The Sixteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS…

The Sixteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

The Prince at field, he sends to town Eumæus, to make truly known His safe return. By Pallas’ will, Telemachus is giv’n the skill To know his father. Those that lay In ambush, to prevent the way Of young Ulyssides for home, Retire, with anger overcome.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Πι̑. To his most dear Ulysses shows. The wise-son here His father knows.

Ulysses and divine Eumæus rose Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose, Made fire, brake fast, and to their pasture send The gather’d herds, on whom their swains attend. The self-tire barking dogs all fawn’d upon, Nor bark’d, at first sight of Ulysses’ son. The whinings of their fawnings yet did greet Ulysses’ ears, and sounds of certain feet, Who thus bespake Eumæus: “Sure some friend, Or one well-known, comes, that the mastiffs spend Their mouths no louder. Only some one near They whine, and leap about, whose feet I hear.” Each word of this speech was not spent, before His son stood in the entry of the door. Out-rush’d amaz’d Eumæus, and let go The cup to earth, that he had labour’d so, Cleans’d for the neat wine, did the prince-surprise, Kiss’d his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes, Both his white hands, and tender tears distill’d. There breath’d no kind-soul’d father that was fill’d Less with his son’s embraces, that had liv’d Ten years in far-off earth, now new retriev’d, His only child too, gotten in his age, And for whose absence he had felt the rage Of griefs upon him, than for this divin’d So-much-for-form was this divine-for-mind; Who kiss’d him through, who grew about him kissing, As fresh from death ’scap’d. Whom so long time missing, He wept for joy, and said: “Thou yet art come, Sweet light, sweet sun-rise, to thy cloudy home. O, never I look’d, when once shipp’d away For Pylos’ shores, to see thy turning day. Come, enter, lov’d son, let me feast my heart With thy sweet sight, new-come, so far apart. Nor, when you liv’d at home, would you walk down Often enough here, but stay’d still at town; It pleas’d you then to cast such forehand view About your house on that most damnéd crew.”[1] “It shall be so then, friend,” said he, “but now I come to glad mine eyes with thee, and know If still my mother in her house remain, Or if some Wooer hath aspir’d to gain Of her in nuptials; for Ulysses’ bed, By this, lies all with spiders’s cobwebs spread, In penury of him that should supply it.” “She still,” said he, “holds her most constant quiet, Aloft thine own house, for the bed’s respect; But, for her lord’s sad loss, sad nights and days Obscure her beauties, and corrupt their rays.” This said, Eumæus took his brazen spear, And in he went; when, being enter’d near Within the stony threshold; from his seat His father rose to him, who would not let Th’ old man remove, but drew him back and prest With earnest terms his sitting, saying: “Guest, Take here your seat again, we soon shall get Within our own house here some other seat. Here’s one will fetch it.” This said, down again His father sat, and to his son his swain Strew’d fair green osiers, and impos’d thereon A good soft sheepskin, which made him a throne. Then he appos’d to them his last-left roast, And in a wicker basket bread engrost, Fill’d luscious wine, and then took opposite seat To the divine Ulysses. When, the meat Set there before them, all fell-to, and eat. When they had fed, the prince said: “Pray thee say, Whence comes this guest? What seaman gave him way To this our isle? I hope these feet of his Could walk no water. Who boasts he he is?” “I’ll tell all truly son: From ample Crete He boasts himself, and says, his erring feet Have many cities trod, and God was he Whose finger wrought in his infirmity. But, to my cottage, the last ’scape of his Was from a Thesprot’s ship. Whate’er he is, I’ll give him you, do what you please; his vaunt Is, that he is, at most, a suppliant.” “Eumæus,” said the prince, “to tell me this, You have afflicted my weak faculties; For how shall I receive him to my house With any safety, that suspicious Of my young forces (should I be assay’d With any sudden violence) may want aid To shield myself? Besides, if I go home, My mother is with two doubts overcome, If she shall stay with me, and take fit care For all such guests as there seek guestive fare, Her husband’s bed respecting, and her fame Amongst the people; or her blood may frame A liking to some Wooer, such as best May bed her in his house, not giving least. And thus am I unsure of all means free To use a guest there, fit for his degree. But, being thy guest, I’ll be his supply For all weeds, such as mere necessity Shall more than furnish. Fit him with a sword, And set him where his heart would have been shor’d; Or, if so pleas’d, receive him in thy shed, I’ll send thee clothes, I vow, and all the bread His wish would eat, that to thy men and thee He be no burthen. But that I should be His mean to my house; where a company Of wrong-professing Wooers wildly live, I will in no sort author, lest they give Foul use to him, and me as gravely grieve. For what great act can anyone achieve Against a multitude, although his mind Retain a courage of the greatest kind? For all minds have not force in one degree.” Ulysses answer’d: “O friend, since ’tis free For any man to change fit words with thee, I’ll freely speak: Methinks, a wolfish pow’r My heart puts on to tear and to devour, To hear your affirmation, that, in spite Of what may fall on you, made opposite, Being one of your proportion, birth, and age, These Wooers should in such injustice rage. What should the cause be? Do you wilfully Endure their spoil? Or hath your empery Been such amongst your people, that all gather In troop, and one voice (which ev’n God doth father) And vow your hate so, that they suffer them? Or blame your kinsfolk’s faiths, before th’ extreme Of your first stroke hath tried them, whom a man, When strifes to blows rise, trusts, though battle ran In huge and high waves? Would to heav’n my spirit Such youth breath’d, as the man that must inherit Yet-never-touch’d Ulysses, or that he, But wand’ring this way, would but come, and see What my age could achieve (and there is Fate For Hope yet left, that he may recreate His eyes with such an object) this my head Should any stranger strike off, if stark dead I struck not all, the house in open force Ent’ring with challenge! If their great concourse Did over-lay me, being a man alone, (Which you urge for yourself) be you that one, I rather in mine own house wish to die One death for all, than so indecently See evermore deeds worse than death applied, Guests wrong’d with vile words and blow-giving pride, The women-servants dragg’d in filthy kind About the fair house, and in corners blind Made serve the rapes of ruffians, food devour’d Idly and rudely, wine exhaust, and pour’d Through throats profane; and all about a deed That’s ever wooing, and will never speed.” “I’ll tell you, guest, most truly,” said his son, “I do not think that all my people run One hateful course against me; nor accuse Kinsfolks that I in strifes of weight might use; But Jove will have it so, our race alone (As if made singular) to one and one His hand confining. Only to the king, Jove-bred Arcesius, did Laertes spring; Only to old Laertes did descend Ulysses; only to Ulysses’ end Am I the adjunct, whom he left so young, That from me to him never comfort sprung. And to all these now, for their race, arise Up in their house a brood of enemies. As many as in these isles bow men’s knees, Samos, Dulichius, and the rich-in-trees Zacynthus, or in this rough isle’s command, So many suitors for the nuptials stand, That ask my mother, and, mean space, prefer Their lusts to all spoil, that dishonour her. Nor doth she, though she loaths, deny their suits, Nor they denials take, though taste their fruits. But all this time the state of all things there Their throats devour, and I must shortly bear A part in all. And yet the periods Of these designs lie in the knees of Gods. Of all loves then, Eumæus, make quick way To wise Penelopé, and to her say My safe return from Pylos, and alone, Return thou hither, having made it known. Nor let, besides my mother, any ear Partake thy message, since a number bear My safe return displeasure.” He replied; “I know, and comprehend you. You divide Your mind with one that understands you well. But, all in one yet, may I not reveal To th’ old hard-fated Arcesiades Your safe return? Who, through his whole distress Felt for Ulysses, did not yet so grieve, But with his household he had will to live, And serv’d his appetite with wine and food, Survey’d his husbandry, and did his blood Some comforts fitting life; but since you took Your ship for Pylos, he would never brook Or wine or food, they say, nor cast an eye On any labour, but sits weeping by, And sighing out his sorrows, ceaseless moans Wasting his body, turn’d all skin and bones.” “More sad news still,” said he, “yet, mourn he still; For if the rule of all men’s works be will, And his will his way goes, mine stands inclin’d T’ attend the home-turn of my nearer kind.[2] Do then what I enjoin; which giv’n effect, Err nor to field to him, but turn direct, Entreating first my mother, with most speed, And all the secrecy that now serves need, To send this way their store-house guardian, And she shall tell all to the aged man.”[3] He took his shoes up, put them on, and went. Nor was his absence hid from Jove’s descent, Divine Minerva, who took straight to view, A goodly woman’s shape that all works knew, And, standing in the entry, did prefer Her sight t’ Ulysses; but, though meeting her, His son Telemachus nor saw nor knew. The Gods’ clear presences are known to few. Yet, with Ulysses, ev’n the dogs did see, And would not bark, but, whining lovingly, Fled to the stall’s far side. When she her eyne Mov’d to Ulysses; he knew her design, And left the house, pass’d the great sheep-cote’s wall, And stood before her. She bade utter all Now to his son, nor keep the least unlos’d, That, all the Wooers’ deaths being now dispos’d, They might approach the town; affirming; she Not long would fail t’ assist to victory. This said, she laid her golden rod on him, And with his late-worn weeds grac’d ev’ry limb, His body straighten’d, and his youth instill’d, His fresh blood call’d up, ev’ry wrinkle fill’d About his broken eyes, and on his chin The brown hair spread. When his whole trim wrought in, She issued, and he enter’d to his son, Who stood amaz’d, and thought some God had done His house that honour, turn’d away his eyes, And said; “Now guest, you grace another guise Than suits your late show. Other weeds you wear, And other person. Of the starry sphere You certainly present some deathless God. Be pleas’d, that to your here-vouchsaf’d abode We may give sacred rites, and offer gold, To do us favour.” He replied; “I hold No deified state. Why put you thus on me A God’s resemblance? I am only he That bears thy father’s name; for whose lov’d sake Thy youth so grieves, whose absence makes thee take Such wrongs of men.” Thus kiss’d he him, nor could Forbear those tears that in such mighty hold He held before, still held, still issuing ever; And now, the shores once broke, the springtide never Forbore earth from the cheeks he kiss’d. His son, By all these violent arguments not won To credit him his father, did deny His kind assumpt, and said, some Deity Feign’d that joy’s cause, to make him grieve the more; Affirming, that no man, whoever wore The garment of mortality, could take, By any utmost pow’r his soul could make, Such change into it, since, at so much will, Not Jove himself could both remove and fill Old age with youth, and youth with age so spoil, In such an instant. “You wore all the soil Of age but now, and were old; and but now You bear that young grace that the Gods indow Their heav’n-born forms withal.” His father said: “Telemachus! Admire, nor stand dismay’d, But know thy solid father; since within He answers all parts that adorn his skin. There shall no more Ulyssesses come here. I am the man, that now this twentieth year (Still under suff’rance of a world of ill) My country-earth recover. ’Tis the will The prey-professor Pallas puts in act, Who put me thus together, thus distract In aged pieces as ev’n now you saw, This youth now rend’ring. ’Tis within the law Of her free pow’r. Sometimes to show me poor, Sometimes again thus amply to restore My youth and ornaments, she still would please. The Gods can raise, and throw men down, with ease.” This said, he sat; when his Telemachus pour’d Himself about him; tears on tears he show’r’d, And to desire of moan increas’d the cloud. Both wept and howl’d, and laid out shrieks more loud Than or the bird-bone-breaking eagle rears, Or brood-kind vulture with the crooked seres, When rustic hands their tender eyries draw, Before they give their wings their full-plum’d law. But miserably pour’d they from beneath Their lids their tears, while both their breasts did breathe As frequent cries; and, to their fervent moan, The light had left the skies, if first the son Their dumb moans had not vented, with demand What ship it was that gave the natural land To his bless’d feet? He then did likewise lay Hand on his passion, and gave these words way: “I’ll tell thee truth, my son: The men that bear Much fame for shipping, my reducers were To long-wish’d Ithaca, who each man else That greets their shore give pass to where he dwells. The Phæacensian peers, in one night’s date, While I fast slept, fetch’d th’ Ithacensian state, Grac’d me with wealthy gifts, brass, store of gold, And robes fair-wrought; all which have secret hold In caves that by the Gods’ advice I chus’d. And now Minerva’s admonitions us’d For this retreat, that we might here dispose In close discourse the slaughters of our foes. Recount the number of the Wooers then, And let me know what name they hold with men, That my mind may cast over their estates A curious measure, and confer the rates Of our two pow’rs and theirs, to try, if we Alone may propagate to victory Our bold encounters of them all, or prove The kind assistance of some others’ love.” “O father,” he replied, “I oft have heard Your counsels and your force of hand preferr’d To mighty glory, but your speeches now Your vent’rous mind exceeding mighty show. Ev’n to amaze they move me; for, in right Of no fit counsel, should be brought to fight Two men ’gainst th’ able faction of a throng. No one two, no one ten, no twice ten, strong These Wooers are, but more by much. For know, That from Dulichius there are fifty-two, All choice young men; and ev’ry one of these Six men attend. From Samos cross’d the seas Twice-twelve young gallants. From Zacynthus came Twice-ten. Of Ithaca, the best of name, Twice-six. Of all which all the state they take A sacred poet and a herald make. Their delicacies two, of special sort In skill of banquets, serve. And all this port If we shall dare t’ encounter, all-thrust-up In one strong roof, have great care lest the cup, Your great mind thirsts, exceeding bitter taste, And your retreat commend not to your haste Your great attempt, but make you say, you buy Their pride’s revenges at a price too high. And therefore, if you could; ’twere well you thought Of some assistant. Be your spirit wrought In such a man’s election, as may lend His succours freely, and express a friend.” His father answer’d: “Let me ask of thee; Hear me, consider, and then answer me. Think’st thou, if Pallas and the King of skies We had to friend, would their sufficiencies Make strong our part? Or that some other yet My thoughts must work for?” “These,” said he “are set Aloft the clouds, and are found aids indeed, As pow’rs not only that these men exceed, But bear of all men else the high command, And hold of Gods an overruling hand.” “Well then,” said he, “not these shall sever long Their force and ours in fights assur’d and strong. And then ’twixt us and them shall Mars prefer His strength, to stand our great distinguisher, When in mine own roofs I am forc’d to blows. But when the day shall first her fires disclose, Go thou for home, and troop up with the Wooers, Thy will with theirs join’d, pow’r with their rude pow’rs; And after shall the herdsman guide to town My steps, my person wholly overgrown With all appearance of a poor old swain, Heavy, and wretched. If their high disdain Of my vile presence make them my desert Affect with contumelies, let thy lov’d heart Beat in fix’d cónfines of thy bosom still, And see me suffer, patient of their ill. Ay, though they drag me by the heels about Mine own free earth, and after hurl me out, Do thou still suffer. Nay, though with their darts They beat and bruise me, bear. But these foul parts Persuade them to forbear, and by their names Call all with kind words; bidding, for their shames, Their pleasures cease. If yet they yield not way, There breaks the first light of their fatal day. In mean space, mark this: When the chiefly-wise Minerva prompts me, I’ll inform thine eyes With some giv’n sign, and then all th’ arms that are Aloft thy roof in some near room prepare For speediest use. If those brave men inquire Thy end in all, still rake up all thy fire In fair cool words, and say: ‘I bring them down To scour the smoke off, being so overgrown That one would think all fumes, that ever were Breath’d since Ulysses’ loss, reflected here. These are not like the arms he left behind, In way for Troy. Besides, Jove prompts my mind In their remove apart thus with this thought, That, if in height of wine there should be wrought, Some harsh contention ’twixt you, this apt mean To mutual bloodshed may be taken clean From out your reach, and all the spoil prevented Of present feast, perhaps ev’n then presented My mother’s nuptials to your long kind vows. Steel itself, ready, draws a man to blows.’ Thus make their thoughts secure; to us alone Two swords, two darts, two shields left: which see done Within our readiest reach, that at our will We may resume, and charge, and all their skill Pallas and Jove, that all just counsels breathe, May darken with secureness to their death. And let me charge thee now, as thou art mine, And as thy veins mine own true blood combine: Let, after this, none know Ulysses near, Not anyone of all the household there, Not here the herdsman, not Laertes be Made privy, not herself Penelopé But only let thyself and me work out The women’s thoughts of all things borne about The Wooers’ hearts; and then thy men approve, To know who honours, who with rev’rence love, Our well-weigh’d memories, and who is won To fail thy fit right, though my only son.” “You teach,” said he, “so punctually now, As I knew nothing, nor were sprung from you. I hope, hereafter, you shall better know What soul I bear, and that it doth not let The least loose motion pass his natural seat. But this course you propose will prove, I fear, Small profit to us; and could wish your care Would weigh it better as too far about. For time will ask much, to the sifting out Of each man’s disposition by his deeds; And, in the mean time, ev’ry Wooer feeds Beyond satiety, nor knows how to spare. The women yet, since they more easy are For our inquiry, I would wish you try, Who right your state, who do it injury. The men I would omit, and these things make Your labour after. But, to undertake The Wooers’ war, I wish your utmost speed, Especially if you could cheer the deed With some ostent from Jove.” Thus, as the sire Consented to the son, did here expire Their mutual speech. And now the ship was come, That brought the young prince and his soldiers home, The deep haven reach’d, they drew the ship ashore, Took all their arms out, and the rich gifts bore To Clitius’ house. But to Ulysses’ court They sent a herald first, to make report To wise Penelopé, that safe at field Her son was left; yet, since the ship would yield Most haste to her, he sent that first, and them To comfort with his utmost the extreme He knew she suffer’d. At the court now met The herald and the herdsman, to repeat One message to the queen. Both whom arriv’d Within the gates; both to be foremost striv’d In that good news. The herald, he for haste Amongst the maids bestow’d it, thinking plac’d The queen amongst them. “Now,” said he, “O queen, Your lov’d son is arriv’d.” And, then was seen The queen herself, to whom the herdsman told All that Telemachus enjoin’d he should; All which discharg’d, his steps he back bestows, And left both court and city for his sows. The Wooers then grew sad; soul-vex’d, and all Made forth the court; when, by the mighty wall They took their sev’ral seats, before the gates. To whom Eurymachus initiates. Their utter’d grievance. “O,” said he, “my friends, A work right-great begun, as proudly ends, We said, Telemachus should never make His voyage good, nor this shore ever take For his return’s receipt; and yet we fail, And he performs it. Come, let’s man a sail, The best In our election, and bestow Such soldiers in her as can swiftest row, To tell our friends that way-lay his retreat ‘Tis safe perform’d, and make them quickly get Their ship for Ithaca.” This was not said Before Amphinomus in port display’d The ship arriv’d, her sails then under-stroke, And oars resum’d; when, laughing, thus he spoke: “Move for no messenger. These men are come, Some God hath either told his turning home, Or they themselves have seen his ship gone by, Had her in chase, and lost her.” Instantly They rose, and went to port; found drawn to land The ship, the soldiers taking arms in hand. The Wooers themselves to council went in throng, And not a man besides, or old, or young, Let sit amongst them. Then Eupitheus’ son, Antinous, said: “See, what the Gods have done! They only have deliver’d from our ill The men we way-laid. Ev’ry windy hill Hath been their watch-tow’r, where by turns they stood Continual sentinel. And we made good Our work as well, for, sun once set, we never Slept wink ashore all night, but made sail ever, This way and that, ev’n till the morning kept Her sacred station, so to intercept And take his life, for whom our ambush lay; And yet hath God to his return giv’n way. But let us prosecute with counsels here His necessary death, nor anywhere Let rest his safety; for if he survive, Our sails will never in wish’d havens arrive; Since he is wise, hath soul, and counsel too, To work the people, who, will never do Our faction favour. What we then intend Against his person, give we present end, Before he call a council, which, believe, His spirit will haste, and point where it doth grieve, Stand up amongst them all, and urge his death Decreed amongst us. Which complaint will breathe A fire about their spleens, and blow no praise On our ill labours. Lest, they therefore raise Pow’r to exile us from our native earth, And force our lives’ societies to the birth Of foreign countries, let our speeds prevent, His coming home to this austere complaint, At field and far from town, or in some way Of narrow passage, with his latest day Shown to his forward youth, his goods and lands Left to the free division of our hands, The moveables made all his mother’s dow’r, And his, whoever Fate affords the pow’r To celebrate, with her sweet Hymen’s rites. Or if this please not, but your appetites Stand to his safety, and to give him seat In his whole birth-right, let us look to eat At his cost never more, but ev’ry man Haste to his home, and wed, with whom he can At home, and there lay first about for dow’r And then the woman give his second pow’r Of nuptial-liking, and, for last, apply His purpose with most gifts and destiny.” This silence caus’d; whose breach, at last, begun Amphinomus, the much renownéd son Of Nisus surnam’d Aretiades, Who from Dulichius full of flow’ry leas Led all the Wooers, and in chief did please The queen with his discourse, because it grew From roots of those good minds that did endue[4] His goodly person; who, exceeding wise, Us’d this speech: “Friends, I never will advise The prince’s death; for ’tis a damnéd thing To put to death the issue of a king. First, therefore, let’s examine, what applause The Gods will give it: If the equal laws Of Jove approve it, I myself will be The man shall kill him, and this company Exhort to that mind: If the Gods remain Adverse, and hate it, I advise, refrain.” This said Amphinomus, and pleas’d them all When all arose, and in Ulysses’ hall Took seat again. Then to the queen was come The Wooers’ plot, to kill her son at home, Since their abroad-design had miss’d success, The herald Medon (who the whole address Knew of their counsels) making the report. The Goddess of her sex, with her fair sort Of lovely women, at the large hall’s door (Her bright cheeks clouded with a veil she wore) Stood, and directed to Antinous Her sharp reproof, which she digested thus: “Antinous! Compos’d of injury! Plotter of mischief! Though reports that fly Amongst our Ithacensian people say That thou, of all that glory in their sway, Art best in words and counsels, th’ art not so. Fond, busy fellow, why plott’st thou the woe And slaughter of my son, and dost not fear The presidents of suppliants, when the ear Of Jove stoops to them? ’Tis unjust to do Slaughter for slaughter, or pay woe for woe, Mischief for kindness. Death for life sought, then, Is an injustice to be loath’d of men. Serves not thy knowledge to remember when Thy father fled to us? Who (mov’d to wrath Against the Taphian thieves) pursued with scathe The guiltless Thesprots; in whose people’s fear, Pursuing him for wreak, he landed here, They after him, professing both their prize Of all his chiefly-valued faculties, And more priz’d life. Of all whose bloodiest ends Ulysses curb’d them, though they were his friends. Yet thou, like one that no law will allow The least true honour, eat’st his house up now That fed thy father; woo’st for love his wife, Whom thus thou griev’st and seek’st her sole son’s life! Cease, I command thee, and command the rest To see all thought of these foul fashions ceas’d.” Eurymachus replied: “Be confident, Thou all-of-wit-made, the most fam’d descent Of king Icarius. Free thy spirits of fear. There lives not anyone, nor shall live here Now, nor hereafter, while my life gives heat And light to me on earth, that dares intreat With any ill touch thy well-lovéd son, But here I vow, and here will see it done, His life shall stain my lance. If on his knees The city-racer, Laertiades, Hath made me sit, put in my hand his food, And held his red wine to me, shall the blood Of his Telemachus on my hand lay The least pollution, that my life can stay? No! I have ever charg’d him not to fear Death’s threat from any. And, for that most dear Love of his father, he shall ever be Much the most lov’d of all that live to me. _Who kills a guiltless man from man may fly, From God his searches all escapes deny.”_ Thus cheer’d his words, but his affections still Fear’d not to cherish foul intent to kill Ev’n him whose life to all lives he preferr’d. The queen went up, and to her love appear’d Her lord so freshly, that she wept, till sleep (By Pallas forc’d on her) her eyes did steep In his sweet humour. When the even was come, The God-like herdsman reach’d the whole way home. Ulysses and his son for supper drest A year-old swine, and ere their host and guest Had got their presence, Pallas had put by With her fair rod Ulysses’ royalty, And render’d him an aged man again, With all his vile integuments, lest his swain Should know him in his trim, and tell his queen, In these deep secrets being not deeply seen. He seen, to him the prince these words did use: “Welcome divine Eumæus! Now what news Employs the city? Are the Wooers come Back from their scout dismay’d? Or here at home Will they again attempt me?” He replied: “These touch not my care. I was satisfied To do, with most speed, what I went to do; My message done, return. And yet, not so Came my news first; a herald (met with there) Forestall’d my tale, and told how safe you were. Besides which merely necessary thing, What in my way chanc’d I may over-bring, Being what I know, and witness’d with mine eyes. Where the Hermæan sepulchre doth rise Above the city, I beheld take port A ship, and in her many a man of sort; Her freight was shields and lances; and, methought, They were the Wooers; but, of knowledge, nought Can therein tell you.” The prince smil’d, and knew They were the Wooers, casting secret view Upon his father. But what they intended Fled far the herdsman; whose swain’s labours ended, They dress’d the supper, which, past want, was eat. When all desire suffic’d of wine and meat, Of other human wants they took supplies At Sleep’s soft hand, who sweetly clos’d their eyes.

THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] ’Αΐδηλον ὅμιλον, ἀΐδηλος of ἀΐδης, orcus, and signifies properly tenebricosus, or infernalis, so that perniciosus (which is the Latin translation) is not so fit as damned for that crew of dissolute Wooers. The phrase being now used to all so licentious.Return to passage

[2] Intending his father, whose return though he were far from knowing, or fully expecting, yet he desired to order all things as he were present.Return to passage

[3] Intending to Laertes all that Eumæus would have told.Return to passage

[4] ϕπεσὶ ἀγαθῃ̑σιν, bonis mentibus, the plural number used ever by Homer.Return to passage

The Seventeenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Telemachus, return’d to town, Makes to his curious mother known, In part, his travels. After whom Ulysses to the court doth come, In good Eumæus’ guide, and prest To witness of the Wooers’ feast; Whom, though twice ten years did bestow In far-off parts, his dog doth know.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Ρω̑. Ulysses shows Through all disguise. Whom his dog knows; Who knowing dies.

But when air’s rosy birth, the morn, arose, Telemachus did for the town dispose His early steps; and took to his command His fair long lance, well-sorting with his hand, Thus parting with Eumæus: “Now, my friend, I must to town, lest too far I extend My mother’s moan for me, who, till her eyes Mine own eyes witness, varies tears and cries Through all extremes. Do then this charge of mine, And guide to town this hapless guest of thine, To beg elsewhere his further festival. Give they that please, I cannot give to all, Mine own wants take up for myself my pain. If it incense him, he the worst shall gain. The lovely truth I love, and must be plain.” “Alas, friend,” said his father, “nor do I Desire at all your further charity. ‘Tis better beg in cities than in fields, And take the worst a beggar’s fortune yields. Nor am I apt to stay in swine-styes more, However; ever the great chief before The poor ranks must to ev’ry step obey. But go; your man in my command shall sway, Anon yet too, by favour, when your fires Have comforted the cold heat age expires, And when the sun’s flame hath besides corrected The early air abroad, not being protected By these my bare weeds from the morning’s frost, Which (if so much ground is to be engrost By my poor feet as you report) may give Too violent charge to th’ heat by which I live.” This said, his son went on with spritely pace, And to the Wooers studied little grace. Arriv’d at home, he gave his jav’lin stay Against a lofty pillar, and bold way Made further in. When having so far gone That he transcended the fair porch of stone, The first by far that gave his entry eye Was nurse Euryclea; who th’ embrodery Of stools there set was giving cushions fair; Who ran upon him, and her rapt repair Shed tears for joy. About him gather’d round The other maids; his head and shoulders crown’d With kisses and embraces. From above The Queen herself came, like the Queen of Love, Or bright Diana; cast about her son Her kind embraces, with effusión Of loving tears; kiss’d both his lovely eyes, His cheeks, and forehead; and gave all supplies With this entreaty; “Welcome, sweetest light! I never had conceit to set quick sight On thee thus soon, when thy lov’d father’s fame As far as Pylos did thy spirit inflame, In that search ventur’d all-unknown to me. O say, by what pow’r cam’st thou now to be Mine eyes’ dear object?” He return’d reply: “Move me not now, when you my ’scape descry From imminent death, to think me fresh entrapt; The fear’d wound rubbing, felt before I ’scapt. Double not needless passion on a heart Whose joy so green is, and so apt t’ invert; But pure weeds putting on, ascend and take Your women with you, that ye all may make Vows of full hecatombs in sacred fire To all the Godheads, if their only Sire Vouchsafe revenge of guest-rites wrong’d, which he Is to protect as being their Deity. My way shall be directed to the hall Of common concourse, that I thence may call A stranger, who from off the Pylian shore Came friendly with me; whom I sent before With all my soldiers, but in chief did charge Piræus with him, wishing him t’ enlarge His love to him at home, in best affair, And utmost honours, till mine own repair.” Her son thus spoken, his words could not bear The wings too easily through her either ear, But putting pure weeds on, made vows entire Of perfect hecatombs in sacred fire To all the Deities, if their only Sire Vouchsaf’d revenge of guest-rites wrong’d, which he Was to protect as being their Deity. Her son left house, in his fair hand his lance, His dogs attending; and, on ev’ry glance His looks cast from them, Pallas put a grace That made him seem of the celestial race. Whom, come to concourse, ev’ry man admir’d, About him throng’d the Wooers, and desir’d All good to him in tongues, but in their hearts Most deep ills threaten’d to his most deserts. Of whose huge rout once free, he cast glad eye On some that, long before his infancy, Were with his father great and gracious, Grave Halitherses, Mentor, Antiphus: To whom he went, took seat by them, and they Inquir’d of all things since his parting day. To them Piræus came, and brought his guest Along the city thither, whom not least The prince respected, nor was long before He rose and met him. The first word yet bore Piræus from them both; whose haste besought The prince to send his women to see brought The gifts from his house that Atrides gave, Which his own roofs, he thought, would better save. The wise prince answer’d: “I can scarce conceive The way to these works. If the Wooers reave By privy stratagem my life at home, I rather wish Piræus may become The master of them, than the best of these. But, if I sow in their fields of excess Slaughter and ruin, then thy trust employ, And to me joying bring thou those with joy.” This said, he brought home his grief-practis’d guest; Where both put off, both oil’d, and did invest Themselves in rich robes, wash’d, and sate, and eat. His mother, in a fair chair taking seat Directly opposite, her loom applied; Who, when her son and guest had satisfied Their appetites with feast, said: “O my son, You know that ever since your sire was won To go in Agamemnon’s guide to Troy, Attempting sleep, I never did enjoy One night’s good rest, but made my quiet bed A sea blown-up with sighs, with tears still shed Embrew’d and troubled; yet, though all your miss In your late voyage hath been made for this, That you might know th’ abode your father made. You shun to tell me what success you had. Now then, before the insolent access The Wooers straight will force on us, express What you have heard.” “I will,” said he, “and true. We came to Pylos, where the studious due That any father could afford his son, (But new-arriv’d from some course he had run To an extreme length, in some voyage vow’d), Nestor, the pastor of the people, show’d To me arriv’d, in turrets thrust-up high, Where not his brave sons were more lov’d than I. Yet of th’ unconquer’d ever-sufferer; Ulysses, never he could set his ear, Alive or dead, from any earthy man. But to the great Lacedæmonian, Atrides, famous for his lance, he sent, With horse and chariots, me, to learn th’ event From his relation; where I had the view Of Argive Helen, whose strong beauties drew, By wills of Gods, so many Grecian states, And Trojans, under such laborious fates. Where Menelaus ask’d me, what affair To Lacedæmon render’d my repair. I told him all the truth, who made reply: ‘O deed of most abhorr’d indecency! A sort of impotents attempt his bed Whose strength of mind hath cities levelléd! As to a lion’s den, when any hind Hath brought her young calves, to their rest inclin’d, When he is ranging hills, and herby dales, To make of feeders there his festivals, But, turning to his luster, calves and dam He shows abhorr’d death, in his anger’s flame; So, should Ulysses find this rabble hous’d In his free turrets, courting his espous’d, Foul death would fall them. O, I would to Jove, Phœbus, and Pallas, that, when he shall prove The broad report of his exhausted store True with his eyes, his nerves and sinews wore That vigour then that in the Lesbian tow’rs, Provok’d to wrastle with the iron pow’rs Philomelides vaunted, he approv’d; When down he hurl’d his challenger, and mov’d Huge shouts from all the Achives then in view. If, once come home, he all those forces drew About him there to work, they all were dead, And should find bitter his attempted bed. But what you ask and sue for, I, as far As I have heard the true-spoke mariner, Will tell directly, nor delude your ear: He told me that an island did ensphere, In much discomfort, great Laertes’ son; And that the Nymph Calypso, overrun With his affection, kept him in her caves, Where men, nor ship, of pow’r to brook the waves, Were near his convoy to his country’s shore, And where herself importun’d evermore His quiet stay; which not obtain’d, by force She kept his person from all else recourse.’ This told Atrides, which was all he knew. Nor stay’d I more, but from the Gods there blew A prosp’rous wind, that set me quickly here.” This put his mother quite from all her cheer. When Theoclymenus the augur said: “O woman, honour’d with Ulysses’ bed, Your son, no doubt, knows clearly nothing more, Hear me yet speak, that can the truth uncore, Nor will be curious. Jove then witness bear, And this thy hospitable table here, With this whole household of your blameless lord, That at this hour his royal feet are shor’d On his lov’d country-earth, and that ev’n here Coming, or creeping, he will see the cheer These Wooers make, and in his soul’s field sow Seeds that shall thrive to all their overthrow. This, set a ship-board, I knew sorted thus, And cried it out to your Telemachus.” Penelopé replied: “Would this would prove, You well should witness a most friendly love, And gifts such of me, as encount’ring Fame Should greet you with a blesséd mortal’s name.” This mutual speech past, all the Wooers were Hurling the stone, and tossing of the spear, Before the palace, in the pavéd court, Where otherwhiles their petulant resort Sat plotting injuries. But when the hour Of supper enter’d, and the feeding pow’r Brought sheep from field, that fill’d up ev’ry way With those that us’d to furnish that purvey, Medon, the herald (who of all the rest Pleas’d most the Wooers, and at ev’ry feast Was ever near) said: “You whose kind consort Make the fair branches of the tree our court, Grace it within now, and your suppers take. You that for health, and fair contention’s sake, Will please your minds, know, bodies must have meat; Play’s worse than idleness in times to eat.” This said, all left, came in, cast by, on thrones And chairs, their garments. Their provisións Were sheep, swine, goats, the chiefly-great and fat, Besides an ox that from the herd they gat. And now the king and herdsman, from the field, In good way were to town; ’twixt whom was held Some walking conference, which thus begun The good Eumæus: “Guest, your will was won, Because the prince commanded, to make way Up to the city, though I wish’d your stay, And to have made you guardian of my stall; But I, in care and fear of what might fall In after-anger of the prince, forbore. The checks of princes touch their subjects sore. But make we haste, the day is nearly ended, And cold airs still are in the even extended.” “I know’t,” said he, “consider all; your charge Is giv’n to one that understands at large. Haste then. Hereafter, you shall lead the way; Afford your staff too, if it fit your stay, That I may use it; since you say our pass Is less friend to a weak foot than it was.” Thus cast he on his neck his nasty scrip, All-patch’d and torn; a cord, that would not slip For knots and bracks about the mouth of it, Made serve the turn; and then his swain did fit His forc’d state with a staff. Then plied they hard Their way to town, their cottage left in guard To swains and dogs. And now Eumæus led The king along, his garments to a thread All-bare and burn’d, and he himself hard bore Upon his staff, at all parts like a poor And sad old beggar. But when now they got The rough highway, their voyage wanted not Much of the city, where a fount they reach’d, From whence the town their choicest water fetch’d, That ever overflow’d, and curious art Was shown about it; in which three had part Whose names Neritus and Polyctor were, And famous Ithacus. It had a sphere Of poplar, that ran round about the wall; And into it a lofty rock let fall Continual supply of cool clear stream. On whose top, to the Nymphs that were supreme In those parts’ loves, a stately altar rose, Where ev’ry traveller did still impose Devoted sacrifice. At this fount found These silly travellers a man renown’d For guard of goats, which now he had in guide, Whose huge-stor’d herd two herdsmen kept beside, For all herds it excell’d, and bred a feed For Wooers only. He was Dolius’ seed, And call’d Melanthius. Who casting eye On these two there, he chid them terribly, And so past mean, that ev’n the wretched fate Now on Ulysses he did irritate. His fume to this effect he did pursue: “Why so,’tis now at all parts passing true, That ill leads ill, good evermore doth train With like his like. Why, thou unenvied swain, Whither dost thou lead this same victless leaguer, This bane of banquets, this most nasty beggar, Whose sight doth make one sad, it so abhors? Who, with his standing in so many doors, Hath broke his back; and all his beggary tends To beg base crusts, but to no manly ends, As asking swords, or with activity To get a caldron. Wouldst thou give him me, To farm my stable, or to sweep my yard, And bring browse to my kids, and that preferr’d He should be at my keeping for his pains To drink as much whey as his thirsty veins Would still be swilling (whey made all his fees) His monstrous belly would oppress his knees. But he hath learn’d to lead base life about, And will not work, but crouch among the rout For broken meat to cram his bursten gut. Yet this I’ll say, and he will find it put In sure effect, that if he enters where Ulysses’ roofs cast shade, the stools will there About his ears fly, all the house will throw, And rub his ragged sides with cuffs enow.” Past these reviles, his manless rudeness spurn’d Divine Ulysses; who at no part turn’d His face from him, but had his spirit fed With these two thoughts, if he should strike him dead With his bestowéd staff, or at his feet Make his direct head and the pavement meet. But he bore all, and entertain’d a breast That in the strife of all extremes did rest. Eumæus, frowning on him, chid him yet, And, lifting up his hands to heav’n, he set This bitter curse at him: “O you that bear Fair name to be the race of Jupiter, Nymphs of these fountains! If Ulysses ever Burn’d thighs to you, that, hid in fat, did never Fail your acceptance, of or lamb or kid, Grant this grace to me: Let the man thus hid Shine through his dark fate, make some God his guide, That, to thee, goatherd, this same palate’s pride,[1] Thou driv’st afore thee, he may come and make The scatt’rings of the earth, and overtake Thy wrongs, with forcing thee to ever err About the city, hunted by his fear. And in the mean space by some slothful swains Let lousy sickness gnaw thy cattle’s veins.” “O Gods!” replied Melanthius, “what a curse Hath this dog bark’d out, and can yet do worse! This man shall I have giv’n into my hands, When in a well-built ship to far-off lands I shall transport him, that, should I want here, My sale of him may find me victuals there. And, for Ulysses, would to heav’n his joy The silver-bearing-bow God would destroy, This day, within his house, as sure as he The day of his return shall never see.” This said, he left them going silent on; But he out-went them, and took straight upon The palace-royal, which he enter’d straight, Sat with the Wooers, and his trencher’s freight The carvers gave him of the flesh there vented, But bread the rev’rend butleress presented. He took against Eurymachus his place, Who most of all the Wooers gave him grace. And now Ulysses and his swain got near, When round about them visited their ear The hollow harp’s delicious-stricken string, To which did Phemius, near the Wooers, sing. Then by the hand Ulysses took his swain, And said: “Eumæus, one may here see plain, In many a grace, that Laertiades Built here these turrets, and,’mongst others these, His whole court arm’d with such a goodly wall, The cornice, and the cope, majestical, His double gates, and turrets, built too strong For force or virtue ever to expugn. I know the feasters in it now abound, Their cates cast such a savour; and the sound The harp gives argues an accomplish’d feast. The Gods made music banquet’s dearest guest.” “These things,” said he, “your skill may tell with ease, Since you are grac’d with greater knowledges. But now consult we how these works shall sort, If you will first approach this praiséd court, And see these Wooers, I remaining here; Or I shall enter, and yourself forbear? But be not you too tedious in your stay, Lest thrust ye be and buffeted away. Brain hath no fence for blows; look to ’t I pray.” “You speak to one that comprehends,” said he, “Go you before, and here adventure me. I have of old been us’d to cuffs and blows; My mind is harden’d, having borne the throes Of many a sour event in waves and wars, Where knocks and buffets are no foreigners. And this same harmful belly by no mean The greatest abstinent can ever wean. Men suffer much bane by the belly’s rage; For whose sake ships in all their equipage Are arm’d, and set out to th’ untamed seas, Their bulks full-fraught with ills to enemies.” Such speech they chang’d; when in the yard there lay A dog, call’d Argus, which, before his way Assum’d for Ilion, Ulysses bred, Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead, As being too young, but, growing to his grace, Young men made choice of him for ev’ry chace, Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts. But his king gone, and he, now past his parts, Lay all abjectly on the stable’s store, Before the oxstall, and mules’ stable door, To keep the clothes cast from the peasants’ hands, While they laid compass on Ulysses’ lands, The dog, with ticks (unlook’d-to) overgrown. But by this dog no sooner seen but known Was wise Ulysses, who new-enter’d there, Up went his dog’s laid ears, and, coming near, Up he himself rose, fawn’d, and wagg’d his stern, Couch’d close his ears, and lay so; nor discern[2] Could evermore his dear-lov’d lord again. Ulysses saw it, nor had pow’r t’ abstain From shedding tears; which (far-off seeing his swain) He dried from his sight clean; to whom he thus His grief dissembled: “’Tis miraculous, That such a dog as this should have his lair On such a dunghill, for his form is fair. And yet, I know not, if there were in him Good pace, or parts, for all his goodly limb; Or he liv’d empty of those inward things, As are those trencher-beagles tending kings, Whom for their pleasure’s, or their glory’s, sake, Or fashion, they into their favour take.” “This dog,” said he, “was servant to one dead A huge time since. But if he bore his head, For form and quality, of such a height, As when Ulysses, bound for th’ Ilion fight, Or quickly after, left him, your rapt eyes Would then admire to see him use his thighs In strength and swiftness. He would nothing fly, Nor anything let ’scape. If once his eye Seiz’d any wild beast, he knew straight his scent; Go where he would, away with him he went. Nor was there ever any savage stood Amongst the thickets of the deepest wood Long time before him, but he pull’d him down; As well by that true hunting to be shown In such vast coverts, as for speed of pace In any open lawn. For in deep chace He was a passing-wise and well-nos’d hound. And yet is all this good in him uncrown’d With any grace here now, nor he more fed Than any errant cur. His king is dead, Far from his country; and his servants are So negligent they lend his hound no care. _Where masters rule not, but let men alone, You never there see honest service done. That man’s half-virtue Jove takes quite away, That once is sun-burnt with the servile day.”_ This said, he enter’d the well-builded-tow’rs, Up bearing right upon the glorious Wooers, And left poor Argus dead; his lord’s first sight Since that time twenty years bereft his light. Telemachus did far the first behold Eumæus enter, and made signs he should Come up to him. He, noting, came, and took On earth his seat. And then the master-cook Serv’d in more banquet; of which, part he set Before the Wooers, part the prince did get, Who sate alone, his table plac’d aside; To which the herald did the bread divide. After Eumæus, enter’d straight the king,[3] Like to a poor and heavy aged thing, Bore hard upon his staff, and was so clad As would have made his mere beholder sad. Upon the ashen floor his limbs he spread, And ’gainst a cypress-threshold stay’d his head, The tree wrought smooth, and in a line direct Tried by the plumb and by the architect. The prince then bade the herdsman give him bread, The finest there, and see that prostrated At-all-parts plight of his giv’n all the cheer His hands could turn to: “Take,” said he, “and bear These cates to him, and bid him beg of all These Wooers here, and to their festival Bear up with all the impudence he can; Bashful behaviour fits no needy man.” He heard, and did his will. “Hold guest,” said he, “Telemachus commends these cates to thee, Bids thee bear up, and all these Wooers implore. Wit must make impudent whom Fate makes poor.” “O Jove,” said he, “do my poor pray’rs the grace To make him blessed’st of the mortal race, And ev’ry thought now in his gen’rous heart To deeds that further my desires convert.” Thus took he in with both his hands his store, And in the uncouth scrip, that lay before His ill-shod feet, repos’d it; whence he fed All time the music to the feasters play’d. Both jointly ending, then began the Wooers To put in old act their tumultuous pow’rs; When Pallas standing close did prompt her friend, To prove how far the bounties would extend Of those proud Wooers; so, to let him try Who most, who least, had learn’d humanity. However, no thought touch’d Minerva’s mind, That anyone should ’scape his wreak design’d. He handsomely became all, crept about To ev’ry Wooer, held a forc’d hand out, And all his work did in so like a way, As he had practis’d begging many a day. And though they knew all beggars could do this, Yet they admir’d it as no deed of his; Though far from thought of other, us’d expence And pity to him, who he was, and whence, Inquiring mutually. Melanthius then: “Hear me, ye Wooers of the far-fam’d queen, About this beggar. I have seen before This face of his; and know for certain more, That this swain brought him hither. What he is, Or whence he came, flies me.” Reply to this Antinous made, and mock’d Eumæus thus: “O thou renownéd herdsman, why to us Brought’st thou this beggar? Serves it not our hands; That other land-leapers, and cormorands, Profane poor knaves, lie on us, unconducted, But you must bring them? So amiss instructed Art thou in course of thrift, as not to know Thy lord’s goods wrack’d in this their overflow? Which think’st thou nothing, that thou call’st in these?” Eumæus answer’d: “Though you may be wise, You speak not wisely. Who calls in a guest That is a guest himself? None call to feast Other than men that are of public use, Prophets, or poets, whom the Gods produce, Physicians for men’s ills, or architects. Such men the boundless earth affords respects Bounded in honour, and may call them well. But poor men who calls? Who doth so excell In others’ good to do himself an ill? But all Ulysses’ servants have been still Eyesores in your way more than all that woo, And chiefly I. But what care I for you, As long as these roofs hold as thralls to none The wise Penelope and her god-like son?” “Forbear,” said he, “and leave this tongue’s bold ill. Antinous uses to be crossing still, And give sharp words; his blood that humour bears, To set men still together by the ears. But,” turning then t’ Antinous, “O,” said he, “You entertain a father’s care of me, To turn these eating guests out. ’Tis advice Of needful use for my poor faculties, But God doth not allow this; there must be Some care of poor men in humanity. What you yourselves take, give; I not envy, But give command that hospitality Be giv’n all strangers. Nor shall my pow’rs fear, If this mood in me reach my mother’s ear; Much less the servants’, that are here to see Ulysses’ house kept in his old degree. But you bear no such mind, your wits more cast To fill yourself than let another taste.” Antinous answer’d him: “Brave-spoken man! Whose mind’s free fire see check’d no virtue can. If all we Wooers here would give as much As my mind serves, his[4] largess should be such As would for three months serve his far-off way From troubling your house with more cause of stay.” This said, he took a stool up, that did rest, Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast, And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all, And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival. And so Ulysses for the present was, And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass Bent to the door to eat. Yet could not leave Antinous so, but said: “Do you too give, Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me As you not worst were of the company, But best, and so much that you seem the king, And therefore you should give some better thing Than bread, like others. I will spread your praise Through all the wide world, that have in my days Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways Of other men ev’n to the title Blest; And often have I giv’n an erring guest (How mean soever) to the utmost gain Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men, And had all other comings in, with which Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich. Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so; To which, his mean was this: He made me go Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates, where, in port, I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore, And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore Up to the mountains, who, intemperate, And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate, Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence, And unwean’d children, with the foul expence Both of their fames and bloods. The cry then flew Straight to the city; and the great fields grew With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms; When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms) An ill flight cast amongst my men; not one Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood Their ill fate thick about them; some in blood, And some in bondage; toils led by constraint Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent To Cyprus with a stranger-prince they met, Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command. And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.” “And what God sent,” said he, “this suff’ring bane To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane My board so boldly, lest I show thee here Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there. You are a saucy set-fac’d vagabond. About with all you go, and they, beyond Discretion, give thee, since they find not here The least proportion set down to their cheer. But ev’ry fountain hath his under-floods. It is no bounty to give others’ goods.” “O Gods,” replied Ulysses, “I see now, You bear no soul in this your goodly show. Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat; Since, sitting where another’s board is spread, That flows with feast, not to the broken bread Will your allowance reach.” “Nay then,” said he, And look’d austerely, “if so saucy be Your suffer’d language, I suppose, that clear You shall not ’scape without some broken cheer.” Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit The king’s right shoulder, ’twixt his neck and it. He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart Nor stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close He bound in silence, shook his head, and went Out to the entry, where he then gave vent To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat, And talk’d still to the Wooers: “Hear me yet, Ye Wooers of the Queen. It never grieves A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves, Or other main possessions, a man fights; But for his harmful belly this man smites, Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe. And if the poor have Gods, and Furies too, Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath, He shall be worn upon the dart of death.” “Harsh guest,” said he, “sit silent at your meat, Or seek your desp’rate plight some safer seat, Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years, And rend your rotten rags about your ears.” This made the rest as highly hate his folly, As he had violated something holy. When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began: “Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man On such an errant wretch. O ill dispos’d! Perhaps some sacred Godhead goes enclos’d Ev’n in his abject outside; for the Gods Have often visited these rich abodes Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs (Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs, Observing, as they pass still, who they be That piety love, and who impiety.” This all men said, but he held sayings cheap. And all this time Telemachus did heap Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart, To see his father stricken; yet let part No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought As deep as those ills that were after wrought. The Queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke, Said to her maid (as to her Wooer she spoke), “I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun, Would strike thy heart so.” Her wish, thus begun, Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursued Her execration, and did thus conclude: “So may our vows call down from heav’n his end, And let no one life of the rest extend His life till morning.” “O Eurynomé,” Replied the Queen, “may all Gods speak in thee, For all the Wooers we should rate as foes, Since all their weals they place in others’ woes! But this Antinous we past all should hate, As one resembling black and cruel Fate. A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need, Ask’d all, and ev’ry one gave in his deed, Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants, Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts, And with a cruel blow, his force let fly, ‘Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.” These minds, above, she and her maids did show, While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below. In which time she Eumæus call’d, and said: “Go, good Eumæus, and see soon convey’d The stranger to me; bid him come and take My salutations for his welcome’s sake, And my desire serve, if he hath not heard Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall He hath by him been met and spoke withal?” “O Queen,” said he, “I wish to heav’n your ear Were quit of this unrev’rend noise you hear From these rude Wooers, when I bring the guest; Such words your ear would let into your breast As would delight it to your very heart. Three nights and days I did my roof impart To his fruition (for he came to me The first of all men since he fled the sea) And yet he had not giv’n a perfect end To his relation of what woes did spend The spite of Fate on him, but as you see[5] A singer, breathing out of Deity Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear; So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat, Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete, Where first the memories of Minos were, A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear As his true father; and from thence came he Tir’d on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea, To cast himself in dust, and tumble here, At Wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer. But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell, A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell The still survival; who his native light Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.” “Call him,” said she, “that he himself may say This over to me. We shall soon have way Giv’n by the Wooers; they, as well at gate, As set within doors, use to recreate Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead They follow; and may well; for still they tread Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted In poor-kept houses, only something tasted Their bread and wine is by their household swains, But they themselves let loose continual reins To our expenses, making slaughter still Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill, And vainly lavishing our richest wine; All these extending past the sacred line, For here lives no man like Ulysses now To curb these reins. But should he once show His country-light his presence, he and his Would soon revenge these Wooers’ injuries.” This said, about the house, in echoes round, Her son’s strange neesings made a horrid sound;[6] At which the Queen yet laugh’d, and said: “Go call The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all My words last utter’d, what a neesing brake From my Telemachus? From whence I make, This sure conclusion: That the death and fate Of ev’ry Wooer here is near his date. Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new, These hands shall yield him.” This said, down he went, And told Ulysses, “that the Queen had sent To call him to her, that she might enquire About her husband what her sad desire Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true, Both coat, and cassock (which he needed) new Her hands would put on him; and that the bread, Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread, Should freely feed his hunger now from her, Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.” His answer was: “I will with fit speed tell The whole truth to the Queen; for passing well I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d With this rude multitude of Wooers here, The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere. Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault, Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault From my poor shoulders. Therefore, though she haste, Beseech the Queen her patience will see past The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire. ’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire In th’ ev’ning’s cold, because my weeds, you know, Are passing thin; for I made bold to show Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.” He heard, and hasted; and met instantly The Queen upon the pavement in his way, Who ask’d: “What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear Of th’ unjust Wooers? Or thus hard doth bear On any other doubt the house objects? He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects To his fear’d safety.” “He does right,” said he, “And what he fears should move the policy Of any wise one; taking care to shun The violent Wooers. He bids bide, till sun Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, Queen, ’Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen, May pass th’ encounter; you to speak more free, And he your ear gain less distractedly.” “The guest is wise,” said she, “and well doth give The right thought use. Of all the men that live, Life serves none such as these proud Wooers are, To give a good man cause to use his care.” Thus, all agreed, amongst the Wooers goes Eumæus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close, Said: “Now, my love, my charge shall take up me, (Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see In fit protection. But, in chief, regard Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard, Lest suff’rance seize you. Many a wicked thought Conceal these Wooers; whom just Jove see brought To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.” “So chance it, friend,” replied Telemachus, “Your bever taken, go. In first of day Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may. To me and to th’ Immortals be the care or whatsoever here the safeties are.” This said, he sat in his elaborate throne. Eumæus (fed to satisfaction) Went to his charge, left both the court and walls Full of secure and fatal festivals, In which the Wooers’ pleasures still would sway. And now begun the even’s near-ending day.

THE END OF THE SEVENTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] Intending his fat herd, kept only for the Wooers’ dainty palates.Return to passage

[2] The dog died as soon as he had seen Ulysses.Return to passage

[3] Ulysses’ ruthful fashion of entry to his own hall.Return to passage

[4] His—intending Ulysses.Return to passage

[5] Simile, in which Ulysses is compared with a poet for the sweetness of his speech.Return to passage

[6] Neezing a good omen.Return to passage

The Eighteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses and rogue Irus fight. Penelope vouchsafes her sight To all her Wooers; who present Gifts to her, ravish’d with content. A certain parlé then we sing. Betwixt a Wooer and the King.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Σίγμα. The beggar’s glee. The King’s high fame. Gifts giv’n to see A virtuous dame.

There came a common beggar to the court, Who in the city begg’d of all resort, Excell’d in madness of the gut, drunk, ate, Past intermission, was most hugely great, Yet had no fibres in him nor no force, In sight a man, in mind a living corse. His true name was Arnæus, for his mother Impos’d it from his birth, and yet another The city youth would give him (from the course He after took, deriv’d out of the force That need held on him, which was up and down To run on all men’s errands through the town) Which sounded Irus. When whose gut was come, He needs would bar Ulysses his own home, And fell to chiding him: “Old man,” said he, “Your way out of the entry quickly see Be with fair language taken, lest your stay But little longer see you dragg’d away. See, sir, observe you not how all these make Direct signs at me, charging me to take Your heels, and drag you out? But I take shame. Rise yet, y’ are best, lest we two play a game At cuffs together.” He bent brows, and said: “Wretch! I do thee no ill, nor once upbraid Thy presence with a word, nor, what mine eye By all hands sees thee giv’n, one thought envy. Nor shouldst thou envy others. Thou may’st see The place will hold us both; and seem’st to me A beggar like myself; which who can mend? _The Gods give most to whom they least are friend. The chief goods Gods give, is in good to end._ But to the hands’ strife, of which y’ are so free, Provoke me not, for fear you anger me; And lest the old man, on whose scorn you stood, Your lips and bosom make shake hands in blood. I love my quiet well, and more will love To-morrow than to-day. But if you move My peace beyond my right, the war you make Will never after give you will to take Ulysses’ house into your begging walk.” “O Gods,” said he, “how volubly doth talk This eating gulf! And how his fume breaks out, As from an old crack’d oven! Whom I will clout So bitterly, and so with both hands mall His chaps together, that his teeth shall fall As plain seen on the earth as any sow’s, That ruts the corn-fields, or devours the mows. Come, close we now, that all may see what wrong An old man tempts that takes at cuffs a young.” Thus in the entry of those lofty tow’rs These two, with all spleen, spent their jarring pow’rs. Antinous took it, laugh’d, and said: “O friends, We never had such sport! This guest contends With this vast beggar at the buffet’s fight. Come, join we hands, and screw up all their spite.” All rose in laughters; and about them bore All the ragg’d rout of beggars at the door. Then mov’d Antinous the victor’s hire To all the Wooers thus: “There are now at fire Two breasts of goat; both which let law set down Before the man that wins the day’s renown, With all their fat and gravy. And of both The glorious victor shall prefer his tooth, To which he makes his choice of, from us all, And ever after banquet in our hall, With what our boards yield; not a beggar more Allow’d to share, but all keep out at door.” This he propos’d; and this they all approv’d, To which Ulysses answer’d: “O most lov’d, By no means should an old man, and one old In chief with sorrows, be so over-bold To combat with his younger; but, alas, Man’s own-ill-working belly needs will pass This work upon me, and enforce me, too, To beat this fellow. But then, you must do My age no wrong, to take my younger’s part, And play me foul play, making your strokes’ smart Help his to conquer; for you eas’ly may With your strengths crush me. Do then right, and lay Your honours on it in your oaths, to yield His part no aid, but equal leave the field.” All swore his will. But then Telemachus His father’s scoffs with comforts serious Could not but answer, and made this reply: “Guest! If thine own pow’rs cheer thy victory, Fear no man’s else that will not pass it free. He fights with many that shall touch but thee. I’ll see thy guest-right paid. Thou here art come In my protection; and to this the sum Of all these Wooers (which Antinous are And King Eurymachus) conjoin their care.” Both vow’d it. When Ulysses, laying by His upper weed, his inner beggary Near show’d his shame, which he with rags prevented Pluck’d from about his thighs, and so presented Their goodly sight, which were so white and great, And his large shoulders were to view so set By his bare rags, his arms, his breast, and all, So broad, and brawny—their grace natural Being kept by Pallas, ever standing near— That all the Wooers his admirers were Beyond all measure, mutual whispers driv’n Through all their cluster, saying: “Sure as heav’n Poor Irus pull’d upon him bitter blows. Through his thin garment what a thigh he shows!” They said; but Irus felt. His coward mind Was mov’d at root. But now he needs must find Facts to his brags; and forth at all parts fit The servants brought him, all his art’ries smit With fears and tremblings. Which Antinous saw, And said: “Nay, now too late comes fear. No law Thou shouldst at first have giv’n thy braggart vein, Nor should it so have swell’d, if terrors strain Thy spirits to this pass, for a man so old, And worn with penuries that still lay hold On his ragg’d person. Howsoever, take This vow from me for firm: That if, he make Thy forces stoop, and prove his own supreme, I’ll put thee in a ship, and down the stream Send thee ashore where King Echetus reigns, (The roughest tyrant that the world contains) And he will slit thy nostrils, crop each ear, Thy shame cut off, and give it dogs to tear.” This shook his nerves the more. But both were now Brought to the lists; and up did either throw His heavy fists. Ulysses, in suspense To strike so home that he should fright from thence His coward soul, his trunk laid prostrate there, Or let him take more leisure to his fear, And stoop him by degrees. The last show’d best, To strike him slightly, out of fear the rest Would else discover him. But, peace now broke, On his right shoulder Irus laid his stroke. Ulysses struck him just beneath the ear, His jawbone broke, and made the blood appear; When straight he strew’d the dust, and made his cry Stand for himself; with whom his teeth did lie, Spit with his blood out; and against the ground His heels lay sprawling. Up the hands went round Of all the Wooers, all at point to die With violent laughters. Then the king did ply The beggar’s feet, and dragg’d him forth the hall, Along the entry, to the gates and wall; Where leaving him, he put into his hand A staff; and bade him there use his command On swine and dogs, and not presume to be Lord of the guests, or of the beggary, Since he of all men was the scum and curse; And so bade please with that, or fare yet worse. Then cast he on his scrip, all-patch’d and rent, Hung by a rotten cord, and back he went To greet the entry’s threshold with his seat. The Wooers throng’d to him, and did entreat With gentle words his conquest, laughing still, Pray’d Jove and all the Gods to give his will What most it wish’d him and would joy him most, Since he so happily had clear’d their coast Of that unsavoury morsel; whom they vow’d To see with all their utmost haste bestow’d Aboard a ship, and for Epirus sent To King Echetus, on whose throne was spent The worst man’s seat that breath’d. And thus was grac’d Divine Ulysses, who with joy embrac’d Ev’n that poor conquest. Then was set to him The goodly goat’s breast promis’d (that did swim In fat and gravy) by Antinous, And from a basket, by Amphinomus, Were two breads giv’n him; who, besides, renown’d His banquet with a golden goblet; crown’d, And this high salutation: “Frolic, guest, And be those riches that you first possest Restor’d again with full as many joys, As in your poor state I see now annoys.” “Amphinomus,” said he, “you seem to me Exceeding wise, as being the progeny Of such a father as authentic Fame Hath told me was so, one of honour’d name, And great revenues in Dulichius, His fair name Nisus. He is blazon’d thus; And you to be his son, his wisdom heiring, As well as wealth, his state in nought impairing. To prove which always, let me tell you this, (As warning you to shun the miseries That follow full states, if they be not held With wisdom still at full, and so compell’d To courses that abode not in their brows, By too much swing, their sudden overthrows) _Of all things breathing, or that creep on earth, Nought is more wretched than a human birth. Bless’d men think never they can cursed be, While any power lasts to move a knee._ But when the bless’d Gods make them feel that smart, That fled their faith so, as they had no heart They bear their suff’rings, and, what well they might Have clearly shunn’d, they then meet in despite. _The mind of man flies still out of his way, Unless God guide and prompt it ev’ry day._ I thought me once a blesséd man with men. And fashion’d me to all so counted then, Did all injustice like them, what for lust, Or any pleasure, never so unjust I could by pow’r or violence obtain, And gave them both in all their pow’rs the rein, Bold of my fathers and my brothers still; While which held good my arts seem’d never ill. And thus is none held simply good or bad, But as his will is either miss’d or had. All goods God’s gifts man calls, howe’er he gets them, And so takes all; what price soe’er God sets them, Says nought how ill they come, nor will controul That ravine in him, though it cost his soul. And these parts here I see these Wooers play, Take all that falls, and all dishonours lay On that man’s Queen, that, tell your friends, doth bear No long time’s absence, but is passing near. Let God then guide thee home, lest he may meet In his return thy undeparted feet; For when he enters, and sees men so rude, The quarrel cannot but in blood conclude.” This said, he sacrific’d, then drunk, and then Referr’d the giv’n bowl to the guide-of-men; Who walk’d away, afflicted at his heart, Shook head, and fear’d that these facts would convert To ill in th’ end; yet had not grace to fly, Minerva stay’d him, being ordain’d to die Upon the lance of young Ulyssides. So down he sat; and then did Pallas please T’ incline the Queen’s affections to appear To all the Wooers, to extend their cheer To th’ utmost lightning that still ushers death, And made her put on all the painted sheath, That might both set her Wooers’ fancies high, And get her greater honour in the eye Ev’n of her son and sov’reign than before. Who laughing yet, to show her humour bore No serious appetite to that light show, She told Eurynomé, that not till now She ever knew her entertain desire To please her Wooers’ eyes, but oft on fire She set their hate, in keeping from them still; Yet now she pleas’d t’ appear, though from no will To do them honour, vowing she would tell Her son that of them that should fit him well To make use of; which was, not to converse Too freely with their pride, nor to disperse His thoughts amongst them, since they us’d to give Good words, but through them ill intents did drive. Eurynomé replied: “With good advise You vow his counsel, and your open guise. Go then, advise your son, nor keep more close Your cheeks, still drown’d in your eyes’ overflows, But bathe your body, and with balms make clear Your thicken’d count’nance. _Uncomposéd cheer, And ever mourning, will the marrow wear._ Nor have you cause to mourn; your son hath now Put on that virtue which, in chief, your vow Wish’d, as your blessing, at his birth, might deck His blood and person.” “But forbear to speak Of baths, or balmings, or of beauty, now,” The Queen replied, “lest, urging comforts, you Discomfort much; because the Gods have won The spoil of my looks since my lord was gone. But these must serve. Call hither then to me Hippodamia and Autonoé, That those our train additions may supply Our own deserts. And yet, besides, not I, With all my age, have learn’d the boldness yet T’ expose myself to men, unless I get Some other gracers.” This said, forth she went To call the ladies, and much spirit spent To make their utmost speed, for now their Queen Would both herself show, and make them be seen. But now Minerva other projects laid, And through Icarius’ daughter’s veins convey’d Sweet sleep’s desire; in whose soft fumes involv’d She was as soon as laid, and quite dissolv’d Were all her lineaments. The Goddess then Bestow’d immortal gifts on her, that men Might wonder at her beauties; and the beams That glister in the Deified Supremes She clear’d her mourning count’nance up withall. Ev’n such a radiance as doth round empall Crown’d Cytherea, when her order’d places Conduct the bevy of the dancing Graces, She added to her own; more plump, more high, And fairer than the polish’d ivory, Rend’ring her parts and presence. This grace done, Away the Deity flew; and up did run Her lovely-wristed ladies, with a noise That blew the soft chains from her sleeping joys; When she her fair eyes wip’d, and, gasping, said: “O me unblest! How deep a sweet sleep spread His shades about me! Would Diana pleas’d To shoot me with a death no more diseas’d, As soon as might be, that no more my moan Might waste my blood in weepings never done, For want of that accomplish’d virtue spher’d In my lov’d lord, to all the Greeks preferr’d!” Then she descended with her maids, and took Place in the portal; whence her beamy look Reach’d ev’ry Wooer’s heart; yet cast she on So thin a veil, that through it quite there shone A grace so stol’n, it pleas’d above the clear, And sunk the knees of ev’ry Wooer there, Their minds so melted in love’s vehement fires, That to her bed she heighten’d all desires. The prince then coming near, she said: “O son, Thy thoughts and judgments have not yet put on That constancy in what becomes their good, Which all expect in thee. Thy younger blood Did sparkle choicer spirits; but, arriv’d At this full growth, wherein their form hath thriv’d Beyond the bounds of childhood, and when now, Beholders should affirm, ‘This man doth grow Like the rare son of his matchless Sire, (His goodliness, his beauty, and his fire Of soul aspir’d to)’ thou mak’st nothing good Thy fate, nor fortune, nor thy height of blood, In manage of thy actions. What a deed Of foul desert hath thy gross suff’rance freed Beneath thine own roof! A poor stranger here Us’d most unmanly! How will this appear To all the world, when Fame shall trumpet out, That thus, and thus, are our guests beat about Our court unrighted? ’Tis a blaze will show Extremely shameful to your name and you.” “I blame you not, O mother,” he replied, “That, this clear wrong sustain’d by me, you chide; Yet know I both the good and bad of all, Being past the years in which young errors fall. But, all this known, skill is not so exact To give, when once it knows, things fit their fact. I well may doubt the prease of strangers here, Who, bent to ill, and only my nerves near, May do it in despite. And yet the jar Betwixt our guest and Irus was no war Wrought by the Wooers; nor our guest sustain’d Wrong in that action, but the conquest gain’d. And would to Jove, Minerva, and the Sun, That all your Wooers might serve Contention For such a purchase as the beggar made, And wore such weak heads! Some should death invade, Strew’d in the entry, some embrue the hall, Till ev’ry man had vengeance capital, Sattled like Irus at the gates, his head Ev’ry way nodding, like one forfeited To reeling Bacchus, knees nor feet his own, To bear him where he’s better lov’d or known.” Their speeches giv’n this end, Eurymachus Began his courtship, and express’d it thus: “Most wise Icarius’ daughter! If all those, That did for Colchos vent’rous sail dispose For that rich purchase, had before but seen Earth’s richer prize in th’ Ithacensian Queen, They had not made that voyage, but to you Would all their virtues and their beings vow. Should all the world know what a worth you store, To-morrow than to-day, and next light, more Your court should banquet; since to all dames you Are far preferr’d, both for the grace of show, In stature, beauty, form in ev’ry kind Of all parts outward, and for faultless mind.” “Alas,” said she, “my virtue, body, form, The Gods have blasted with that only storm That ravish’d Greece to Ilion, since my lord, For that war shipp’d, bore all my goods aboard. If he, return’d, should come and govern here My life’s whole state, the grace of all things there His guide would heighten, as the spirit it bore; Which dead in me lives, giv’n him long before. A sad course I live now; Heav’n’s stern decree With many an ill hath numb’d and deaded me. He took life with him, when he took my hand In parting from me to the Trojan strand, These words my witness: ‘Woman! I conceive That not all th’ Achives bound for Troy shall leave Their native earth their safe returnéd bones, Fame saying, that Troy trains up approvéd sons In deeds of arms, brave putters-off of shafts, For winging lances masters of their crafts, Unmatchéd riders, swift of foot, and straight Can arbitrate a war of deadliest weight. Hope then can scarce fill all with life’s supply, And of all any failing, why not I? Nor do I know, if God hath marshall’d me Amongst the safe-return’d; or his decree Hath left me to the thraldom order’d there. However, all cares be thy burthens here, My sire and mother tend as much as now, I further off, more near in cares be you. Your son to man’s state grown, wed whom you will; And, you gone, his care let his household fill.’ Thus made my lord his will, which Heav’n sees prov’d Almost at all parts; for the Sun remov’d Down to his set, ere long, will lead the night Of those abhorréd nuptials, that should fright Each worthy woman, which her second are With any man that breathes, her first lord’s care Dead, because he to flesh and blood is dead; Which, I fear, I shall yield to, and so wed A second husband; and my reason is, Since Jove hath taken from me all his bliss. _Whom God gives over they themselves forsake, Their griefs their joys, their God their devil, make._ And ’tis a great grief, nor was seen till now In any fashion of such men as woo A good and wealthy woman, and contend Who shall obtain her, that those men should spend Her beeves and best sheep, as their chiefest ends, But rather that herself and all her friends They should with banquets and rich gifts entreat. Their life is death that live with other’s meat.” Divine Ulysses much rejoic’d to hear His Queen thus fish for gifts, and keep in cheer. Their hearts with hope that she would wed again, Her mind yet still her first intent retain. Antinous saw the Wooers won to give, And said: “Wise Queen, by all your means receive Whatever bounty any Wooer shall use. Gifts freely giv’n ’tis folly to refuse. For know, that we resolve not to be gone To keep our own roofs, till of all some one, Whom best you like, your long-woo’d love shall win.” This pleas’d the rest, and ev’ry one sent in His present by the herald. First had place Antinous’ gift: A robe of special grace, Exceeding full and fair, and twenty hues Chang’d lustre to it; to which choice of shows, Twelve massy plated buttons, all of gold, Enrich’d the substance, made to fairly hold The robe together, all lac’d down before, Where keeps and catches both sides of it wore. Eurymachus a golden tablet gave, In which did Art her choicest works engrave; And round about an amber verge did run, That cast a radiance from it like the Sun. Eurydamas two servants had that bore Two goodly earrings, whose rich hollows wore Three pearls in either, like so many eyes, Reflecting glances radiant as the skies. The king Pisander, great Polyctor’s heir, A casket gave, exceeding rich and fair. The other other wealthy gifts commended To her fair hand; which took, and straight ascended This Goddess of her sex her upper state. Her ladies all her gifts elaborate Up bearing after. All to dancing then The Wooers went, and song’s delightful strain; In which they frolick’d, till the evening came, And then rais’d sable Hesperus his flame. When, for their lights within, they set up there Three lamps, whose wicks were wood exceeding sere, And passing porous; which they caus’d to burn, Their matter ever minister’d by turn Of sev’ral handmaids. Whom Ulysses seeing Too conversant with Wooers, ill-agreeing With guise of maids, advis’d in this fair sort: “Maids of your long-lack’d King, keep you the port Your Queen’s chaste presence bears. Go up to her, Employ your looms, or rocks, and keep ye there; I’ll serve to feed these lamps, should these lords’ dances Last till Aurora cheer’d us with their glances. They cannot weary me, for I am one Born to endure when all men else have done.” They wantonly brake out in laughters all, Look’d on each other; and to terms did fall Cheek-proud Melantho, who was Dolius’ seed, Kept by the Queen, that gave her dainty bread Fit for her daughter; and yet won not so Her heart to her to share in any woe She suffer’d for her lord, but she was great With great Eurymachus, and her love’s heat In his bed quench’d. And this choleric thing Bestow’d this railing language on the King: “Base stranger, you are taken in your brain, You talk so wildly. Never you again Can get where you were born, and seek your bed In some smith’s hovel, or the marketsted, But here you must take confidence to prate Before all these; for fear can get no state In your wine-hardy stomach. Or ’tis like To prove your native garb, your tongue will strike On this side of your mouth still, being at best. Is the man idle-brain’d for want of rest? Or proud because he beat the roguish beggar? Take heed, Sir, lest some better man beleager Your ears with his fists, and set headlong hence Your bold abode here with your blood’s expence.” He, looking sternly on her, answer’d her: “Dog! What broad language giv’st thou? I’ll prefer Your usage to the prince, that he may fall Foul on your fair limbs till he tell them all.” This fray’d the wenches, and all straight got gone In fear about their business, ev’ry one Confessing he said well. But he stood now Close by the cressets, and did looks bestow On all men there; his brain employ’d about Some sharper business than to dance it out, Which had not long to go. Nor therefore would Minerva let the Wooers’ spleens grow cold With too good usuage of him, that his heart Might fret enough, and make his choler smart. Eurymachus provok’d him first, and made His fellow laugh, with a conceit he had Fetch’d far from what was spoken long before, That his poor form perhaps some Deity bore. “It well may chance,” said he, “some God doth bear This man’s resemblance, for, thus standing near The glist’ring torches, his slick’d head doth throw Beams round about it as those cressets do, For not a hair he hath to give it shade. Say, will thy heart serve t’ undertake a trade For fitting wages? Should I take thee hence To walk my grounds, and look to ev’ry fence, Or plant high trees, thy hire should raise thy forces Food store, and clothes. But these same idle courses Thou art so prompt in that thou wilt not work, But forage up and down, and beg, and lurk In ev’ry house whose roofs hold any will To feed such fellows. That thy gut may fill, Gives end to all thy being.” He replied: “I wish, at any work we two were tried, In height of spring-time, when heav’n’s lights are long, I a good crook’d scythe that were sharp and strong, You such another, where the grass grew deep, Up by day-break, and both our labours keep Up till slow darkness eas’d the labouring light, Fasting all day, and not a crumb till night; We then should prove our either workmanship. Or if, again, beeves, that the goad or whip Were apt t’ obey before a tearing plow, Big lusty beasts, alike in bulk and brow, Alike in labour, and alike in strength, Our task four acres, to be till’d in length Of one sole day; again: then you should try If the dull glebe before the plow should fly, Or I a long stitch could bear clean and even. Or lastly, if the Guide of earth and heaven Should stir stern war up, either here or there, And that at this day I had double spear, And shield, and steel casque fitting for my brows; At this work likewise, ’midst the foremost blows, Your eyes should note me, and get little cause To twit me with my belly’s sole applause. But you affect t’ affect with injury, Your mind ungentle, seem in valour high, Because ’gainst few, and those not of the best, Your conversation hath been still profest. But if Ulysses, landed on his earth, And enter’d on the true right of his birth, Should come and front ye, straight his ample gates Your feet would hold too narrow for your fates.” He frown’d, rag’d, call’d him wretch, and vow’d To be his death, since he durst prove so proud Amongst so many, to tell him so home What he affected; ask’d, if overcome With wine he were, or, as his minion said, Talk’d still so idly, and were palsiéd In his mind’s instruments, or was proud because He gat from Irus off with such applause? With all which, snatching up a stool, he threw; When old Ulysses to the knees withdrew Of the Dulichian lord, Amphinomus, As if he fear’d him. His dart missing thus His aged object, and his page’s hand (A boy that waited on his cup’s command, Now holding of an ewer to him) he smit, Down fell the sounding ewer, and after it The guiltless page lay sprawling in the dust, And crying out. When all the Wooers thrust A tumult up amongst them, wishing all The rogue had perish’d in some hospital, Before his life there stirr’d such uproars up, And with rude speeches spice their pleasures’ cup. And all this for a beggar to fulfill A filthy proverb: Good still yields to ill. The prince cried out on them, to let the bad Obscure the good so; told them they were mad, Abus’d their banquet, and affirm’d some God Tried mast’ries with them; bade them take their load Of food and wine, sit up, or fall to bed At their free pleasures; and since he gave head To all their freedoms, why should they mistake Their own rich humours for a beggar’s sake? All bit their lips to be so taken down, And taught the course that should have been their own, Admir’d the prince; and said he bravely spoke. But Nisus’ son then struck the equal stroke, And said: “O friends, let no man here disdain To put up equal speeches, nor maintain With serious words an humour, nor with stroke A stranger in another’s house provoke, Nor touch the meanest servant, but confine All these dissentions in a bowl of wine; Which fill us, cup-bearer, that, having done Our nightly sacrifice, we may atone Our pow’rs with sleep, resigning first the guest Up to the prince, that holds all interest In his disposure here; the house being his In just descent, and all the faculties.” This all approv’d; when noble Mulius, Herald-in-chief to lord Amphinomus, The wine distributed with rev’rend grace To ev’ry Wooer; when the Gods giv’n place; With service fit; they serv’d themselves, and took Their parting cups, till, when they all had shook The angry humour off, they bent to rest, And ev’ry Wooer to sev’ral roofs addrest.

THE END OF THE EIGHTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

The Nineteenth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses and his son eschew Offending of the Wooers’ view With any armour. His birth’s seat, Ulysses tells his Queen, is Crete, Euryclea the truth yet found, Discover’d by a scar-heal’d wound, Which in Parnassus’ tops a boar, Struck by him in his chace, did gore.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

Ταυ̑. The King still hid By what he said; By what he did Informs his maid.

Yet did divine Ulysses keep his roof, And with Minerva plotted still the proof Of all the Wooers’ deaths; when thus his son He taught with these fore-counsels: “We must run A close course with these arms, and lay them by, And to the Wooers make so fair a sky As it would never thunder. Let me then, That you may well retain, repeat again What in Eumæus’ cottage I advis’d: If when they see no leisure exercis’d, In fetching down your arms, and ask what use Your mind will give them, say, ’tis their abuse With smoke and rust that makes you take them down, This not being like the armory well-known To be the leavings of Laertes’ son Consorting the design for Ilion; Your eyes may see how much they are infected, As all fires’ vapours ever since reflected On those sole arms. Besides, a graver thought Jove graves within you, lest, their spirits wrought Above their pitch with wine, they might contend At some high banquet, and to wounds transcend, Their feast inverting; which, perhaps, may be Their nuptial feast with wise Penelopé. _The ready weapon, when the blood is up, Doubles the uproar heighten’d by the cup. Wrath’s means for act, curb all the ways ye can, As loadstones draw the steel, so steel draws man._ Retain these words; nor what is good think, thus Receiv’d at second hand, superfluous.” The son, obeying, did Euryclea call, And bade her shut in th’ utter porches all The other women, till himself brought down His father’s arms, which all were overgrown By his neglect with rust, his father gone, And he too-childish to spend thoughts upon Those manly implements; but he would now Reform those young neglects, and th’ arms bestow Past reach of smoke. The loving nurse replied: “I wish, O son, your pow’rs would once provide For wisdom’s habit, see your household were In thrifty manage, and tend all things there. But if these arms must down, and ev’ry maid Be shut in utter rooms, who else should aid Your work with light?” He answer’d: “This my guest. There shall no one in my house taste my feast, Or join in my nave, that shall idly live,[1] However far hence he his home derive.” He said, and his words stood. The doors she shut Of that so well-fill’d house. And th’ other put Their thoughts in act; best shields, helms, sharpen’d lances, Brought down; and Pallas before both advances A golden cresset, that did cast a light As if the Day sat in the throne of Night. When, half-amaz’d, the prince said: “O my father, Mine eyes my soul’s pow’rs all in wonder gather, For though the walls, and goodly wind-beams here, All all these pillars, that their heads so rear, And all of fir, they seem yet all of fire. Some God is surely with us.” His wise sire Bade peace, and keep the counsels of the Gods, Nor ask a word: “These Pow’rs, that use abodes Above the stars, have pow’r from thence to shine Through night and all shades to earth’s inmost mine. Go thou for sleep, and leave me here to wake The women, and the Queen whose heart doth ache To make inquiry for myself of me.” He went to sleep where lights did endlessly Burn in his night-rooms; where he feasted rest, Till day’s fair weed did all the world invest. Thus was divine Ulysses left alone With Pallas, plotting foul confusion To all the Wooers. Forth then came the Queen; Phœbe, with golden Cytherea seen, Her port presented. Whom they set a chair Aside the fire, the fashion circular, The substance silver and rich elephant; Whose fabric did the cunning finger vaunt Of great Icmalius, who besides had done A footstool for her that did suit her throne, On which they cast an ample skin, to be The cushion for her other royalty. And there she sat; about whom came her maids, Who brought upon a table store of breads, And bowls that with the Wooers’ wine were crown’d. The embers then they cast upon the ground From out the lamps, and other fuel added, That still with cheerful flame the sad house gladded. Melantha seeing still Ulysses there, Thus she held out her spleen: “Still, stranger, here? Thus late in night? To see what ladies do? Avaunt you, wretch, hence, go without doors, go; And quickly, too, lest ye be singed away With burning firebrands.” He, thus seeing their fray Continued by her with such spleen, replied: “Minion! What makes your angry blood thus chide My presence still? Is it because you see I shine not in your wanton bravery, But wear these rags? It fits the needy fate That makes me beg thus of the common state. Such poor souls, and such beggars, yet are men; And ev’n my mean means means had to maintain A wealthy house, and kept a manly press, Was counted blessed, and the poor access Of any beggar did not scorn, but feed, With often hand, and any man of need Reliev’d as fitted; kept my servants, too, Not few, but did with those additions go That call choice men The Honest, who are styl’d The rich, the great. But what such great ones build Jove oft pulls down, as thus he ruin’d me; His will was such, which is his equity. And therefore, woman, bear you fitting hand On your behaviour, lest your spirit thus mann’d, And cherish’d with your beauties, when they wane, Comes down, your pride now being then your bane; And in the mean space shun the present danger, Lest your bold fashion breed your sov’reign’s anger, Or lest Ulysses come, of whom ev’n yet Hope finds some life in Fate. Or, be his seat Amongst the merely ruin’d, yet his son, Whose life’s heat Phœbus saves, is such a one As can discover who doth well deserve Of any woman here his years now serve.” The Queen gave ear, and thus suppress’d the flame: “Thou quite without a brow, past female shame, I hear thy monstrous boldness, which thy head Shall pay me pains for. Thou hast heard it said, And from myself too, and ev’ry part Thy knowledge serves thee, that, to ease my heart So punish’d in thy witness, my desire Dwelt on this stranger, that I might inquire My lost friend’s being. But ’tis ever tried, Both man and God are still forgot with pride. Eurynomé, bring here this guest a seat, And cushion on it, that we two may treat Of the affair in question. Set it near, That I may softly speak, yet he well hear.” She did this little freely; and he sat Close by the Queen, who ask’d him, Whence, and what He was himself? And what th’ inhabited place Where liv’d his parents? Whence he fetch’d his race? “O woman,” he replied, “with whom no man, That moves in earth’s unbounded circle, can Maintain contention for true honour giv’n, Whose fame hath reach’d the fairly-flowing heav’n, Who, like a never-ill-deserving king, That is well-spoke of, first, for worshipping, And striving to resemble God in empire; Whose equal hand impartially doth temper Greatness and Goodness; to whom therefore bears The black earth store of all grain, trees confers Cracking with burthen, long-liv’d herds creates, All which the sea with her sorts emulates; And all this feeds beneath his pow’rful hand Men, valiant, many, making strong his land With happy lives led; nothing else the cause Of all these blessings, but well-order’d laws; Like such a king are you, in love, in fame, And all the bliss that deifies a dame. And therefore do not mix this with a moan So wretched as is now in question; Ask not my race nor country, lest you fill My heart yet fuller with repeated ill; For I must follow it with many tears, Though ’tis not seemly to sit wounding ears In public roofs with our particular life. Time’s worst expense is still-repeated grief. I should be irksome to your ladies here, And you yourself would say you urg’d your ear To what offends it, my still-broken eyne Supposing wounded with your too-much wine.” “Stranger,” said she, “you fear your own excess With giving me too great a nobleness. The Gods my person, beauty, virtue too, Long since subverted, when the Ilion woe The Greek design attempted; in which went My praise and honour. In his government Had I deserv’d your utmost grace, but now Sinister Deity makes dishonour woo, In show of grace, my ruin. All the peers Sylvan Zacynthus, and Dulichius, spheres, Samos and Ithaca, strange strifes have shown To win me, spending on me all mine own; Will wed me, in my spite; and these are those That take from me all virtue to dispose Or guest or suppliant, or take any course Amongst my heralds, that should all disburse, To order anything. Though I need none To give me grief at home, abroad errs one That my veins shrink for, whom these holding gone, Their nuptials hasten, and find me as slow. Good spirits prompted me to make a show Of undertaking a most curious task, That an unmeasur’d space of time would ask; Which they enduring long would often say, When ends thy work? I soon had my delay, And pray’d their stay; for though my lord were dead, His father’s life yet matter ministred That must employ me; which, to tell them true, Was that great work I nam’d. For now near drew Laertes’ death, and on my hand did lie His funeral-robe, whose end, being now so nigh, I must not leave, and lose so much begun, The rather lest the Greek dames might be won To tax mine honour, if a man so great Should greet his grave without his winding sheet. Pride made them credulous, and I went on; When whatsoever all the day had done I made the night help to undo again, Though oil and watch it cost, and equal pain. Three years my wit secur’d me undiscern’d, Yet, when the fourth came, by my maids discern’d, False careless wenches, how they were deluded; When, by my light discern’d, they all intruded, Used threat’ning words, and made me give it end; And then could I to no more length extend My linger’d nuptials; not a counsel more Was to be stood upon; my parents bore Continual hand on me to make me wed; My son grew angry that so ruinéd His goods were by them. He is now a man Wise in a great degree, and one that can Himself give order to his household fare; And Jove give equal glory to his care. But thus you must not pass me; I must know, It may be for more end, from whence doth grow Your race and you; for I suppose you none Sprung of old oak, or justled out of stone.” He answer’d: “O Ulysses’ rev’rend wife! Yet hold you purpose to inquire my life? I’ll tell you, though it much afflict me more Than all the sorrows I have felt before. As worthily it may, since so long time As I have wander’d from my native clime, Through human cities, and in suff’rance still, To rip all wounds up, though of all their ill I touch but part, must actuate all their pain. But, ask you still, I’ll tell, though still sustain. In middle of the sable sea there lies An isle call’d Crete, a ravisher of eyes, Fruitful, and mann’d with many an infinite store; Where ninety cities crown the famous shore, Mix’d with all-languag’d men. There Greeks survive, There the great-minded Eteocretans live, There the Dorensians never out of war, The Cydons there, and there the singular Pelasgian people. There doth Cnossus stand, That mighty city, where had most command Great Jove’s disciple, Minos, who nine years Conferr’d with Jove, both great familiars In mutual counsels. And this Minos’ son, The mighty-minded king Deucalion, Was sire to me and royal Idomen, Who with Atrides went to Ilion then, My elder brother and the better man, My name Aethon. At that time began My knowledge of Ulysses, whom my home Receiv’d with guest-rites. He was thither come By force of weather, from the Malean coast But new got off, where he the navy lost, Then under sail for Troy, and wind-bound lay Long in Amnisus; hardly got away From horrid storms, that made him anchor there, In havens that sacred to Lucina were, Dreadful and dang’rous, in whose bosom crept Lucina’s cavern. But in my roof slept Ulysses, shor’d in Crete; who first inquir’d For royal Idomen, and much desir’d To taste his guest-rites, since to him had been A welcome guest my brother Idomen. The tenth or ’leventh light on Ulysses shin’d In stay at Crete, attending then the wind For threaten’d Ilion. All which time my house With love and entertainments curious Embrac’d his person, though a number more My hospitable roofs receiv’d before, His men I likewise call’d, and from the store Allow’d them meal and heat-exciting wine, And oxen for their slaughter, to confine In my free hand the utmost of their need. Twelve days the Greeks stay’d, ere they got them freed, A gale so bitter blew out of the north, That none could stand on earth, being tumbled forth By some stern God. But on the thirteenth day The tempest ceas’d, and then went Greeks their way.” Thus many tales Ulysses told his wife, At most but painting, yet most like the life; Of which her heart such sense took through her ears, It made her weep as she would turn to tears. And as from off the mountains melts the snow, Which Zephyr’s breath conceal’d, but was made flow By hollow Eurus, which so fast pours down, That with their torrent floods have overflown; So down her fair cheeks her kind tears did glide, Her miss’d lord mourning set so near her side. Ulysses much was mov’d to see her mourn, Whose eyes yet stood as dry as iron or horn In his untroubled lids, which in his craft Of bridling passion he from issue saft. When she had giv’n her moan so many tears, That now ’twas satiate, her yet loving fears Ask’d thus much further: “You have thus far tried My love’s credulity, but if gratified With so long stay he was with you, you can Describe what weed he wore, what kind of man Both he himself was, and what followers Observ’d him there.” “Alas,” said he, “the years Have grown so many since—this making now Their twentieth revolution—that my show Of these slight notes will set my memory sore, But, to my now remembrance, this he wore: A double purple robe, drawn close before With golden buttons, plaited thick, and bore A facing where a hundred colours shin’d. About the skirts a hound a freckled hind In full course hunted; on the fore skirts, yet, He pinch’d and pull’d her down, when with her feet, And all her force, she struggled hard for flight. Which had such life in gold, that to the sight It seem’d the hind itself for ev’ry hue, The hound and all so answering the view, That all admir’d all. I observ’d beside His inner weed, so rarely beautified That dumb amaze it bred, and was as thin As any dry and tender onion skin; As soft ’twas, too, and glister’d like the sun. The women were to loving wonder won By him and by his weeds. But, by the way, You must excuse me, that I cannot say He brought this suit from home, or had it there Sent for some present, or, perhaps, elsewhere Receiv’d it for his guest-gift; for your lord Had friends not few, the fleet did not afford Many that had not fewer. I bestow’d A well-edg’d sword on him, a robe that flow’d In folds and fulness, and did reach his feet, Of richest purple; brought him to his fleet With all my honour; and besides, to add To all this sifted circumstance, he had A herald there, in height a little more Put from the earth, that thicker shoulders wore, A swarth complexion and a curléd head, His name Eurybates; and much in stead He stood your king, employ’d in most command, Since most of all his mind could understand.” When all these signs she knew for chiefly true, Desire of moan upon her beauties grew, And yet, ev’n that desire suffic’d, she said: “Till this, my guest, a wretched state array’d Your ill-us’d person, but from this hour forth You shall be honour’d, and find all the worth That fits a friend. Those weeds these hands bestow’d From out my wardrobe; those gold buttons sew’d Before for closure and for ornament. But never more must his return present The person that gave those adornments state; And therefore, under an abhorréd fate, Was he induc’d to feed the common fame, To visit vile Troy, ay too vile to name.” “No more yet mourn,” said he, “nor thus see pin’d Your lovely person. Weeping wastes the mind. And yet I blame you not; for any dame That weds one young, and brings to him his name, Whatever man he is, will mourn his loss. Much more respectful then must show your woes That weep thus for Ulysses, who, Fame says, Was equal with the Gods in all his ways. But where no cause is there must be no moan, And therefore hear me, my relation Shall lay the clear truth naked to your view: I heard amongst the Thesprots for most true, That lord Ulysses liv’d, and stood just now On his return for home; that wealth did flow In his possession, which he made not known, But begg’d amongst the people, since alone He quite was left, for all his men were lost In getting off from the Trinacrian coast; Jove and the Sun was wroth with them for rape Made of his oxen, and no man let ’scape The rugged deeps of Neptune; only he, The ship’s keel only keeping, was by sea Cast on the fair Phæacian continent, Where men survive that are the Gods’ descent, And like a God receiv’d him, gave him heaps Of wealthy gifts, and would conduct his steps Themselves safe home; which he might long ago His pleasure make, but profit would not so. He gather’d going, and had mighty store Of gold in safeguard; so beyond the shore That common sails kept, his high flood of wit Bore glorious top, and all the world for it Hath far exceeded. All this Phædon told, That doth the sceptre of Thesprotia hold, Who swore to me, in household sacrifice, The ship was launch’d, and men to man the prise, That soon should set him on his country earth, Show’d me the goods, enough to serve the birth That in the tenth age of his seed should spring, Yet in his court contain’d. But then the king, Your husband, for Dodona was in way, That from th’ Oraculous Oak he might display Jove’s will what course for home would best prevail, To come in pomp, or bear a secret sail. But me the king dispatch’d in course before, A ship then bound for the Dulichian shore. So thus you see his safety whom you mourn; Who now is passing near, and his return No more will punish with delays, but see His friends and country. All which truth to thee I’ll seal with sacred oath. Be witness, Jove, Thou first and best of all the thron’d above! And thou house of the great Laertes’ heir, To whose high roofs I tender my repair, That what I tell the Queen event shall crown! This year Ulysses shall possess his own, Nay ere the next month ends shall here arrive, Nay, ere it enters, here abide alive!” “O may this prove,” said she; “gifts, friendship, then Should make your name the most renown’d of men. But ’tis of me receiv’d, and must so sort, That nor my lord shall ever see his court, Nor you gain your deduction thence, for now The alter’d house doth no such man allow As was Ulysses, if he ever were, To entertain a rev’rend passenger, And give him fair dismission. But, maids, see Ye bathe his feet, and then with tapestry, Best sheets and blankets, make his bed, and lay Soft waistcoats by him, that, lodg’d warm, he may Ev’n till the golden-seated morning’s ray Enjoy good rest; and then, with her first light, Bathe, and give alms, that cherish’d appetite He may apply within our hall, and sit Safe by Telemachus. Or, if th’ unfit And harmful mind of any be so base To grieve his age again, let none give grace Of doing any deed he shall command, How wroth soever, to his barbarous hand. For how shall you, guest, know me for a dame That pass so far, nay, turn and wind the fame Of other dames for wisdom, and the frame Of household usage, if your poor thin weeds I let draw on you want, and worser deeds, That may, perhaps, cause here your latest day? The life of man is short and flies away. And if the ruler’s self of households be Ungentle, studying inhumanity, The rest prove worse, but he bears all the blame; All men will, living, vow against his name Mischiefs and miseries, and, dead, supply With bitter epitaphs his memory. But if himself be noble—noble things Doing and knowing—all his underlings Will imitate his noblesse, and all guests Give it, in many, many interests.” “But, worthiest Queen,” said he, “where you command Baths and rich beds for me, I scorn to stand On such state now nor ever thought it yet, Since first I left the snowy hills of Crete. When once I fell a-shipboard those thoughts fled; I love to take now, as long since, my bed. Though I began the use with sleepless nights, I many a darkness with right homely rites Have spent ere this hour, and desir’d the morn Would come, and make sleep to the world a scorn. Nor run these dainty baths in my rude head; Nor any handmaid, to your service bred, Shall touch my ill-kept feet, unless there live Some poor old drudge here, that hath learn’d to give Old men good usage, and no work will fly, As having suffer’d ill as much as I. But if there live one such in your command, I will not shame to give my foot her hand.” She gave this answer: “O my lovéd guest, There never enter’d these kind roofs for rest Stranger or friend that so much wisdom laid In gage for guest-rites, as your lips have paid. There lives an old maid in my charge that knows The good you speak of by her many woes; That nourish’d and brought up, with curious care, Th’ unhappy man; your old familiar, Ev’n since his mother let him view the light, And oft hath felt in her weak arms his weight; And she, though now much weaker, shall apply Her maiden service to your modesty. Euryclea, rise, and wash the feet of one That is of one age with your sov’reign gone, Such hands, such feet hath, though of alter’d grace. Much grief in men will bring on change apace.” She, from her aged slumber wak’d, did clear Her heavy eyes, and instantly, to hear Her sov’reign’s name, had work enough to dry Her cheeks from tears, and to his memory These moans did offer: “O my son,” said she, “I never can take grief enough for thee, Whom Goodness hurts, and whom ev’n Jove’s high spleen, Since thou art Jove-like, hates the most of men. For none hath offer’d him so many thighs, Nor such whole hecatombs of sacrifice, Fat and selected, as thy zeal hath done; For all, but praying that thy noble son, Thy happy age might see at state of man. And yet hath Jove with mists Cimmerian Put out the light of his returning day. And as yourself, O father, in your way Took these fair roofs for hospitable rites, Yet find, for them, our dogged women’s spites; So he, in like course, being driven to proof, Long time ere this, what such a royal roof Would yield his mis’ries, found such usage there. And you, now flying the foul language here, And many a filthy fact of our fair dames, Fly me like them, and put on causeless shames To let me cleanse your feet. For not the cause The Queen’s command yields is the pow’r that draws My will to wash your feet, but what I do Proceeds from her charge and your rev’rence too; Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth Of your distresses, and past show of truth;[2] Your strangeness claiming little interest In my affections. And yet many a guest Of poor condition hath been harbour’d here, But never any did so right appear Like king Ulysses as yourself, for state Both of your stature, voice, and very gait.” “So all have said,” said he, “that ever yet Had the proportions of our figures met In their observance; so right your eye Proves in your soul your judging faculty.” Thus took she up a caldron brightly scour’d, To cleanse his feet in; and into it pour’d Store of cold wave, which on the fire she set; And therein bath’d, being temperately heat, Her sov’reign’s feet. Who turn’d him from the light, Since suddenly he doubted her conceit, So rightly touching at his state before, A scar now seeing on his foot, that bore An old note, to discern him, might descry The absolute truth; which, witness’d by her eye, Was straight approv’d. He first receiv’d this sore As in Parnassus’ tops a white-tooth’d boar He stood in chase withal, who struck him there, At such time as he liv’d a sojourner With his grandsire, Autolycus; who th’ art Of theft and swearing (not out of the heart, But by equivocation) first adorn’d Your witty man withal, and was suborn’d By Jove’s descent, ingenious Mercury, Who did bestow it, since so many a thigh Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow’d In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow’d Was ever with him. And this man impos’d Ulysses’ name, the light being first disclos’d To his first sight then, when his grandsire came To see the then preferrer of his fame, His lovéd daughter. The first supper done, Euryclea put in his lap her son, And pray’d him to bethink and give his name, Since that desire did all desires inflame. “Daughter and son-in-law,” said he, “let then The name that I shall give him stand with men. Since I arriv’d here at the hour of pain, In which mine own kind entrails did sustain Moan for my daughter’s yet unended throes, And when so many men’s and women’s woes, In joint compassion met of human birth, Brought forth t’ attend the many-feeding earth, Let Odyssëus be his name, as one[3] Expos’d to just constraint of all men’s moan. When here at home he is arriv’d at state Of man’s first youth he shall initiate His practis’d feet in travel made abroad, And to Parnassus, where mine own abode And chief means lie, address his way, where I Will give him from my open’d treasury What shall return him well, and fit the fame Of one that had the honour of his name.” For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace Of hands and words in him and all his race. Amphithea, his mother’s mother, too, Applied her to his love, withal, to do In grandame’s welcomes, both his fair eyes kist, And brows; and then commanded to assist Were all her sons by their respected sire In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire Their minds with his command; who home straight led A five-years-old male ox, fell’d, slew, and flay’d, Gather’d about him, cut him up with art, Spitted, and roasted, and his ev’ry part Divided orderly. So all the day They spent in feast; no one man went his way Without his fit fill. When the sun was set, And darkness rose, they slept, till day’s fire het Th’ enlighten’d earth; and then on hunting went Both hounds and all Autolycus’ descent. In whose guide did divine Ulysses go, Climb’d steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow All sylvan offsprings round. And Soon they reach’d The concaves, whence air’s sounding vapours fetch’d Their loud descent. As soon as any sun Had from the ocean, where his waters run In silent deepness, rais’d his golden head, The early huntsmen all the hill had spread, Their hounds before them on the searching trail, They near, and ever eager to assail: Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance, Of whose first flight he long’d to prove the chance. Then found they lodg’d a boar of bulk extreme, In such a queach as never any beam The sun shot pierc’d, nor any pass let find The moist impressions of the fiercest wind, Nor any storm the sternest winter drives, Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves In mighty thickness; and through all this flew The hounds’ loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw, And all together, rous’d the boar, that rush’d Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push’d From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes Stood close, and dar’d all. On which horrid prise Ulysses first charg’d; whom above the knee The savage struck, and rac’d it crookedly Along the skin, yet never reach’d the bone. Ulysses’ lance yet through him quite was thrown, At his right shoulder ent’ring, at his left The bright head passage to his keenness cleft, And show’d his point gilt with the gushing gore. Down in the dust fell the extended boar, And forth his life flew. To Ulysses round His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound, With all art bound it up, and with a charm Stay’d straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm Receiv’d full cure, with gifts, and all event Of joy and love to his lov’d home they sent Their honour’d nephew; whose return his sire And rev’rend mother took with joys entire, Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave In good relation, nor of all would save His wound from utt’rance; by whose scar he came To be discover’d by this aged dame. Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well, Down from her lap into the caldron fell His weighty foot, that made the brass resound, Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewéd ground Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together Her breast invaded; and of weeping weather Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within Her part expressive; till at length his chin She took and spake to him: “O son,” said she, “Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be; Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king I had gone over with the warméd spring.” Then look’d she for the Queen to tell her all; And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt, Minerva that distraction struck throughout Her mind’s rapt forces that she might not tell. Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well, With one hand took her chin, and made all show Of favour to her, with the other drew Her offer’d parting closer, ask’d her why She, whose kind breast had nurs’d so tenderly His infant life, would now his age destroy, Though twenty years had held him from the joy Of his lov’d country? But, since only she, God putting her in mind, now knew ’twas he, He charg’d her silence, and to let no ear In all the court more know his being there, Lest, if God gave into his wreakful hand Th’ insulting Wooers’ lives, he did not stand On any partial respect with her, Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel His punishing finger, give her equal steel. “What words,” said she, “fly your retentive pow’rs? You know you lock your counsels in your tow’rs In my firm bosom, and that I am far From those loose frailties. Like an iron bar, Or bolt of solid’st stone, I will contain; And tell you this besides; that if you gain, By God’s good aid, the Wooers’ lives in yours, What dames are here their shameless paramours; And have done most dishonour to your worth, My information well shall paint you forth.” “It shall not need,” said he, “myself will soon, While thus I mask here, set on ev’ry one My sure observance of the worst and best. Be thou then silent, and leave God the rest.” This said, the old dame for more water went, The rest was all upon the pavement spent By known Ulysses’ foot. More brought, and he Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm, And with his piec’d rags hiding close his harm. The Queen came near, and said: “Yet, guest, afford Your further patience, till but in a word I’ll tell my woes to you; for well I know That Rest’s sweet hour her soft foot orders now, When all poor men, how much soever griev’d, Would gladly get their woe-watch’d pow’rs reliev’d. But God hath giv’n my grief a heart so great It will not down with rest, and so I set My judgment up to make it my delight. All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right I owe my charge both in my work and maids; And when the night brings rest to others’ aids I toss my bed; Distress, with twenty points, Slaught’ring the pow’rs that to my turning joints Convey the vital heat. And as all night Pandareus’ daughter, poor Edone, sings, Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs, When she for Itylus, her lovéd son, By Zethus’ issue in his madness done To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan, And draws the ears to her of ev’ry one; So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind, And here and there gives my discourse the wind, Uncertain whether I shall with my son Abide still here, the safe possession And guard of all goods, rev’rence to the bed Of my lov’d lord, and to my far-off spread Fame with the people, putting still in use, Or follow any best Greek I can chuse To his fit house, with treasure infinite, Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight And want of judgment kept my son in guide, He was not willing with my being a bride, Nor with my parting from his court; but now, Arriv’d at man’s state, he would have me vow My love to some one of my Wooers here, And leave his court; offended that their cheer Should so consume his free possessions. To settle then a choice in these my moans, Hear and expound a dream that did engrave My sleeping fancy: Twenty geese I have, All which, me thought, mine eye saw tasting wheat In water steep’d, and joy’d to see them eat; When straight a crook-beak’d eagle from a hill Stoop’d, and truss’d all their necks, and all did kill; When, all left scatter’d on the pavement there, She took her wing up to the Gods’ fair sphere. I, ev’n amid my dream, did weep and mourn To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn, Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came About my mournings many a Grecian dame, To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam That cross’d my chamber fell, and us’d to me A human voice, that sounded horribly, And said: ‘Be confident, Icarius’ seed, This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed. The geese the Wooers are, the eagle, I, Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply Thy husband’s being, and am come to give The Wooers’ death, that on my treasure live.’ With this sleep left me, and my waking way I took, to try if any violent prey Were made of those my fowls, which well enough I, as before, found feeding at their trough Their yoted wheat.” “O woman,” he replied, “Thy dream can no interpretation bide But what the eagle made, who was your lord, And said himself would sure effect afford To what he told you; that confusion To all the Wooers should appear, and none Escape the fate and death he had decreed.” She answer’d him: “O guest, these dreams exceed The art of man t’ interpret; and appear Without all choice or form; nor ever were Perform’d to all at all parts. But there are To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare, Two two-leav’d gates, the one of ivory, The other horn. Those dreams, that fantasy Takes from the polish’d ivory port, delude The dreamer ever, and no truth include; Those, that the glitt’ring horn-gate lets abroad, Do evermore some certain truth abode. But this my dream I hold of no such sort To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port It had access from, it did highly please My son and me. And this my thoughts profess: That day that lights me from Ulysses’ court Shall both my infamy and curse consort. I, therefore, purpose to propose them now, In strong contention, Ulysses’ bow; Which he that eas’ly draws, and from his draft Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft, All set up in a row, and from them all His stand-far-off kept firm) my fortunes shall Dispose, and take me to his house from hence, Where I was wed a maid, in confluence Of feast and riches; such a court here then As I shall ever in my dreams retain.” “Do not,” said he, “defer the gameful prize, But set to task their importunities With something else than nuptials; for your lord Will to his court and kingdom be restor’d Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow.” “O guest,” replied Penelope, “would you Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres! But none can live without the death of sleep, Th’ Immortals in our mortal memories keep Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so, As by the fate and portion of our woe, Our times spent here, to let us nightly try That while we live, as much live as we die. In which use I will to my bed ascend, Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy For vile, lewd, never-to-be-naméd, Troy, Yet there I’ll prove for sleep, which take you here, Or on the earth, if that your custom were, Or have a bed, dispos’d for warmer rest.” Thus left she with her ladies her old guest, Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed, Whose sight did ever duly make her shed Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep, Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep.

THE END OF THE NINETEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] Χοὶνικος ἅπτηται, they will needs turn this, quadram (for modium) gustet. Though the words bear no such signification, but give a proverb then in use repetition, which was: he shall not join or make a spoke in the nave of my chariot, or chariot-wheel. Χοίνικον, or χοίνικις, signifying modiolus rotæ, and ἅπτω, recto.Return to passage

[2] Intending with truth itself, not his show only.Return to passage

[3] Autolycus gives his grandchild Ulysses his name: from whence the Odysseys is derived, ’Οδυσσεύς, derived of ὀδύζομαι, ex ὀδύνη factum; signifying dolorem proprie corporis, nam ira ex dolore oritur.Return to passage