor guest, Why did this counsel ever touch thy breast? Thou seek’st thy utter spoil beyond all doubt, If thou giv’st venture on the Wooers’ rout, Whose wrong and force affects the iron heav’n, Their light delights are far from being giv’n To such grave servitors. Youths richly trick’d In coats or cassocks, locks divinely slick’d, And looks most rapting, ever have the gift To taste their crown’d cups, and full trenchers shift. Their tables ever like their glasses shine, Loaded with bread, with varied flesh, and wine. And thou go thither? Stay, for here do none Grudge at thy presence, nor myself, nor one Of all I feed. But when Ulysses’ son Again shall greet us, he shall put thee on Both coat and cassock, and thy quick retreat Set where thy heart and soul desire thy seat.” Industrious Ulysses gave reply: “I still much wish, that Heav’n’s chief Deity Lov’d thee, as I do, that hast eas’d my mind Of woes and wand’rings never yet confin’d. _Nought is more wretched in a human race, Than country’s want, and shift from place to place._ But for the baneful belly men take care Beyond good counsel, whosoever are In compass of the wants it undergoes By wand’rings, losses, or dependent woes. Excuse me therefore, if I err’d at home; Which since thou wilt make here, as overcome With thy command for stay, I’ll take on me Cares appertaining to this place, like thee. Does then Ulysses’ sire, and mother, breathe, Both whom he left in th’ age next door to death? Or are they breathless, and descended where The dark house is, that never day doth clear?” “Laertes lives,” said he, “but ev’ry hour Beseecheth Jove to take from him the pow’r That joins his life and limbs; for with a moan That breeds a marvel he laments his son Depriv’d by death, and adds to that another Of no less depth for that dead son’s dead mother, Whom he a virgin wedded, which the more Makes him lament her loss, and doth deplore Yet more her miss, because her womb the truer Was to his brave son, and his slaughter slew her. Which last love to her doth his life engage, And makes him live an undigested age. O! such a death she died as never may Seize anyone that here beholds the day, That either is to any man a friend, Or can a woman kill in such a kind. As long as she had being, I would be A still inquirer (since ’twas dear to me, Though death to her, to hear his name) when she Heard of Ulysses, for I might be bold, She brought me up, and in her love did hold My life, compar’d with long-veil’d Ctimené, Her youngest issue (in some small degree Her daughter yet preferr’d) a brave young dame. And when of youth the dearly-lovéd flame Was lighted in us, marriage did prefer The maid to Samos; whence was sent for her Infinite riches, when the queen bestow’d A fair new suit, new shoes, and all, and vow’d Me to the field, but passing loth to part, As loving me more than she lov’d her heart. And these I want now; but their business grows Upon me daily, which the Gods impose, To whom I hold all, give account to them, For I see none left to the diadem That may dispose all better. So, I drink And eat of what is here; and whom I think Worthy or rev’rend, I have giv’n to, still, These kinds of guest-rites; for the household ill (Which, where the queen is, riots) takes her still From thought of these things. Nor is it delight To hear, from her plight, of or work or word; The Wooers spoil all. But yet my men will board Her sorrows often with discourse of all, Eating and drinking of the festival That there is kept, and after bring to field Such things as servants make their pleasures yield.”
“O me, Eumæus,” said Laertes’ son, “Hast thou then err’d so of a little one, Like me, from friends and country? Pray thee say, And say a truth, doth vast Destruction lay Her hand upon the wide-way’d seat of men,[4] Where dwelt thy sire and rev’rend mother then, That thou art spar’d there? Or else, set alone In guard of beeves, or sheep, set th’ enemy on, Surpris’d, and shipp’d, transferr’d, and sold thee here? He that bought thee paid well, yet bought not dear.” “Since thou enquir’st of that, my guest,” said he, “Hear and be silent, and, mean space, sit free In use of these cups to thy most delights; Unspeakable in length now are the nights. Those that affect sleep yet, to sleep have leave, Those that affect to hear, their hearers give. But sleep not ere your hour; much sleep doth grieve. Whoever lists to sleep, away to bed, Together with the morning raise his head, Together with his fellows break his fast, And then his lord’s herd drive to their repast. We two, still in our tabernacle here Drinking and eating, will our bosoms cheer With memories and tales of our annoys. Betwixt his sorrows ev’ry human joys, He most, who most hath felt and furthest err’d. And now thy will to act shall be preferr’d. There is an isle above Ortygia, If thou hast heard, they call it Syria, Where, once a day, the sun moves backward still. ’Tis not so great as good, for it doth fill The fields with oxen, fills them still with sheep, Fills roofs with wine, and makes all corn there cheap. No dearth comes ever there, nor no disease That doth with hate us wretched mortals seize, But when men’s varied nations, dwelling there In any city, enter th’ aged year, The silver-bow-bearer, the Sun, and She That bears as much renown for archery, Stoop with their painless shafts, and strike them dead, As one would sleep, and never keep the bed. In this isle stand two cities, betwixt whom All things that of the soil’s fertility come In two parts are divided. And both these My father rul’d, Ctesius Ormenides, A man like the Immortals. With these states The cross-biting Phœnicians traffick’d rates Of infinite merchandise in ships brought there, In which they then were held exempt from peer. There dwelt within my father’s house a dame, Born a Phœnician, skilful in the frame Of noble housewif’ries, right tall and fair. Her the Phœnician great-wench-net-lay’r[5] With sweet words circumvented, as she was Washing her linen. To his amorous pass He brought her first, shor’d from his ship to her; To whom he did his whole life’s love prefer, Which of these breast-exposing dames the hearts Deceives, though fashion’d of right honest parts. He ask’d her after, what she was, and whence? She, passing presently, the excellence Told of her father’s turrets, and that she Might boast herself sprung from the progeny Of the rich Sidons, and the daughter was Of the much-year-revénued Arybas; But that the Taphian pirates made her prise, As she return’d from her field-housewif’ries, Transferr’d her hither, and, at that man’s house Where now she liv’d, for value precious Sold her to th’ owner. He that stole her love Bade her again to her birth’s seat remove, To see the fair roofs of her friends again, Who still held state, and did the port maintain Herself reported. She said: ‘Be it so, So you, and all that in your ship shall row, Swear to return me in all safety hence.’ All swore. Th’ oath past, with ev’ry consequence, She bade: ‘Be silent now, and not a word Do you, or any of your friends, afford, Meeting me afterward in any way, Or at the washing-fount; lest some display Be made, and told the old man, and he then Keep me strait bound, to you and to your men The utter ruin plotting of your lives. Keep in firm thought then ev’ry word that strives For dang’rous utt’rance. Haste your ship’s full freight Of what you traffic for, and let me straight Know by some sent friend she hath all in hold, And with myself I’ll bring thence all the gold I can by all means finger; and, beside, I’ll do my best to see your freight supplied With some well-weighing burthen of mine own. For I bring-up in house a great man’s son, As crafty as myself, who will with me Run ev’ry way along, and I will be His leader, till your ship hath made him sure. He will an infinite great price procure, Transfer him to what languag’d men ye may.’ This said, she gat her home, and there made stay A whole year with us, goods of great avail Their ship enriching. Which now fit for sail, They sent a messenger t’ inform the dame; And to my father’s house a fellow came, Full of Phœnician craft, that to be sold A tablet brought, the body all of gold, The verge all-amber. This had ocular view Both by my honour’d mother and the crew Of her house-handmaids, handled, and the price Beat, ask’d, and promis’d. And while this device Lay thus upon the forge, this jeweller Made privy signs, by winks and wiles, to her That was his object; which she took, and he, His sign seeing noted, hied to ship. When she, (My hand still taking, as she us’d to do To walk abroad with her) convey’d me so Abroad with her, and in the portico Found cups, with tasted viands, which the guests That us’d to flock about my father’s feasts Had left. They gone (some to the council-court, Some to hear news amongst the talking sort) Her theft three bowls into her lap convey’d, And forth she went. Nor was my wit so stay’d To stay her, or myself. The sun went down, And shadows round about the world were flown, When we came to the haven, in which did ride The swift Phœnician ship; whose fair broad side They boarded straight, took us up; and all went Along the moist waves. Wind Saturnius sent. Six days we day and night sail’d; but when Jove Put up the seventh day, She that shafts doth love Shot dead the woman, who into the pump Like to a dop-chick div’d, and gave a thump In her sad settling. Forth they cast her then To serve the fish and sea-calves, no more men; But I was left there with a heavy heart; When wind and water drave them quit apart Their own course, and on Ithaca they fell, And there poor me did to Laertes sell. And thus these eyes the sight of this isle prov’d.” “Eumæus,” he replied, “thou much hast mov’d The mind in me with all things thou hast said, And all the suff’rance on thy bosom laid, But, truly, to thy ill hath Jove join’d good, That one whose veins are serv’d with human blood Hath bought thy service, that gives competence Of food, wine, cloth to thee; and sure th’ expence Of thy life’s date here is of good desert, Whose labours not to thee alone impart Sufficient food and housing, but to me; Where I through many a heap’d humanity Have hither err’d, where, though, like thee, not sold, Nor stay’d like thee yet, nor nought needful hold.” This mutual speech they us’d, nor had they slept Much time before the much-near morning leapt To her fair throne. And now struck sail the men That serv’d Telemachus, arriv’d just then Near his lov’d shore; where now they stoop’d the mast, Made to the port with oars, and anchor cast, Made fast the ship, and then ashore they went, Dress’d supper, fill’d wine; when (their appetites spent) Telemachus commanded they should yield The ship to th’ owner, while himself at field Would see his shepherds; when light drew to end He would his gifts see, and to town descend, And in the morning at a feast bestow Rewards for all their pains. “And whither, now,” Said Theoclymenus, “my lovéd son, Shall I address myself? Whose mansión, Of all men, in this rough-hewn isle, shall I Direct my way to? Or go readily To thy house and thy mother?” He replied: “Another time I’ll see you satisfied With my house-entertainment, but as now You should encounter none that could bestow Your fit entreaty, and (which less grace were) You could not see my mother, I not there; For she’s no frequent object, but apart Keeps from her Wooers, woo’d with her desert, Up in her chamber, at her housewif’ry But I’ll name one to whom you shall apply Direct repair, and that’s Eurymachus, Renown’d descent to wise Polybius, A man whom th’ Ithacensians look on now As on a God, since he of all that woo Is far superior man, and likest far To wed my mother, and as circular Be in that honour as Ulysses was. But heav’n-hous’d Jove knows the yet hidden pass Of her disposure, and on them he may A blacker sight bring than her nuptial day.” As this he utter’d, on his right hand flew A saker, sacred to the God of view, That in his talons truss’d and plum’d a dove; The feathers round about the ship did rove, And on Telemachus fell; whom th’ augur then Took fast by the hand, withdrew him from his men, And said: “Telemachus! This hawk is sent From God; I knew it for a sure ostent When first I saw it. Be you well assur’d, There will no Wooer be by heav’n endur’d To rule in Ithaca above your race, But your pow’rs ever fill the regal place.” “I wish to heav’n,” said he, “thy word might stand, Thou then shouldst soon acknowledge from my hand Such gifts and friendship, as would make thee, guest, Met and saluted as no less than blest.” This said, he call’d Piræus, Clytus’ son, His true associate, saying: “Thou hast done (Of all my followers to the Pylian shore) My will in chief in other things, once more Be chiefly good to me; take to thy house This lovéd stranger, and be studious T’ embrace and greet him with thy greatest fare, Till I myself come and take off thy care.” The famous-for-his-lance said: “If your stay Take time for life here, this man’s care I’ll lay On my performance, nor what fits a guest Shall any penury withhold his feast.” Thus took he ship, bade them board, and away. They boarded, sat, but did their labour stay Till he had deck’d his feet, and reached his lance. They to the city; he did straight advance Up to his styes, where swine lay for him store, By whose side did his honest swine-herd snore, Till his short cares his longest nights had ended, And nothing worse to both his lords intended.
THE END OF THE FIFTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
[1] Εὐρύχορον Λακεδαίμονα in quâ ampli ut pulchri chori duci possunt, vel ducuntur; which the vulgar translations turn therefore, latam, seu amplam.Return to passage
[2] Nestor’s son to Menelaus, his ironical question continuing still Homer’s character of Menelaus.Return to passage
[3] His wife betrayed him for money.Return to passage
[4] Supposing him to dwell in a city.Return to passage
[5] Πολυπαίπαλος, admodum vafer, Der. ex παλεύω, pertraho in retia, et παι̑ς, puella.Return to passage