The Twentieth Book: OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses, in the Wooers’ beds, Resolving first to kill the maids. That sentence giving off, his care For other objects doth prepare.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
ψ. Jove’s thunder chides, But cheers the King, The Wooers’ prides Discomfiting.
Ulysses in the entry laid his head, And under him an ox-hide newly-flay’d, Above him sheep-fells store; and over those Eurynomé cast mantles. His repose Would bring no sleep yet, studying the ill He wish’d the Wooers; who came by him still With all their wenches, laughing, wantoning, In mutual lightness; which his heart did sting, Contending two ways, if, all patience fled, He should rush up and strike those strumpets dead, Or let that night be last, and take th’ extreme Of those proud Wooers, that were so supreme In pleasure of their high-fed fantasies. His heart did bark within him to surprise Their sports with spoils; no fell she-mastiff can, Amongst her whelps, fly eag’rer on a man She doth not know, yet scents him something near, And fain would come to please her tooth, and tear, Than his disdain, to see his roof so fil’d With those foul fashions, grew within him wild To be in blood of them. But, finding best In his free judgment to let passion rest, He chid his angry spirit, and beat his breast, And said: “Forbear, my mind, and think on this: There hath been time when bitter agonies Have tried thy patience. Call to mind the day In which the Cyclop, which pass’d manly sway Of violent strength, devour’d thy friends; thou then Stood’st firmly bold, till from that hellish den Thy wisdom brought thee off, when nought but death Thy thoughts resolv’d on.” This discourse did breathe The fiery boundings of his heart, that still Lay in that æsture, without end his ill Yet manly suff’ring. But from side to side It made him toss apace. You have not tried A fellow roasting of a pig before A hasty fire, his belly yielding store Of fat and blood, turn faster, labour more To have it roast, and would not have it burn, Than this and that way his unrest made turn His thoughts and body, would not quench the fire, And yet not have it heighten his desire Past his discretion, and the fit enough Of haste and speed, that went to all the proof His well-laid plots, and his exploits requir’d, Since he, but one, to all their deaths aspir’d. In this contention Pallas stoop’d from heav’n, Stood over him, and had her presence giv’n A woman’s form, who sternly thus began: “Why, thou most sour and wretched-fated man Of all that breathe, yet liest thou thus awake? The house in which thy cares so toss and take Thy quiet up is thine; thy wife is there; And such a son, as if thy wishes were To be suffic’d with one they could not mend.” “Goddess,” said he, “’tis true; but I contend To right their wrongs, and, though I be but one, To lay unhelp’d and wreakful hand upon This whole resort of impudents, that here Their rude assemblies never will forbear. And yet a greater doubt employs my care, That if their slaughters in my reaches are, And I perform them, Jove and you not pleas’d, How shall I fly their friends? And would stand seis’d Of counsel to resolve this care in me.” “Wretch,” she replied, “a friend of worse degree Might win thy credence, that a mortal were, I And us’d to second thee, though nothing near So pow’rful in performance nor in care; Yet I, a Goddess, that have still had share In thy achievements, and thy person’s guard, Must still be doubted by thy brain, so hard To credit anything above thy pow’r; And that must come from heav’n; if ev’ry hour There be not personal appearance made, And aid direct giv’n, that may sense invade. I’ll tell thee, therefore, clearly: If there were Of divers-languag’d men an army here Of fifty companies, all driving hence Thy sheep and oxen, and with violence Offer’d to charge us, and besiege us round, Thou shouldst their prey reprise, and them confound. Let sleep then seize thee. _To keep watch all night Consumes the spirits, and makes dull the sight.”_ Thus pour’d the Goddess sleep into his eyes, And reascended the Olympian skies. When care-and-lineament-resolving sleep Had laid his temples in his golden steep, His-wise-in-chaste-wit-worthy wife did rise, First sitting up in her soft bed, her eyes Open’d with tears, in care of her estate, Which now her friends resolv’d to terminate To more delays, and make her marry one. Her silent tears then ceas’d, her orison This Queen of women to Diana made: “Rev’rend Diana, let thy darts invade My woeful bosom, and my life deprive, Now at this instant, or soon after drive My soul with tempests forth, and give it way To those far-off dark vaults, where never day Hath pow’r to shine, and let them cast it down Where refluent Oceanus doth crown His curléd head, where Pluto’s orchard is, And entrance to our after miseries. As such stern whirlwinds ravish’d to that stream Pandareus’ daughters, when the Gods to them Had reft their parents, and them left alone, Poor orphan children, in their mansion; Whose desolate life did Love’s sweet Queen incline To nurse with presséd milk and sweetest wine; Whom Juno deck’d beyond all other dames With wisdom’s light, and beauty’s moving flames; Whom Phœbe goodliness of stature render’d; And to whose fair hands wise Minerva tender’d The loom and needle in their utmost skill; And while Love’s Empress scal’d th’ Olympian hill To beg of lightning-loving Jove (since he The means to all things knows, and doth decree Fortunes, infortunes, to the mortal race) For those poor virgins, the accomplish’d grace Of sweetest nuptials, the fierce Harpies prey’d On ev’ry good and miserable maid, And to the hateful Furies gave them all In horrid service; yet, may such fate fall From steep Olympus on my loathéd head, Or fair-chair’d Phœbe strike me instant dead, That I may undergo the gloomy shore To visit great Ulysses’ soul, before I soothe my idle blood and wed a worse. And yet, beneath how desperate a curse Do I live now! It is an ill that may Be well endur’d, to mourn the whole long day, So night’s sweet sleeps, that make a man forget Both bad and good, in some degree would let My thoughts leave grieving; but, both day and night, Some cruel God gives my sad memory sight. This night, methought, Ulysses grac’d my bed In all the goodly state with which he led The Grecian army; which gave joys extreme To my distress, esteeming it no dream, But true indeed; and that conceit I had, That when I saw it false I might be mad. Such cruel fates command in my life’s guide.” By this the morning’s orient dews had dyed The earth in all her colours; when the King, In his sweet sleep, suppos’d the sorrowing That she us’d waking in her plaintive bed To be her mourning, standing by his head, As having known him there; who straight arose, And did again within the hall dispose The carpets and the cushions, where before They serv’d the seats. The hide without the door He carried back, and then, with held-up hands, He pray’d to Him that heav’n and earth commands: “O Father Jove, if through the moist and dry You, willing, brought me home, when misery Had punish’d me enough by your free dooms, Let some of these within those inner rooms, Startled with horror of some strange ostent, Come here, and tell me that great Jove hath bent Threat’nings without at some lewd men within.” To this his pray’r Jove shook his sable chin, And thunder’d from those pure clouds that, above The breathing air, in bright Olympus move. Divine Ulysses joy’d to hear it roar. Report of which a woman-miller bore Straight to his ears; for near to him there ground Mills for his corn, that twice six women found Continual motion, grinding barley-meal, And wheat, man’s marrow. Sleep the eyes did seal Of all the other women, having done Their usual task; which yet this dame alone Had scarce giv’n end to, being, of all the rest, Least fit for labour. But when these sounds prest Her ears, above the rumbling of her mill, She let that stand, look’d out, and heav’n’s steep hill Saw clear and temp’rate; which made her (unware Of giving any comfort to his care In that strange sign he pray’d for) thus, invoke: “O King of men and Gods, a mighty stroke Thy thund’ring hand laid on the cope of stars, No cloud in all the air; and therefore wars Thou bidst to some men in thy sure ostent! Perform to me, poor wretch, the main event, And make this day the last, and most extreme, In which the Wooers’ pride shall solace them With whorish banquets in Ulysses’ roof, That, with sad toil to grind them meal enough, Have quite dissolv’d my knees. Vouchsafe, then, now Thy thunders may their latest feast foreshow.” This was the boon Ulysses begg’d of Jove,[1] Which, with his thunder, through his bosom drove A joy, that this vaunt breath’d: “Why now these men, Despite their pride, will Jove make pay me pain.” By this had other maids, than those that lay Mix’d with the Wooers, made a fire like day Amidst the hearth of the illustrious hall; And then the Prince, like a Celestial, Rose from his bed, to his embalm’d feet tied Fair shoes, his sword about his breast applied, Took to his hand his sharp-pil’d lance, and met, Amidst the entry, his old nurse, that set His haste at sudden stand; to whom he said: “O, my lov’d nurse, with what grace have you laid And fed my guest here? Could you so neglect His age, to lodge him thus? Though all respect I give my mother’s wisdom, I must yet Affirm it fail’d in this; for she hath set At much more price a man of much less worth, Without his person’s note, and yet casts forth With ignominious hands, for his form sake, A man much better.” “Do not faulty make, Good son, the faultless. He was giv’n his seat Close to her side, and food till he would eat, Wine till his wish was serv’d; for she requir’d His wants, and will’d him all things he desir’d; Commanded her chief maids to make his bed, But he, as one whom sorrow only fed And all infortune, would not take his rest In bed, and cov’rings fit for any guest, But in the entry, on an ox’s hide Never at tanner’s, his old limbs implied, In warm sheep-fells; yet over all we cast A mantle, fitting for a man more grac’d.” He took her answer, left the house, and went, Attended with his dogs, to sift th’ event Of private plots, betwixt him and his sire In common counsel. Then the crew entire Of all the household maids Euryclea bad Bestir them through the house, and see it clad In all best form; gave all their parts; and one She set to furnish ev’ry seat and throne With needle works, and purple clothes of state; Another set to scour and cleanse the plate; Another all the tables to make proud With porous sponges; others she bestow’d In all speed to the spring, to fetch from thence Fit store of water; all at all expence Of pains she will’d to be; for this to all Should be a day of common festival, And not a Wooer now should seek his home, Elsewhere than there, but all were bid to come Exceeding early, and be rais’d to heav’n With all the entertainment could be giv’n. They heard with greedy ears, and ev’rything Put straight in practice. Twenty to the spring Made speed for water; many in the house Took pains; and all were both laborious And skill’d in labour; many fell to fell And cleave their wood; and all did more than well. Then troop’d the lusty Wooers in; and then Came all from spring; at their heels loaded men With slaughter’d brawns, of all the herd the prize, That had been long fed-up in sev’ral styes; Eumæus and his men convey’d them there, He, seeing now the king, began to cheer, And thus saluted him: “How now, my guest? Have yet your virtues found more interest In these great Wooers’ good respects? Or still Pursue they you with all their wonted ill?” “I would to heav’n, Eumæus,” he replied, “The Deities once would take in hand their pride, That such unseemly fashions put in frame In others’ roofs, as show no spark of shame.” Thus these; and to these came Melanthius, Great guardian of the most egregious Rich Wooers’ herds, consisting all of goats; Which he, with two more, drave, and made their cotes The sounding porticos of that fair court. Melanthius, seeing the king, this former sort Of upland language gave: “What? Still stay here, And dull these Wooers with thy wretched cheer? Not gone for ever yet? Why now I see This strife of cuffs betwixt the beggary, That yesterday assay’d to get thee gone, And thy more roguery, needs will fall upon My hands to arbitrate. Thou wilt not hence Till I set on thee; thy ragg’d impudence Is so fast-footed. Are there not beside Other great banquetants, but you must tide At anchor still with us?” He nothing said, But thought of ill enough, and shook his head. Then came Philœtius, a chief of men, That to the Wooers’ all-devouring den A barren steer drave, and fat goats; for they In custom were with traffickers by sea, That who they would sent, and had utt’rance there. And for these likewise the fair porches were Hurdles and sheep-pens, as in any fair. Philœtius took note in his repair Of seen Ulysses, being a man as well Giv’n to his mind’s use as to buy and sell, Or do the drudg’ry that the blood desir’d, And, standing near Eumæus, this enquir’d: “What guest is this that makes our house of late His entertainer? Whence claims he the state His birth in this life holds? What nation? What race? What country stands his speech upon? O’er hardly portion’d by the terrible Fates. The structure of his lineaments relates A king’s resemblance in his pomp of reign Ev’n thus in these rags. But poor erring men, That have no firm home, but range here and there As need compels, God keeps in this earth’s sphere, As under water, and this tune he sings, When he is spinning ev’n the cares of kings.” Thus coming to him, with a kind of fear He took his hand, and, touch’d exceeding near With mere imagination of his worth, This salutation he sent loudly forth: “Health! Father stranger! In another world Be rich and happy, though thou here art hurl’d At feet of never such insulting Need. O Jove, there lives no one God of thy seed More ill to man than thou. Thou tak’st no ruth— When thou thyself hast got him in most truth— To wrap him in the straits of most distress, And in the curse of others’ wickedness. My brows have swet to see it, and mine eyes Broke all in tears, when this being still the guise Of worthiest men, I have but only thought, That down to these ills was Ulysses wrought, And that, thus clad, ev’n he is error-driv’n, If yet he live and sees the light of heav’n. But, if now dead, and in the house of hell, O me! O good Ulysses! That my weal Did ever wish, and when, but half a man Amongst the people Cephallenian, His bounty to his oxen’s charge preferr’d One in that youth; which now is grown a herd Unspeakable for number, and feed there With their broad heads, as thick as of his ear A field of corn is to a man. Yet these Some men advise me with this noted prease Of Wooers may devour, and wish me drive Up to their feasts with them, that neither give His son respect, though in his own free roof, Nor have the wit to fear th’ infallible proof Of Heav’nly vengeance, but make offer now The long-lack’d King’s possessions to bestow In their self-shares. Methinks the mind in me Doth turn as fast, as in a flood or sea A raging whirlpit doth, to gather in To fishy death those swimmers in their sin; Or feeds a motion as circular To drive my herds away. But while the son Bears up with life, ’twere heinous wrong to run To other people with them, and to trust Men of another earth. And yet more just It were to venture their laws, the main right Made still their masters, than at home lose quite Their right and them, and sit and grieve to see The wrong authoriz’d by their gluttony. And I had long since fled, and tried th’ event With other proud kings, since more insolent These are than can be borne, but that ev’n still I had a hope that this, though born to ill, Would one day come from some coast, and their last In his roofs strew with ruins red and vast.” “Herdsman,” said he, “because thou art in show Nor lewd nor indiscreet, and that I know There rules in thee an understanding soul, I’ll take an oath, that in thee shall control All doubt of what I swear: Be witness, Jove, That sway’st the first seat of the thron’d above, This hospitable table, and this house, That still hold title for the strenuous Son of Laertes, that, if so you please, Your eyes shall witness Laertiades Arriv’d at home, and all these men that reign In such excesses here shall here lie slain!” He answer’d: “Stranger! Would just Jove would sign What you have sworn! In your eyes’ beams should shine What pow’rs I manage, and how these my hands Would rise and follow where he first commands.” So said Eumæus, praying all the Sky That wise Ulysses might arrive and try. Thus while they vow’d, the Wooers sat as hard On his son’s death, but had their counsels scar’d, For on their left hand did an eagle soar, And in her seres a fearful pigeon bore. Which seen, Amphinomus presag’d: “O friends, Our counsels never will receive their ends In this man’s slaughter. Let us therefore ply Our bloody feast, and make his oxen die.” Thus came they in, cast off on seats their cloaks, And fell to giving sacrificing strokes Of sheep and goats, the chiefly fat and great, Slew fed-up swine, and from the herd a neat. The inwards roasted they dispos’d bewixt Their then observers, wine in flagons mixt. The bowls Eumæus brought, Philœtius bread, Melanthius fill’d the wine. Thus drank and fed The feastful Wooers. Then the prince, in grace Of his close project, did his father place Amidst the pavéd entry, in a seat Seemless and abject, a small board and meat Of th’ only inwards; in a cup of gold Yet sent him wine, and bade him now drink bold, All his approaches he himself would free ’Gainst all the Wooers, since he would not see His court made popular, but that his sire Built it to his use. Therefore all the fire Blown in the Wooers’ spleens he bade suppress, And that in hands nor words they should digress From that set peace his speech did then proclaim. They bit their lips and wonder’d at his aim In that brave language; when Antinous said: “Though this speech, Grecians, be a mere upbraid, Yet this time give it pass. The will of Jove Forbids the violence of our hands to move, But of our tongues we keep the motion free, And, therefore, if his further jollity Tempt our encounter with his braves, let’s check His growing insolence, though pride to speak Fly passing high with him.” The wise prince made No more spring of his speech, but let it fade. And now the heralds bore about the town The sacred hecatomb; to whose renown The fair-hair’d Greeks assembled, and beneath Apollo’s shady wood the holy death They put to fire; which, made enough, they drew, Divided all, that did in th’ end accrue To glorious satisfaction. Those that were Disposers of the feast did equal cheer Bestow on wretched Laertiades, With all the Wooers’ souls; it so did please Telemachus to charge them. And for these Minerva would not see the malices The Wooers bore too much contain’d, that so Ulysses’ mov’d heart yet might higher flow In wreakful anguish. There was wooing there, Amongst the rest, a gallant that did bear The name of one well-learn’d in jests profane, His name Ctesippus, born a Samian; Who, proud because his father was so rich, Had so much confidence as did bewitch His heart with hope to wed Ulysses’ wife; And this man said: “Hear me, my lords, in strife For this great widow. This her guest did share Even feast with us, with very comely care Of him that order’d it; for ’tis not good Nor equal to deprive guests of their food, And specially whatever guest makes way To that house where Telemachus doth sway; And therefore I will add to his receit A gift of very hospitable weight, Which he may give again to any maid That bathes his grave feet, and her pains see paid, Or any servant else that the divine Ulysses’ lofty battlements confine.” Thus snatch’d he with a valiant hand, from out The poor folks’ common basket, a neat’s foot, And threw it at Ulysses; who his head Shrunk quietly aside, and let it shed His malice on the wall; the suff’ring man A laughter raising most Sardinian, With scorn and wrath mix’d, at the Samian. Whom thus the prince reprov’d: “Your valour wan Much grace, Ctesippus, and hath eas’d your mind With mighty profit, yet you see it find No mark it aim’d at; the poor stranger’s part Himself made good enough, to ’scape your dart. But should I serve thee worthily, my lance Should strike thy heart through, and, in place t’ advance Thyself in nuptials with his wealth, thy sire Should make thy tomb here; that the foolish fire Of all such valours may not dare to show These foul indecencies to me. I now Have years to understand my strength, and know The good and bad of things, and am no more At your large suff’rance, to behold my store Consum’d with patience, see my cattle slain, My wine exhausted, and my bread in vain Spent on your license; for to one then young So many enemies were match too strong. But let me never more be witness to Your hostile minds, nor those base deeds ye do; For, should ye kill me in my offer’d wreak, I wish it rather, and my death would speak Much more good of me, than to live and see Indignity upon indignity, My guests provok’d with bitter words and blows, My women-servants dragg’d about my house To lust and rapture.” This made silence seize The house throughout; till Damastorides At length the calm brake, and said: “Friend, forbear To give a just speech a disdainful ear; The guest no more touch, nor no servant here. Myself will to the Prince and Queen commend A motion grateful, if they please to lend Grateful receipt. As long as any hope Left wise Ulysses any passage ope To his return in our conceits, so long The Queen’s delays to our demands stood strong In cause and reason, and our quarrels thus With guests, the Queen, or her Telemachus, Set never foot amongst our lib’ral feast; For should the King return, though thought deceas’d, It had been gain to us, in finding him, To lose his wife. But now, since nothing dim The days break out that show he never more Shall reach the dear touch of his country-shore, Sit by your mother, in persuasion That now it stands her honour much upon To choose the best of us, and, who gives most, To go with him home. For so, all things lost In sticking on our haunt so, you shall clear Recover in our no more concourse here, Possess your birth-right wholly, eat and drink, And never more on our disgraces think.” “By Jove, no, Agelaus! For I swear By all my father’s sorrows, who doth err Far off from Ithaca, or rests in death, I am so far from spending but my breath To make my mother any more defer Her wishéd nuptials, that I’ll counsel her To make her free choice; and besides will give Large gifts to move her. But I fear to drive Or charge her hence; for God will not give way To any such course, if I should assay.” At this, Minerva made for foolish joy The Wooers mad, and rous’d their late annoy To such a laughter as would never down. They laugh’d with others’ cheeks, ate meat o’erflown With their own bloods, their eyes stood full of tears For violent joys; their souls yet thought of fears, Which Theoclymenus express’d, and said: “O wretches! Why sustain ye, well apaid, Your imminent ill? A night, with which death sees, Your heads and faces hides beneath your knees; Shrieks burn about you; your eyes thrust out tears; These fixéd walls, and that main beam that bears The whole house up, in bloody torrents fall; The entry full of ghosts stands; full the hall Of passengers to hell; and under all The dismal shades; the sun sinks from the poles; And troubled air pours bane about your souls.” They sweetly laughed at this. Eurymachus To mocks dispos’d, and said: “This new-come-t’-us Is surely mad, conduct him forth to light In th’ open market-place; he thinks ’tis night Within the house.” “Eurymachus,” said he, “I will not ask for any guide of thee, I both my feet enjoy, have ears and eyes, And no mad soul within me; and with these Will I go forth the doors, because I know That imminent mischief must abide with you, Which not a man of all the Wooers here Shall fly or ’scape. Ye all too highly bear Your uncurb’d heads. Impieties ye commit, And ev’ry man affect with forms unfit.” This said, he left the house, and took his way Home to Piræus; who, as free as day, Was of his welcome. When the Wooers’ eyes Chang’d looks with one another, and, their guise Of laughters still held on, still eas’d their breasts Of will to set the Prince against his guests, Affirming that of all the men alive He worst luck had, and prov’d it worst to give Guests entertainment; for he had one there A wand’ring hunter-out of provender, An errant beggar ev’ry way, yet thought (He was so hungry) that he needed nought But wine and victuals, nor knew how to do, Nor had a spirit to put a knowledge to, But liv’d an idle burthen to the earth. Another then stepp’d up, and would lay forth His lips in prophecy, thus: “But, would he hear His friends’ persuasions, he should find it were More profit for him to put both aboard For the Sicilian people, that afford These feet of men good price; and this would bring[2] Good means for better guests.” These words made wing To his ears idly, who had still his eye Upon his father, looking fervently When he would lay his long-withholding hand On those proud Wooers. And, within command Of all this speech that pass’d, Icarius’ heir, The wise Penelope, her royal chair Had plac’d of purpose. Their high dinner then With all-pleas’d palates these ridiculous men Fell sweetly to, as joying they had slain Such store of banquet. But there did not reign A bitterer banquet-planet in all heav’n Than that which Pallas had to that day driv’n, And, with her able friend now, meant t’ appose, Since they till then were in deserts so gross.
THE END OF THE TWENTIETH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
[1] Viz. That some from within might issue, and witness in his hearing some wreakful ostent to his enemies from heaven.Return to passage
[2] These feet of men, etc. ἀνδραποδισταί.Return to passage
THE TWENTY-FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Penelope proposeth now To him that draws Ulysses’ bow Her instant nuptials. Ithacus Eumæus and Philœtius Gives charge for guarding of the gates; And he his shaft shoots through the plates.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Φι̑. The nuptial vow And game rehears’d, Drawn is the bow, The steels are pierc’d.
Pallas, the Goddess with the sparkling eyes, Excites Penelope t’ object the prize, The bow and bright steels, to the Wooers’ strength And here began the strife and blood at length. She first ascended by a lofty stair Her utmost chamber; of whose door her fair And half transparent hand receiv’d the key, Bright, brazen, bitted passing curiously, And at it hung a knob of ivory. And this did lead her where was strongly kept The treasure-royal; in whose store lay heapt Gold, brass, and steel, engrav’n with infinite art; The crooked bow, and arrowy quiver, part Of that rich magazine. In the quiver were Arrows a number, sharp and sighing gear. The bow was giv’n by kind Eurytides Iphitus, fashion’d like the Deities, To young Ulysses, when within the roof Of wise Orsilochus their pass had proof Of mutual meeting in Messena; where Ulysses claim’d a debt, to whose pay were The whole Messenian people bound, since they From Ithaca had forc’d a wealthy prey Of sheep and shepherds. In their ships they thrust Three hundred sheep together; for whose just And instant rendry old Laertes sent Ulysses his ambassador, that went A long way in the ambassy, yet then Bore but the foremost prime of youngest men; His father sending first to that affair His gravest counsellors, and then his heir. Iphitus made his way there, having lost Twelve female horse, and mules commended most For use of burthen; which were after cause Of death and fate to him; for, past all laws Of hospitality, Jove’s mighty son, Skill’d in great acts, was his confusion Close by his house, though at that time his guest, Respecting neither the apposéd feast, And hospitable table, that in love He set before him, nor the voice of Jove, But, seizing first his mares, he after slew His host himself. From those mares’ search now grew Ulysses known t’ Iphitus; who that bow At their encounter did in love bestow, Which great Eurytus’ hand had borne before, (Iphitus’ father) who, at death’s sad door, In his steep turrets, left it to his son. Ulysses gave him a keen falchion, And mighty lance. And thus began they there Their fatal loves; for after never were Their mutual tables to each other known, Because Jove’s son th’ unworthy part had shown Of slaughtering this God-like loving man, Eurytus’ son, who with that bow began And ended love t’ Ulysses; who so dear A gift esteem’d it, that he would not bear In his black fleet that guest-rite to the war, But, in fit memory of one so far In his affection, brought it home, and kept His treasure with it; where till now it slept. And now the Queen of women had intent To give it use, and therefore made ascent Up all the stairs’ height to the chamber door, Whose shining leaves two bright pilasters bore To such a close when both together went It would resist the air in their consent. The ring she took then, and did draw aside A bar that ran within, and then implied The key into the lock, which gave a sound, The bolt then shooting, as in pasture ground A bull doth low, and make the valleys ring; So loud the lock humm’d when it loos’d the spring, And ope the doors flew. In she went, along The lofty chamber, that was boarded strong With heart of oak, which many years ago The architect did smooth and polish so That now as then he made it freshly shine, And tried the evenness of it with a line. There stood in this room presses that enclos’d Robes odoriferous, by which repos’d The bow was upon pins; nor from it far Hung the round quiver glitt’ring like a star; Both which her white extended hand took down. Then sat she low, and made her lap a crown Of both these relics, which she wept to see, And cried quite out with loving memory Of her dear lord; to whose worth paying then Kind debts enow, she left, and, to the men Vow’d to her wooing, brought the crooked bow, And shaft-receiving quiver, that did flow With arrows beating sighs up where they fell. Then, with another chest, replete as well With games won by the King, of steel and brass, Her maids attended. Past whom making pass To where her Wooers were, she made her stay Amidst the fair hall door, and kept the ray Of her bright count’nance hid with veils so thin, That though they seem’d t’ expose, they let love in; Her maids on both sides stood; and thus she spake: “Hear me, ye Wooers, that a pleasure take To do me sorrow, and my house invade To eat and drink, as if ’twere only made To serve your rapines; my lord long away, And you allow’d no colour for your stay But his still absence; striving who shall frame Me for his wife; and, since ’tis made a game, I here propose divine Ulysses’ bow For that great master-piece to which ye vow. He that can draw it with least show to strive, And through these twelve axe-heads an arrow drive, Him will I follow, and this house forego That nourish’d me a maid, now furnish’d so With all things fit, and which I so esteem That I shall still live in it in my dream.” This said, she made Eumæus give it them. He took and laid it by, and wept for woe; And like him wept Philœtius, when the bow Of which his king was bearer he beheld. Their tears Antinous’ manhood much refell’d, And said: “Ye rustic fools! that still each day Your minds give over to this vain dismay, Why weep ye, wretches, and the widow’s eyes Tempt with renew’d thought, that would otherwise Depose her sorrows, since her lord is dead, And tears are idle? Sit, and eat your bread, Nor whisper more a word; or get ye gone, And weep without doors. Let this bow alone To our out-match’d contention. For I fear The bow will scarce yield draught to any here; Here no such man lives as Laertes’ son Amongst us all. I knew him; thought puts on His look’s sight now, methinks, though then a child.” Thus show’d his words doubt, yet his hopes instill’d His strength the stretcher of Ulysses’ string, And his steels’ piercer. But his shaft must sing Through his pierc’d palate first; whom so he wrong’d In his free roof, and made the rest ill-tongued Against his virtues. Then the sacred heat That spirited his son did further set Their confidence on fire, and said: “O friends, Jove hath bereft my wits. The Queen intends, Though I must grant her wise, ere long to leave Ulysses’ court, and to her bed receive Some other lord; yet, notwithstanding, I Am forc’d to laugh, and set my pleasures high Like one mad sick. But, Wooers, since ye have An object for your trials now so brave, As all the broad Achaian earth exceeds, As sacred Pylos, as the Argive breeds, As black Epirus, as Mycena’s birth, And as the more fam’d Ithacensian earth, All which, yourselves well know, and oft have said— For what need hath my mother of my aid In her advancement?—tender no excuse For least delay, nor too much time profuse In stay to draw this bow, but draw it straight, Shoot, and the steels pierce; make all see how slight You make these poor bars to so rich a prize. No eag’rer yet? Come all. My faculties Shall try the bow’s strength, and the piercéd steel. I will not for my rev’rend mother feel The sorrows that I know will seize my heart, To see her follow any, and depart From her so long-held home; but first extend The bow and arrow to their tender’d end. For I am only to succeed my sire In guard of his games, and let none aspire To their besides possession.” This said, His purple robe he cast off; by he laid His well-edg’d sword; and, first, a sev’ral pit He digg’d for ev’ry axe, and strengthen’d it With earth close ramm’d about it; on a rew Set them, of one height, by a line he drew Along the whole twelve; and so orderly Did ev’ry deed belonging (yet his eye Never before beholding how ’twas done) That in amaze rose all his lookers-on. Then stood he near the door, and prov’d to draw The stubborn bow. Thrice tried, and thrice gave law To his uncrown’d attempts; the fourth assay With all force off’ring, which a sign gave stay Giv’n by his father; though he show’d a mind As if he stood right heartily inclin’d To perfect the exploit, when all was done In only drift to set the Wooers on. His weakness yet confess’d, he said: “O shame! I either shall be ever of no name, But prove a wretch; or else I am too young, And must not now presume on pow’rs so strong As sinews yet more growing may engraft, To turn a man quite over with a shaft. Besides, to men whose nerves are best prepar’d, All great adventures at first proof are hard. But come, you stronger men, attempt this bow, And let us end our labour.” Thus, below A well-join’d board he laid it, and close by The brightly-headed shaft; then thron’d his thigh Amidst his late-left seat. Antinous then Bade all arise; but first, who did sustain The cup’s state ever, and did sacrifice Before they ate still, and that man bade rise, Since on the other’s right hand he was plac’d, Because he held the right hand’s rising, grac’d With best success still. This discretion won Supreme applause; and first rose Œnops’ son, Liodes, that was priest to all the rest, Sat lowest with the cup still, and their jest Could never like, but ever was the man That check’d their follies; and he now began To taste the bow, the sharp shaft took, tugg’d hard, And held aloft, and, till he quite had marr’d His delicate tender fingers, could not stir The churlish string; who therefore did refer The game to others, saying, that same bow, In his presage, would prove the overthrow Of many a chief man there; nor thought the fate Was any whit austere, since death’s short date Were much the better taken, than long life Without the object of their amorous strife, For whom they had burn’d-out so many days To find still other, nothing but delays Obtaining in them; and affirm’d that now Some hop’d to have her, but when that tough bow They all had tried, and seen the utmost done, They must rest pleas’d to cease; and now some one Of all their other fair-veil’d Grecian dames With gifts, and dower, and Hymeneal flames, Let her love light to him that most will give, And whom the nuptial destiny did drive. Thus laid he on the well-join’d polish’d board The bow and bright-pil’d shaft, and then restor’d His seat his right. To him Antinous Gave bitter language, and reprov’d him thus: “What words, Liodes, pass thy speech’s guard, That ’tis a work to bear, and set so hard They set up my disdain! This bow must end The best of us? Since thy arms cannot lend The string least motion? Thy mother’s throes Brought never forth thy arms to draught of bows, Or knitting shafts off. Though thou canst not draw The sturdy plant, thou art to us no law. Melanthius! Light a fire, and set thereat A chair and cushions, and that mass of fat That lies within bring out, that we may set Our pages to this bow, to see it het And suppled with the suet, and then we May give it draught, and pay this great decree Utmost performance.” He a mighty fire Gave instant flame, put into act th’ entire Command laid on him, chair and cushions set, Laid on the bow, which straight the pages het, Chaf’d, suppled with the suet to their most; And still was all their unctuous labour lost, All Wooers’ strengths too indigent and poor To draw that bow; Antinous’ arms it tore, And great Eurymachus’, the both clear best, Yet both it tir’d, and made them glad to rest. Forth then went both the swains, and after them Divine Ulysses; when, being past th’ extreme Of all the gates, with winning words he tried Their loves, and this ask’d: “Shall my counsels hide Their depths from you? My mind would gladly know If suddenly Ulysses had his vow Made good for home, and had some God to guide His steps and strokes to wreak these Wooers’ pride, Would your aids join on his part, or with theirs? How stand your hearts affected?” They made pray’rs That some God would please to return their lord, He then should see how far they would afford Their lives for his. He, seeing their truth, replied; “I am your lord, through many a suff’rance tried, Arriv’d now here, whom twenty years have held From forth my country. Yet are not conceal’d From my sure knowledge your desires to see My safe return. Of all the company Now serving here besides, not one but you Mine ear hath witness’d willing to bestow Their wishes of my life, so long held dead. I therefore vow, which shall be perfected, That if God please beneath my hand to leave These Wooers lifeless, ye shall both receive Wives from that hand, and means, and near to me Have houses built to you, and both shall be As friends and brothers to my only son. And, that ye well may know me, and be won To that assurance, the infallible sign The white-tooth’d boar gave, this mark’d knee of mine, When in Parnassus he was held in chase By me, and by my famous grandsire’s race, I’ll let you see.” Thus sever’d he his weed From that his wound; and ev’ry word had deed In their sure knowledges. Which made them cast Their arms about him, his broad breast embrac’d, His neck and shoulders kiss’d. And him as well Did those true pow’rs of human love compell To kiss their heads and hands, and to their moan Had sent the free light of the cheerful sun, Had not Ulysses broke the ruth, and said; “Cease tears and sorrows, lest we prove display’d By some that issue from the house, and they Relate to those within. Take each his way, Not altogether in, but one by one, First I, then you; and then see this be done; The envious Wooers will by no means give The offer of the bow and arrow leave To come at me; spite then their pride, do thou, My good Eumæus, bring both shaft and bow To my hand’s proof; and charge the maids before That instantly they shut in ev’ry door, That they themselves (if any tumult rise Beneath my roofs by any that envies My will to undertake the game) may gain No passage forth, but close at work contain With all free quiet, or at least constrain’d, And therefore, my Philœtius, see maintain’d, When close the gates are shut, their closure fast, To which end be it thy sole work to cast Their chains before them.” This said, in he led, Took first his seat; and then they seconded His entry with their own. Then took in hand Eurymachus the bow, made close his stand Aside the fire, at whose heat here and there He warm’d and suppled it, yet could not stere To any draught the string, with all his art; And therefore swell’d in him his glorious heart, Affirming, “that himself and all his friends Had cause to grieve, not only that their ends They miss’d in marriage, since enough besides Kind Grecian dames there liv’d to be their brides In Ithaca, and other bord’ring towns, But that to all times future their renowns Would stand disparag’d, if Ulysses’ bow They could not draw, and yet his wife would woo.” Antinous answer’d; “That there could ensue No shame at all to them; for well he knew That this day was kept holy to the Sun By all the city, and there should be done No such profane act, therefore bade lay by The bow for that day; but the mastery Of axes that were set up still might stand, Since that no labour was, nor any hand Would offer to invade Ulysses’ house, To take, or touch with surreptitious Or violent hand, what there was left for use. He, therefore, bade the cup-bearer infuse Wine to the bowls, that so with sacrifice They might let rest the shooting exercise, And in the morning make Melanthius bring The chief goats of his herd, that to the King Of bows and archers they might burn the thighs For good success, and then attempt the prize.” The rest sat pleas’d with this. The heralds straight Pour’d water on their hands; each page did wait With his crown’d cup of wine, serv’d ev’ry man Till all were satisfied. And then began Ulysses’ plot of his close purpose thus: “Hear me, ye much renown’d Eurymachus, And king Antinous, in chief, who well, And with decorum sacred, doth compell This day’s observance, and to let lay down The bow all this light, giving Gods their own. The morning’s labour God the more will bless, And strength bestow where he himself shall please. Against which time let me presume to pray Your favours with the rest, that this assay May my old arms prove, trying if there lie In my poor pow’rs the same activity That long since crown’d them; or if needy fare And desolate wand’ring have the web worn bare Of my life’s thread at all parts, that no more Can furnish these affairs as heretofore.” This het their spleens past measure, blown with fear Lest his loath’d temples would the garland wear Of that bow’s draught; Antinous using speech To this sour purpose: “Thou most arrant wretch Of all guests breathing, in no least degree Grac’d with a human soul, it serves not thee To feast in peace with us, take equal share Of what we reach to, sit, and all things hear That we speak freely,—which no begging guest Did ever yet,—but thou must make request To mix with us in merit of the Queen. But wine inflames thee, that hath ever been The bane of men whoever yet would take Th’ excess it offers and the mean forsake. Wine spoil’d the Centaur great Eurytion, In guest-rites with the mighty-minded son Of bold Ixion, in his way to war Against the Lapithes; who, driv’n as far As madness with the bold effects of wine, Did outrage to his kind host, and decline Other heroës from him feasted there With so much anger that they left their cheer, And dragg’d him forth the fore-court, slit his nose, Cropp’d both his ears, and, in the ill-dispose His mind then suffer’d, drew the fatal day On his head with his host; for thence the fray Betwixt the Centaurs and the Lapithes Had mortal act. But he for his excess In spoil of wine fared worse himself; as thou For thy large cups, if thy arms draw the bow, My mind fortells shalt fear; for not a man Of all our consort, that in wisdom can Boast any fit share, will take prayers then, But to Echetus, the most stern of men, A black sail freight with thee, whose worst of ill, Be sure, is past all ransom. Sit, then, still, Drink temp’rately, and never more contend With men your youngers.” This the Queen did end With her defence of him, and told his foe It was not fair nor equal t’ overcrow The poorest guest her son pleas’d t’ entertain In his free turrets with so proud a strain Of threats and bravings; asking if he thought, That if the stranger to his arms had brought The stubborn bow down, he should marry her, And bear her home? And said, himself should err In no such hope; nor of them all the best That griev’d at any good she did her guest Should banquet there; since it in no sort show’d Noblesse in them, nor paid her what she ow’d Her own free rule there. This Eurymachus Confirm’d and said: “Nor feeds it hope in us, Icarius’ daughter, to solemnize rites Of nuptials with thee; nor in noblest sights It can show comely; but to our respects The rumour both of sexes and of sects Amongst the people would breed shame and fear, Lest any worst Greek said: ‘See, men that were Of mean deservings will presume t’ aspire To his wife’s bed, whom all men did admire For fame and merit, could not draw his bow, And yet his wife had foolish pride to woo, When straight an errant beggar comes and draws The bow with ease, performing all the laws The game besides contain’d’; and this would thus Prove both indignity and shame to us.” The Queen replied: “The fame of men, I see, Bears much price in your great suppos’d degree; Yet who can prove amongst the people great, That of one so esteem’d of them the seat Doth so defame and ruin? And beside, With what right is this guest thus vilified In your high censures, when the man in blood Is well compos’d and great, his parents good?[1] And therefore give the bow to him, to try His birth and breeding by his chivalry. If his arms draw it, and that Phœbus stands So great a glory to his strength, my hands Shall add this guerdon: Ev’ry sort of weed, A two-edg’d sword, and lance to keep him freed From dogs and men hereafter, and dismiss His worth to what place tends that heart of his.” Her son gave answer: “That it was a wrong To his free sway in all things that belong To guard of that house, to demand the bow Of any Wooer, and the use bestow Upon the stranger: for the bow was his To give or to withhold; no masteries Of her proposing giving any pow’r T’ impair his right in things for any Wooer, Or any that rough Ithaca affords, Any that Elis; of which no man’s words Nor pow’rs should curb him, stood he so inclin’d, To see the bow in absolute gift resign’d To that his guest to bear and use at will, And therefore bade his mother keep her still Amongst her women at her rock and loom; Bows were for men; and this bow did become Past all men’s his disposure, since his sire Left it to him, and all the house entire.” She stood dismay’d at this, and in her mind His wise words laid up, standing so inclin’d As he had will’d, with all her women going Up to her chamber, there her tears bestowing, As ev’ry night she did, on her lov’d lord, Till sleep and Pallas her fit rest restor’d. The bow Eumæus took, and bore away; Which up in tumult, and almost in fray, Put all the Wooers, one enquiring thus: “Whither, rogue, abject, wilt thou bear from us That bow propos’d? Lay down, or I protest Thy dogs shall eat thee, that thou nourishest To guard thy swine; amongst whom, left of all, Thy life shall leave thee, if the festival, We now observe to Phœbus, may our zeals Grace with his aid, and all the Deities else.” This threat made good Eumæus yield the bow To his late place, not knowing what might grow From such a multitude. And then fell on Telemachus with threats, and said: “Set gone That bow yet further; ’tis no servant’s part To serve too many masters; raise your heart And bear it off, lest, though you’re younger, yet With stones I pelt you to the field with it. If you and I close, I shall prove too strong. I wish as much too hard for all this throng The Gods would make me, I should quickly send Some after with just sorrow to their end, They waste my victuals so, and ply my cup, And do me such shrewd turns still.” This put up The Wooers all in laughters, and put down Their angers to him, that so late were grown So grave and bloody; which resolv’d that fear Of good Eumæus, who did take and bear The King the bow; call’d nurse, and bade her make The doors all sure, that if men’s tumults take The ears of some within, they may not fly, But keep at work still close and silently. These words put wings to her, and close she put The chamber door. The court-gates then were shut By kind Philœtius, who straight did go From out the hall, and in the portico Found laid a gable of a ship, compos’d Of spongy bulrushes; with which he clos’d, In winding round about them, the court-gates, Then took his place again, to view the fates That quickly follow’d. When he came, he saw Ulysses viewing, ere he tried to draw, The famous bow, which ev’ry way he mov’d, Up and down turning it; in which be prov’d The plight it was in, fearing, chiefly, lest The horns were eat with worms in so long rest. But what his thoughts intended turning so, And keeping such a search about the bow, The Wooers little knowing fell to jest, And said: “Past doubt he is a man profest In bowyers’ craft, and sees quite through the wood; Or something, certain, to be understood There is in this his turning of it still. A cunning rogue he is at any ill.” Then spake another proud one: “Would to heav’n, I might, at will, get gold till he hath giv’n That bow his draught!” With these sharp jests did these Delightsome Woo’rs their fatal humours please. But when the wise Ulysses once had laid His fingers on it, and to proof survey’d The still sound plight it held, as one of skill In song, and of the harp, doth at his will, In tuning of his instrument, extend A string out with his pin, touch all, and lend To ev’ry well-wreath’d string his perfect sound, Struck all together; with such ease drew round The King the bow. Then twang’d he up the string, That as a swallow in the air doth sing With no continued tune, but, pausing still, Twinks out her scatter’d voice in accents shrill; So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch, Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much Amaz’d the Wooers, that their colours went And came most grievously. And then Jove rent The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer The now-enough-sustaining traveller, That Jove again would his attempt enable. Then took he into hand, from off the table, The first drawn arrow: and a number more Spent shortly on the Wooers; but this one He measur’d by his arm, as if not known The length were to him, nock’d it then, and drew; And through the axes, at the first hole, flew The steel-charg’d arrow; which when he had done He thus bespake the Prince: “You have not won Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook The mark I shot at, and no such toil took In wearying the bow with fat and fire As did the Wooers. Yet reserv’d entire, Thank Heav’n, my strength is, and myself am tried, No man to be so basely vilified As these men pleas’d to think me. But, free way Take that, and all their pleasures; and while day Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest, Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill’d board.” This said, he beckon’d to his son; whose sword He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance, And cómplete-arm’d did to his sire advance.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-FIRST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
[1] Εὐπηγής, bene compactus et coagmentatus.Return to passage
THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
The Wooers in Minerva’s sight Slain by Ulysses; all the light And lustful housewives by his son And servants are to slaughter done.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Χι̑. The end of pride, And lawless lust, Is wretched tried With slaughters just.
The upper rags that wise Ulysses wore Cast off, he rusheth to the great hall door With bow and quiver full of shafts, which down He pour’d before his feet, and thus made known His true state to the Wooers: “This strife thus Hath harmless been decided; now for us There rests another mark, more hard to hit, And such as never man before hath smit; Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay, And try if Phœbus will give me his day.” He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust Right at Antinous; and struck him just As he was lifting up the bowl, to show That ’twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow. Death touch’d not at his thoughts at feast; for who Would think that he alone could perish so Amongst so many, and he best of all? The arrow in his throat took full his fall, And thrust his head far through the other side. Down fell his cup, down he, down all his pride; Straight from his nostrils gush’d the human gore; And, as he fell, his feet far overbore The feastful table; all the roast and bread About the house strew’d. When his high-born head The rest beheld so low, up rush’d they all, And ransack’d ev’ry corner of the hall For shields and darts; but all fled far their reach. Then fell they foul on him with terrible speech, And told him it should prove the dearest shaft That ever pass’d him; and that now was saft No shift for him, but sure and sudden death; For he had slain a man, whose like did breathe In no part of the kingdom; and that now He should no more for games strive with his bow, But vultures eat him there. These threats they spent, Yet ev’ry man believ’d that stern event Chanc’d ’gainst the author’s will. O fools, to think That all their rest had any cup to drink But what their great Antinous began! He, frowning, said: “Dogs, see in me the man Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries File with my women’s rapes; in which ye woo The wife of one that lives, and no thought show Of man’s fit fear, or God’s, your present fame, Or any fair sense of your future name; And, therefore, present and eternal death Shall end your base life.” This made fresh fears breathe Their former boldness. Ev’ry man had eye On all the means, and studied ways to fly So deep deaths imminent. But seeing none, Eurymachus began with suppliant moan To move his pity, saying: “If you be This isle’s Ulysses, we must all agree, In grant of your reproof’s integrity, The Greeks have done you many a wrong at home, At field as many. But of all the sum Lies here contract in death; for only he Impos’d the whole ill-offices that we Are now made guilty of, and not so much Sought his endeavours, or in thought did touch At any nuptials, but a greater thing Employ’d his forces; for to be our king Was his chief object; his sole plot it was To kill your son, which Jove’s hand would not pass, But set it to his own most merited end. In which end your just anger, nor extend Your stern wreak further; spend your royal pow’rs In mild ruth of your people; we are yours; And whatsoever waste of wine or food Our liberties have made, we’ll make all good In restitutions. Call a court, and pass A fine of twenty oxen, gold, and brass, On ev’ry head, and raise your most rates still, Till you are pleas’d with your confesséd fill. Which if we fail to tender, all your wrath It shall be justice in our bloods to bathe.” “Eurymachus,” said he, “if you would give All that your fathers’ hoard, to make ye live, And all that ever you yourselves possess, Or shall by any industry increase, I would not cease from slaughter, till your bloods Had bought out your intemp’rance in my goods. It rests now for you that you either fight That will ’scape death, or make your way by flight. In whose best choice, my thoughts conceive, not one Shall shun the death your first hath undergone.” This quite dissolv’d their knees. Eurymachus, Enforcing all their fears, yet counsell’d thus: “O friends! This man, now he hath got the bow And quiver by him, ever will bestow His most inaccessible hands at us, And never leave, if we avoid him thus, Till he hath strewn the pavement with us all; And, therefore, join we swords, and on him fall With tables forc’d up, and borne in oppos’d Against his sharp shafts; when, being round-enclos’d By all our onsets, we shall either take His horrid person, or for safety make His rage retire from out the hall and gates; And then, if he escape, we’ll make our states Known to the city by our gen’ral cry. And thus this man shall let his last shaft fly That ever his hand vaunted.” Thus he drew His sharp-edg’d sword; and with a table flew In on Ulysses, with a terrible throat His fierce charge urging. But Ulysses smote The board, and cleft it through from end to end Borne at his breast; and made his shaft extend His sharp head to his liver, his broad breast Pierc’d at his nipple; when his hand releast Forthwith his sword, that fell and kiss’d the ground, With cups and victuals lying scatter’d round About the pavement; amongst which his brow Knock’d the imbrued earth, while in pains did flow His vital spirits, till his heels shook out His feastful life, and hurl’d a throne about That way-laid death’s convulsions in his feet; When from his tender eyes the light did fleet. Then charg’d Amphinomus with his drawn blade The glorious king, in purpose to have made His feet forsake the house; but his assay The prince prevented, and his lance gave way Quite through his shoulder, at his back; his breast The fierce pile letting forth. His ruin prest Groans from the pavement, which his forehead strook. Telemachus his long lance then forsook— Left in Amphinomus—and to his sire Made fiery pass, not staying to acquire His lance again, in doubt that, while he drew The fixéd pile, some other might renew Fierce charge upon him, and his unharm’d head Cleave with his back-drawn sword; for which he fled Close to his father, bade him arm, and he Would bring him shield and jav’lins instantly, His own head arming, more arms laying by To serve the swine-herd and the oxen-herd. Valour well arm’d is ever most preferr’d. “Run then,” said he, “and come before the last Of these auxiliary shafts are past, For fear, lest, left alone, they force my stand From forth the ports.” He flew, and brought to hand Eight darts, four shields, four helms. His own parts then First put in arms, he furnish’d both his men, That to their king stood close; but he, as long As he had shafts to friend, enough was strong For all the Wooers, and some one man still He made make even with earth, till all a hill Had rais’d in th’ even-floor’d hall. His last shaft spent, He set his bow against a beam, and went To arm at all parts, while the other three Kept off the Wooers, who, unarm’d, could be No great assailants. In the well-built wall A window was thrust out, at end of all The house’s entry; on whose utter side There lay a way to town, and in it wide And two-leav’d folds were forg’d, that gave fit mean For flyers-out; and, therefore, at it then Ulysses plac’d Eumæus in close guard; One only pass ope to it, which (prepar’d In this sort by Ulysses ’gainst all pass) By Agelaus’ tardy memory was In question call’d, who bade some one ascend At such a window, and bring straight to friend The city with his clamour, that this man Might quickly shoot his last. “This no one can Make safe access to,” said Melanthius, “For ’tis too near the hall’s fair doors, whence thus The man afflicts ye; for from thence there lies But one strait passage to it, that denies Access to all, if any one man stand, Being one of courage, and will countermand Our offer to it. But I know a way To bring you arms, from where the King doth lay His whole munition; and believe there is No other place to all the armories Both of himself and son.” This said, a pair Of lofty stairs he climb’d, and to th’ affair Twelve shields, twelve lances brought, as many casques With horsehair plumes; and set to bitter tasks Both son and sire. Then shrunk Ulysses’ knees, And his lov’d heart, when thus in arms he sees So many Wooers, and their shaken darts; For then the work show’d as it ask’d more parts To safe performance, and he told his son That or Melanthius or his maids had done A deed that foul war to their hands conferr’d. “O father,” he replied, “’tis I have err’d In this caus’d labour; I, and none but I, That left the door ope of your armoury. But some, it seems, hath set a sharper eye On that important place. Eumæus! Haste And shut the door, observing who hath past To this false action; any maid, or one That I suspect more, which is Dolius’ son.” While these spake thus, Melanthius went again For more fair arms; when the renownéd swain Eumæus saw, and told Ulysses straight It was the hateful man that his conceit Before suspected, who had done that ill; And, being again there, ask’d if he should kill, If his pow’r serv’d, or he should bring the swain To him, t’ inflict on him a sev’ral pain For ev’ry forfeit he had made his house. He answer’d: “I and my Telemachus Will here contain these proud ones in despite, How much soever these stol’n arms excite Their guilty courages, while you two take Possession of the chamber. The doors make Sure at your back, and then, surprising him, His feet and hands bind, wrapping ev’ry limb In pliant chains; and with a halter cast Above the wind-beam—at himself made fast— Aloft the column draw him; where alive He long may hang, and pains enough deprive His vexéd life before his death succeed.” This charge, soon heard, as soon they put to deed, Stole on his stealth, and at the further end Of all the chamber saw him busily bend His hands to more arms, when they, still at door, Watch’d his return. At last he came, and bore In one hand a fair helm, in th’ other held A broad and ancient rusty-rested shield, That old Laertes in his youth had worn, Of which the cheek-bands had with age been torn. They rush’d upon him, caught him by the hair, And dragg’d him in again; whom, crying out, They cast upon the pavement, wrapp’d about With sure and pinching cords both foot and hand, And then, in full act of their King’s command, A pliant chain bestow’d on him, and hal’d His body up the column, till he scal’d The highest wind-beam; where made firmly fast, Eumæus on his just infliction past This pleasurable cavil: “Now you may All night keep watch here, and the earliest day Discern, being hung so high, to rouse from rest Your dainty cattle to the Wooers’ feast. There, as befits a man of means so fair, Soft may you sleep, nought under you but air; And so long hang you.” Thus they left him there, Made fast the door, and with Ulysses were All arm’d in th’ instant. Then they all stood close, Their minds fire breath’d in flames against their foes, Four in th’ entry fighting all alone; When from the hall charg’d many a mighty one. But to them then Jove’s seed, Minerva, came, Resembling Mentor both in voice and frame Of manly person. Passing well apaid Ulysses was, and said: “Now, Mentor, aid ’Gainst these odd mischiefs; call to memory now My often good to thee, and that we two Of one year’s life are.” Thus he said, but thought ft was Minerva, that had ever brought To her side safety. On the other part, The Wooers threaten’d; but the chief in heart Was Agelaus, who to Mentor spake: “Mentor! Let no words of Ulysses make Thy hand a fighter on his feeble side ‘Gainst all us Wooers; for we firm abide In this persuasion, that when sire and son Our swords have slain, thy life is sure to run One fortune with them. What strange acts hast thou Conceit to form here? Thy head must bestow The wreak of theirs on us. And when thy pow’rs Are taken down by these fierce steels of ours, All thy possessions, in-doors and without, Must raise on heap with his; and all thy rout Of sons and daughters in thy turrets bleed Wreak off’rings to us; and our town stand freed Of all charge with thy wife.” Minerva’s heart Was fir’d with these braves, the approv’d desert Of her Ulysses chiding, saying: “No more Thy force nor fortitude as heretofore Will gain thee glory; when nine years at Troy White-wristed Helen’s rescue did employ Thy arms and wisdom, still and ever us’d, The bloods of thousands through the field diffus’d By thy vast valour; Priam’s broad-way’d town By thy grave parts was sack’d and overthrown; And now, amongst thy people and thy goods, Against the Wooers’ base and petulant bloods Stint’st thou thy valour? Rather mourning here Than manly fighting? Come, friend, stand we near, And note my labour, that thou may’st discern Amongst thy foes how Mentor’s nerves will earn All thy old bounties.” This she spake, but stay’d Her hand from giving each-way-often-sway’d Uncertain conquest to his certain use, But still would try what self-pow’rs would produce Both in the father and the glorious son. Then on the wind-beam that along did ron The smoky roof, transform’d, Minerva sat, Like to a swallow; sometimes cuffing at The swords and lances, rushing from her seat, And up and down the troubl’d house did beat Her wing at ev’ry motion. And as she Had rous’d Ulysses; so the enemy Damastor’s son excited, Polybus, Amphinomus, and Demoptolemus, Eurynomus, and Polyctorides; For these were men that of the wooing prease Were most egregious, and the clearly best In strength of hand of all the desp’rate rest That yet surviv’d, and now fought for their souls; Which straight swift arrows sent among the fowls. But first, Damastor’s son had more spare breath To spend on their excitements ere his death, And said: That now Ulysses would forbear His dismal hand, since Mentor’s spirit was there, And blew vain vaunts about Ulysses’ ears; In whose trust he would cease his massacres, Rest him, and put his friend’s huge boasts in proof; And so was he beneath the entry’s roof Left with Telemachus and th’ other two. “At whom,” said he, “discharge no darts, but throw All at Ulysses, rousing his faint rest; Whom if we slaughter, by our interest In Jove’s assistance, all the rest may yield Our pow’rs no care, when he strews once the field.” As he then will’d, they all at random threw Where they suppos’d he rested; and then flew Minerva after ev’ry dart, and made Some strike the threshold, some the walls invade, Some beat the doors, and all acts render’d vain Their grave steel offer’d. Which escap’d, again Came on Ulysses, saying: “O that we The Wooers’ troop with our joint archery Might so assail, that where their spirits dream On our deaths first, we first may slaughter them!” Thus the much-suff’rer said; and all let-fly, When ev’ry man struck dead his enemy. Ulysses slaughter’d Demoptolemus. Euryades by young Telemachus His death encounter’d. Good Eumæus slew Elatus. And Philœtius overthrew Pisander. All which tore the pavéd floor Up with their teeth. The rest retir’d before Their second charge to inner rooms; and then Ulysses follow’d; from the slaughter’d men Their darts first drawing. While which work was done, The Wooers threw with huge contention To kill them all; when with her swallow-wing Minerva cuff’d, and made their jav’lins ring Against the doors and thresholds, as before. Some yet did graze upon their marks. One tore The prince’s wrist, which was Amphimedon, Th’ extreme part of the skin but touch’d upon. Ctesippus over good Eumeeus’ shield His shoulder’s top did taint; which yet did yield The lance free pass, and gave his hurt the ground. Again then charg’d the Wooers, and girt round Ulysses with their lances; who turn’d head, And with his jav’lin struck Eurydamas dead. Telemachus disliv’d Amphimedon; Eumæus, Polybus; Philœtius won Ctesippus’ bosom with his dart, and said, In quittance of the jester’s part he play’d, The neat’s foot hurling at Ulysses: “Now, Great son of Polytherses, you that vow Your wit to bitter taunts, and love to wound The heart of any with a jest, so crown’d Your wit be with a laughter, never yielding To fools in folly, but your glory building On putting down in fooling, spitting forth Puff’d words at all sorts, cease to scoff at worth, And leave revenge of vile words to the Gods, Since their wits bear the sharper edge by odds; And, in the mean time, take the dart I drave, For that right hospitable foot you gave Divine Ulysses, begging but his own.” Thus spake the black-ox-herdsman; and straight down Ulysses struck another with his dart— Damastor’s son. Telemachus did part, Just in the midst, the belly of the fair Evenor’s son; his fierce pile taking air Out at his back. Flat fell he on his face, His whole brows knocking, and did mark the place. And now man-slaught’ring Pallas took in hand Her snake-fring’d shield, and on that beam took stand In her true form, where swallow-like she sat. And then, in this way of the house and that, The Wooers, wounded at the heart with fear, Fled the encounter; as in pastures where Fat herds of oxen feed, about the field (As if wild madness their instincts impell’d) The high-fed bullocks fly, whom in the spring, When days are long, gad-bees or breezes sting. Ulysses and his son the flyers chas’d, As when, with crooked beaks and seres, a cast Of hill-bred eagles, cast-off at some game, That yet their strengths keep, but, put up, in flame The eagle stoops; from which, along the field The poor fowls make wing, this and that way yield Their hard-flown pinions, then the clouds assay For ’scape or shelter, their forlorn dismay All spirit exhaling, all wings’ strength to carry Their bodies forth, and, truss’d up, to the quarry Their falconers ride-in, and rejoice to see Their hawks perform a flight so fervently; So, in their flight, Ulysses with his heir Did stoop and cuff the Wooers, that the air Broke in vast sighs, whose heads they shot and cleft, The pavement boiling with the souls they reft. Liodes, running to Ulysses, took His knees, and thus did on his name invoke; “Ulysses! Let me pray thee to my place Afford the rev’rence, and to me the grace; That never did or said, to any dame Thy court contain’d, or deed, or word to blame; But others so affected I have made I lay down their insolence; and, if the trade They kept with wickedness have made them still Despise my speech, and use their wonted ill, They have their penance by the stroke of death, Which their desert divinely warranteth. But I am priest amongst them, and shall I That nought have done worth death amongst them die? From thee this proverb then will men derive: Good turns do never their mere deeds survive.” He, bending his displeaséd forehead, said: “If you be priest among them, as you plead, Yet you would marry, and with my wife too, And have descent by her. For all that woo Wish to obtain, which they should never do, Dames’ husbands living. You must therefore pray Of force, and oft in Court here, that the day Of my return for him might never shine; The death to me wish’d, therefore, shall be thine.” This said, he took a sword up that was cast From Agelaus, having struck his last, And on the priest’s mid neck he laid a stroke That struck his head off, tumbling as he spoke. Then did the poet Phemius (whose surname Was call’d Terpiades; who thither came Forc’d by the Wooers) fly death; but being near The court’s great gate, he stood, and parted there In two his counsels; either to remove And take the altar of Herceian Jove (Made sacred to him, with a world of art Engrav’n about it, where were wont t’ impart Laertes and Ulysses many a thigh Of broad-brow’d oxen to the Deity) Or venture to Ulysses, clasp his knee, And pray his ruth. The last was the decree His choice resolv’d on. ’Twixt the royal throne And that fair table that the bowl stood on With which they sacrific’d, his harp he laid Along the earth, the King’s knees hugg’d, and said: “Ulysses! Let my pray’rs obtain of thee My sacred skill’s respect, and ruth to me! It will hereafter grieve thee to have slain A poet, that doth sing to Gods and men. I of myself am taught, for God alone All sorts of song hath in my bosom sown, And I, as to a God, will sing to thee; Then do not thou deal like the priest with me. Thine own lov’d son Telemachus will say, That not to beg here, nor with willing way Was my access to thy high court addrest, To give the Wooers my song after feast, But, being many, and so much more strong, They forced me hither, and compell’d my song.” This did the prince’s sacred virtue hear, And to the King, his father, said: “Forbear To mix the guiltless with the guilty’s blood. And with him likewise let our mercies save Medon the herald, that did still behave Himself with care of my good from a child; If by Eumæus yet he be not kill’d, Or by Philœtius, nor your fury met, While all this blood about the house it swet.” This Medon heard, as lying hid beneath A throne set near, half-dead with fear of death; A new-flay’d ox-hide, as but there thrown by, His serious shroud made, he lying there to fly. But hearing this he quickly left the throne, His ox-hide cast as quickly, and as soon The prince’s knees seiz’d, saying: “O my love, I am not slain, but here alive and move. Abstain yourself, and do not see your sire Quench with my cold blood the unmeasur’d fire That flames in his strength, making spoil of me, His wrath’s right, for the Wooers’ injury.” Ulysses smil’d, and said: “Be confident This man hath sav’d and made thee different, To let thee know, and say, and others see, Good life is much more safe than villany. Go then, sit free without from death within. This much-renownéd singer from the sin Of these men likewise quit. Both rest you there, While I my house purge as it fits me here.” This said, they went and took their seat without At Jove’s high altar, looking round about, Expecting still their slaughter. When the King Search’d round the hall, to try life’s hidden wing Made from more death. But all laid prostrate there In blood and gore he saw. Whole shoals they were, And lay as thick as in a hollow creek Without the white sea, when the fishers break Their many-mesh’d draught-net up, there lie Fish frisking on the sands, and fain the dry Would for the wet change, but th’ all-seeing beam The sun exhales hath suck’d their lives from them; So one by other sprawl’d the Wooers there. Ulysses and his son then bid appear The nurse Euryclea, to let her hear His mind in something fit for her affair. He op’d the door, and call’d, and said: “Repair, Grave matron long since born, that art our spy To all this house’s servile housewif’ry; My father calls thee, to impart some thought That asks thy action.” His word found in nought Her slack observance, who straight op’d the door And enter’d to him; when himself before Had left the hall. But there the King she view’d Amongst the slain, with blood and gore imbrued. And as a lion skulking all in night, Far-off in pastures, and come home, all dight In jaws and breast-locks with an ox’s blood New feasted on him, his looks full of mood; So look’d Ulysses, all his hands and feet Freckled with purple. When which sight did greet The poor old woman (such works being for eyes Of no soft temper) out she brake in cries, Whose vent, though throughly open’d, he yet clos’d, Call’d her more near, and thus her plaints compos’d: “Forbear, nor shriek thus, but vent joys as loud. It is no piety to bemoan the proud, Though ends befall them moving ne’er so much, These are the portions of the Gods to such. _Men’s own impieties in their instant act Sustain their plagues, which are with stay but rackt._ But these men Gods nor men had in esteem, Nor good nor bad had any sense in them, Their lives directly ill were, therefore, cause That Death in these stern forms so deeply draws. Recount, then, to me those licentious dames That lost my honour and their sex’s shames.” “I’ll tell you truly,” she replied: “There are Twice five-and-twenty women here that share All work amongst them; whom I taught to spin, And bear the just bands that they suffer’d in. Of all which only there were twelve that gave Themselves to impudence and light behave, Nor me respecting, nor herself—the Queen. And for your son he hath but lately been Of years to rule; nor would his mother bear His empire where her women’s labours were, But let me go and give her notice now Of your arrival. Sure some God doth show His hand upon her in this rest she takes, That all these uproars bears and never wakes.” “Nor wake her yet,” said he, “but cause to come Those twelve light women to this utter room.” She made all utmost haste to come and go, And bring the women he had summon’d so. Then both his swains and son he bade go call The women to their aid, and clear the hall Of those dead bodies, cleanse each board and throne With wetted sponges. Which with fitness done, He bade take all the strumpets ’twixt the wall Of his first court and that room next the hall, In which the vessels of the house were scour’d, And in their bosoms sheath their ev’ry sword, Till all their souls were fled, and they had then Felt ’twas but pain to sport with lawless men. This said, the women came all drown’d in moan, And weeping bitterly. But first was done The bearing thence the dead; all which beneath The portico they stow’d, where death on death They heap’d together. Then took all the pains Ulysses will’d. His son yet and the swains With paring-shovels wrought. The women bore Their parings forth, and all the clotter’d gore. The house then cleans’d, they brought the women out, And put them in a room so wall’d about That no means serv’d their sad estates to fly. Then said Telemachus: “These shall not die A death that lets out any wanton blood, And vents the poison that gave lust her food, The body cleansing, but a death that chokes The breath, and altogether that provokes And seems as bellows to abhorréd lust, That both on my head pour’d depraves unjust, And on my mother’s, scandalling the Court, With men debauch’d, in so abhorr’d a sort.” This said, a halser of a ship they cast About a cross-beam of the roof, which fast They made about their necks, in twelve parts cut, And hal’d them up so high they could not put Their feet to any stay. As which was done, Look how a mavis, or a pigeon, In any grove caught with a springe or net, With struggling pinions ’gainst the ground doth beat Her tender body, and that then strait bed Is sour to that swing in which she was bred; So striv’d these taken birds, till ev’ry one Her pliant halter had enforc’d upon Her stubborn neck, and then aloft was haul’d To wretched death. A little space they sprawl’d, Their feet fast moving, but were quickly still. Then fetch’d they down Melanthius, to fulfill The equal execution; which was done In portal of the hall, and thus begun: They first slit both his nostrils, cropp’d each ear, His members tugg’d off, which the dogs did tear And chop up bleeding sweet; and, while red-hot The vice-abhorring blood was, off they smote His hands and feet; and there that work had end. Then wash’d they hands and feet that blood had stain’d, And took the house again. And then the King Euryclea calling, bade her quickly bring All-ill-expelling brimstone, and some fire, That with perfumes cast he might make entire The house’s first integrity in all. And then his timely will was, she should call Her Queen and ladies; still yet charging her That all the handmaids she should first confer. She said he spake as fitted; but, before, She held it fit to change the weeds he wore, And she would others bring him, that not so His fair broad shoulders might rest clad, and show His person to his servants was to blame. “First bring me fire,” said he. She went and came With fire and sulphur straight; with which the hall And of the huge house all rooms capital He throughly sweeten’d. Then went nurse to call The handmaid servants down; and up she went To tell the news, and will’d them to present Their service to their sov’reign. Down they came Sustaining torches all, and pour’d a flame Of love about their lord, with welcomes home, With huggings of his hands, with laboursome Both heads and foreheads kisses, and embraces, And plied him so with all their loving graces That tears and sighs took up his whole desire; For now he knew their hearts to him entire.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses to his wife is known. A brief sum of his travels shown. Himself, his son, and servants go T’ approve the Wooers’ overthrow.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ψι̑. For all annoys Sustain’d before, The true wife’s joys Now made the more.
The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes Up where the Queen was cast in such repose, Affected with a fervent joy to tell What all this time she did with pain conceal. Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet Were borne above the ground with wings to greet The long-griev’d Queen with news her King was come; And, near her, said: “Wake, leave this withdrawn room, That now your eyes may see at length, though late, The man return’d, which, all the heavy date Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see. Ulysses is come home, and hath set free His court of all your Wooers, slaught’ring all For wasting so his goods with festival, His house so vexing, and for violence done So all ways varied to his only son.” She answer’d her: “The Gods have made thee mad, Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had. The Gods can blind with follies wisest eyes, And make men foolish so to make them wise. For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore An understanding spirit heretofore. Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when Moan Hath turn’d my mind, with tears into her own? Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them, That now had bound me in his sweet extreme, T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres: I have not slept so much this twenty years, Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion. Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid Of all my train besides a part had play’d So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies, I had return’d her to her housewif’ries With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames. But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.” She answer’d her: “I nothing wrong your ear, But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here, And, with the Wooers’ slaughter, his own hand, In chief exploit, hath to his own command Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he, That all those Wooers wrought such injury. Telemachus had knowledge long ago That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end To that great work to which they did contend.” This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places; She sprung for joy from blames into embraces Of her grave nurse, wip’d ev’ry tear away From her fair cheeks, and then began to say What nurse said over thus: “O nurse, can this Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his Alone destroy so many? They would still Troop all together. How could he then kill Such numbers so united?” “How,” said she, “I have not seen nor heard; but certainly The deed is done. We sat within in fear, The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear The sighs and groans of ev’ry man he slew, But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me, And bade me then come forth, and then I see Ulysses standing in the midst of all Your slaughter’d Wooers, heap’d up, like a wall, One on another round about his side. It would have done you good to have descried Your conqu’ring lord all-smear’d with blood and gore So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before The fore-court gates lie, one on another pil’d. And now your victor all the hall, defil’d With stench of hot death, is perfuming round, And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.
“Thus, all the death remov’d, and ev’ry room Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length, Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d A happy end to. He that long hath err’d Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son, Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d, His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.” She answer’d: “Do not you now laugh and boast As you had done some great act, seeing most Into his being; for you know he won— Ev’n through his poor and vile condition— A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d By all the house, but most of all by me, And by my son that was the progeny Of both our loves. And yet it is not he, For all the likely proofs ye plead to me,— Some God hath slain the Wooers in disdain Of the abhorréd pride he saw so reign In those base works they did. No man alive, Or good or bad, whoever did arrive At their abodes once, ever could obtain Regard of them; and therefore their so vain And vile deserts have found as vile an end. But, for Ulysses, never will extend His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.” “How strange a Queen are you,” said she, “that gives No truth your credit, that your husband, set Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet No faith of you, but that he still is far From any home of his! Your wit’s at war With all credulity ever! And yet now, I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you: I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar That still remains a mark too ocular To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then Had run and told you, but his hand was fain To close my lips from th’ acclamation My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won My still retention, till he gave me leave And charge to tell you this. Now then receive My life for gage of his return; which take In any cruel fashion, if I make All this not clear to you.” “Lov’d nurse,” said she, “Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated Gods Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods ’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come, Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom They had their slaughter.” This said, down they went; When, on the Queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent, If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand Aloof, and question more; or his hugg’d hand And lovéd head she should at first assay With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat Against her husband, in the opposite heat The fire then cast upon the other wall. Himself set by the column of the hall, His looks cast downwards, and expected still When her incredulous and curious will To shun ridiculous error, and the shame To kiss a husband that was not the same, Would down, and win enough faith from his sight. She silent sat, and her perplexéd plight Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear His person had put on transform’d him so That yet his stamp would hardly current go. Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus: “Mother, ungentle mother! tyrannous! In this too-curious modesty you show. Why sit you from my father, nor bestow A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt As may perplex you? Found man ever out One other such a wife that could forbear Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart. No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.” “Son,” said she, “amaze contains my mind, Nor can I speak and use the common kind Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be My true Ulysses now return’d, there are Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far To give me argument he is my lord; And my assurance of him may afford My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes With more decorum than objéct their guise To public notice.” The much-suff’rer brake In laughter out, and to his son said: “Take Your mother from the prease, that she may make Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give More cause to the acknowledgments that drive Their show thus off. But now, because I go So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know So loath’d a creature for her lovéd lord. Let us consult, then, how we may accord The town to our late action. Some one slain Hath made the all-left slaughterer of him fain To fly his friends and country; but our swords Have slain a city’s most supportful lords, The chief peers of the kingdom, therefore see You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.” “See you to that, good father,” said the son, “Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won From all men living. None will strive with you, But with unquestion’d girlands grace your brow, To whom our whole alacrities we vow In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave Your onsets needy of supplies to give All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.” “Then this,” said he, “to me seems capital Of all choice courses: Bathe we first, and then Attire we freshly; all our maids and men Enjoining likewise to their best attire. The sacred singer then let touch his lyre, And go before us all in graceful dance, That all without, to whose ears shall advance Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by, Or firm inhabitants, solemnity Of frolic nuptials may imagine here. And this perform we, lest the massacre Of all our Wooers be divulg’d about The ample city, ere ourselves get out And greet my father in his grove of trees, Where, after, we will prove what policies Olympius shall suggest to overcome Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.” This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire Both men and women did. Then took his lyre The holy singer, and set thirst on fire With songs and faultless dances; all the court Rung with the footings that the numerous sport From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames; Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames: “This sure the day is when the much-woo’d Queen Is richly wed. O wretch! That hath not been So constant as to keep her ample house Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.” Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing. And now Eurynomé had bath’d the King, Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d The Goddess Pallas, deck’d his head and face With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace Of stature to him, a much plumper plight Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show As if the flow’ry hyacinth did grow In all his pride there, in the gen’ral trim Of ev’ry lock and ev’ry curious limb. Look how a skilful artizan, well-seen In all arts metalline, as having been Taught by Minerva and the God of fire, Doth gold with silver mix so that entire They keep their self-distinction, and yet so That to the silver from the gold doth flow A much more artificial lustre than his own, And thereby to the gold itself is grown A greater glory than if wrought alone, Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion; So did Minerva her’s and his combine, He more in her, she more in him, did shine. Like an Immortal from the bath he rose, And to his wife did all his grace dispose, Encount’ring this her strangeness: “Cruel dame Of all that breathe, the Gods past steel and flame Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one Of all dames else that bears so overgrown A mind with abstinence, as twenty years To miss her husband drown’d in woes and tears, And at his coming keep aloof, and fare As of his so long absence and his care No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed, That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead To all reflection!” To him thus replied The wise Penelope: “Man half-deified, ’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight With bravest men, nor poorest use to sleight. Your mean appearance made not me retire, Nor this your rich show makes me now admire, Nor moves at all; for what is all to me If not my husband? All his certainty I knew at parting; but, so long apart, The outward likeness holds no full desert For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see addrest A soft bed for him, and the single rest Himself affects so. Let it be the bed That stands within our bridal chamber-sted, Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence, And see it furnish’d with magnificence.” This said she to assay him, and did stir Ev’n his establish’d patience; and to her Whom thus he answer’d: “Woman! your words prove My patience strangely. Who is it can move My bed out of his place? It shall oppress Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless Ev’n God himself come, that can eas’ly grace Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place; For man he lives not that (as not most skill’d, So not most young) shall easily make it yield, If, building on the strength in which he flows, He adds both levers too and iron crows: For in the fixture of the bed is shown A master-piece, a wonder; and ’twas done By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought: There was an olive-tree that had his grought Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud, Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d, His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye It show’d a column for solidity. To this had I a comprehension To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone, Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d, Put glued doors to it, that op’d art enough, Then from the olive ev’ry broad-leav’d bough I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree; and then Went over it both with my axe and plane, Both govern’d by my line, And then I hew’d My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d Work of no common hand. All this begun, I could not leave till to perfection My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d The holes, as fitted, and did last afford The varied ornament, which show’d no want Of silver, gold, and polish’d elephant. An ox-hide dyed in purple then I threw Above the cords. And thus to curious view I hope I have objected honest sign To prove I author nought that is not mine. But if my bed stand unremov’d or no, O woman, passeth human wit to know.” This sunk her knees and heart, to hear so true The signs she urg’d; and first did tears ensue Her rapt assurance; then she ran and spread Her arms about his neck, kiss’d oft his head, And thus the curious stay she made excus’d: “Ulysses! Be not angry that I us’d Such strange delays to this, since heretofore Your suff’ring wisdom hath the garland wore From all that breathe; and ’tis the Gods that, thus With mutual miss so long afflicting us, Have caus’d my coyness; to our youths envied That wish’d society that should have tied Our youths and years together; and since now Judgment and Duty should our age allow As full joys therein as in youth and blood, See all young anger and reproof withstood For not at first sight giving up my arms, My heart still trembling lest the false alarms That words oft strike-up should ridiculize me. Had Argive Helen known credulity Would bring such plagues with it, and her again, As authoress of them all, with that foul stain To her and to her country, she had stay’d Her love and mixture from a stranger’s bed; But God impell’d her to a shameless deed, Because she had not in herself decreed, Before th’ attempt, that such acts still were shent As simply in themselves as in th’ event By which not only she herself sustains, But we, for her fault, have paid mutual pains. Yet now, since these signs of our certain bed You have discover’d, and distinguishéd From all earth’s others, no one man but you Yet ever getting of it th’ only show, Nor one of all dames but myself and she My father gave, old Actor’s progeny, Who ever guarded to ourselves the door Of that thick-shaded chamber, I no more Will cross your clear persuasion, though till now I stood too doubtful and austere to you,” These words of hers, so justifying her stay, Did more desire of joyful moan convey To his glad mind than if at instant sight She had allow’d him all his wishes’ right. He wept for joy, t’ enjoy a wife so fit For his grave mind, that knew his depth of wit, And held chaste virtue at a price so high, And as sad men at sea when shore is nigh, Which long their hearts have wish’d, their ship quite lost By Neptune’s rigour, and they vex’d and tost ’Twixt winds and black waves, swimming for their lives, A few escap’d, and that few that survives, All drench’d in foam and brine, crawl up to land, With joy as much as they did worlds command; So dear to this wife was her husband’s sight, Who still embrac’d his neck, and had, till light Display’d her silver ensign, if the Dame, That bears the blue sky intermix’d with flame In her fair eyes, had not infix’d her thought On other joys, for loves so hardly brought To long’d-for meeting; who th’ extended night Withheld in long date, nor would let the light Her wing-hoov’d horse join—Lampus, Phaeton— Those ever-colts that bring the morning on To worldly men, but, in her golden chair, Down to the ocean by her silver hair Bound her aspirings. Then Ulysses said: “O wife! Nor yet are my contentions stay’d. A most unmeasur’d labour long and hard Asks more performance; to it being prepar’d By grave Tiresiás, when down to hell I made dark passage, that his skill might tell My men’s return and mine. But come, and now Enjoy the sweet rest that our Fates allow.” “The place of rest is ready,” she replied, “Your will at full serve, since the Deified Have brought you where your right is to command. But since you know, God making understand Your searching mind, inform me what must be Your last set labour; since ’twill fall to me, I hope, to hear it after, tell me now. The greatest pleasure is before to know.” “Unhappy!” said Ulysses; “To what end Importune you this labour? It will lend Nor you nor me delight, but you shall know I was commanded yet more to bestow My years in travel, many cities more By sea to visit; and when first for shore I left my shipping, I was will’d to take A naval oar in hand, and with it make My passage forth till such strange men I met As knew no sea, nor ever salt did eat With any victuals, who the purple beaks Of ships did never see, nor that which breaks The waves in curls, which is a fan-like oar, And serves as wings with which a ship doth soar. To let me know, then, when I was arriv’d On that strange earth where such a people liv’d, He gave me this for an unfailing sign: When any one that took that oar of mine, Borne on my shoulder, for a corn-cleanse fan, I met ashore, and show’d to be a man Of that land’s labour, there had I command To fix mine oar, and offer on that strand T’ imperial Neptune, whom I must implore, A lamb, a bull, and sow-ascending boar; And then turn home, where all the other Gods That in the broad heav’n made secure abodes I must solicit—all my curious heed Giv’n to the sev’ral rites they have decreed— With holy hecatombs; and then, at home, A gentle death should seize me that would come From out the sea, and take me to his rest In full ripe age, about me living blest My loving people; to which, he presag’d, The sequel of my fortunes were engag’d.” “If then,” said she, “the Gods will please t’ impose A happier being to your fortune’s close Than went before, your hope gives comfort strength That life shall lend you better days at length.” While this discourse spent mutual speech, the bed Eurynomé and nurse had made, and spread With richest furniture, while torches spent Their parcel-gilt thereon. To bed then went The aged nurse; and, where their sov’reigns were, Eurynomé, the chambermaid, did bear A torch, and went before them to their rest; To which she left them and for her’s addrest. The King and Queen then now, as newly-wed, Resum’d the old laws of th’ embracing bed. Telemachus and both his herdsmen then Dissolv’d the dances both to maids and men; Who in their shady roofs took timely sleep. The bride and bridegroom having ceas’d to keep Observéd love-joys, from their fit delight They turn’d to talk. The Queen then did recite What she had suffer’d by the hateful rout Of harmful Wooers, who had eat her out So many oxen and so many sheep, How many tun of wine their drinking deep Had quite exhausted. Great Ulysses then Whatever slaughters he had made of men, Whatever sorrows he himself sustain’d, Repeated amply; and her ears remain’d With all delight attentive to their end, Nor would one wink sleep till he told her all, Beginning where he gave the Cicons fall; From thence his pass to the Lotophagi; The Cyclop’s acts, the putting out his eye, And wreak of all the soldiers he had eat, No least ruth shown to all they could entreat; His way to Æolus; his prompt receit And kind dismission; his enforc’d retreat By sudden tempest to the fishy main, And quite distraction from his course again; His landing at the Læstrigonian port, Where ships and men in miserable sort Met all their spoils, his ship and he alone Got off from the abhorr’d confusión; His pass to Circe, her deceits and arts; His thence descension to th’ Infernal parts; His life’s course of the Theban prophet learn’d, Where all the slaughter’d Grecians he discern’d, And lovéd mother; his astonish’d ear With what the Siren’s voices made him hear; His ’scape from th’ erring rocks, which Scylla was, And rough Charybdis, with the dang’rous pass Of all that touch’d there; his Sicilian Offence giv’n to the Sun; his ev’ry man Destroy’d by thunder vollied out of heav’n, That split his ship; his own endeavours driv’n To shift for succours on th’ Ogygian shore, Where Nymph Calypso such affection bore To him in his arrival, that with feast She kept him in her caves, and would have blest His welcome life with an immortal state Would he have stay’d and liv’d her nuptial mate, All which she never could persuade him to; His pass to the Phæacians spent in woe; Their hearty welcome of him, as he were A God descended from the starry sphere; Their kind dismission of him home with gold, Brass, garments, all things his occasions would. This last word us’d, sleep seiz’d his weary eye That salves all care to all mortality. In mean space Pallas entertain’d intent That when Ulysses thought enough time spent In love-joys with his wife, to raise the day, And make his grave occasions call away. The morning rose and he, when thus he said: “O Queen, now satiate with afflictions laid On both our bosoms,—you oppresséd here With cares for my return, I ev’rywhere By Jove and all the other Deities tost Ev’n till all hope of my return was lost,— And both arriv’d at this sweet haven, our bed, Be your care us’d to see administ’red My house-possessions left. Those sheep, that were Consum’d in surfeits by your Wooers here, I’ll forage to supply with some; and more The suff’ring Grecians shall be made restore, Ev’n till our stalls receive their wonted fill.
“And now, to comfort my good father’s ill Long suffer’d for me, to the many-tree’d And ample vineyard grounds it is decreed In my next care that I must haste and see His long’d-for presence. In the mean time, be Your wisdom us’d, that since, the sun ascended, The fame will soon be through the town extended Of those I here have slain, yourself, got close Up to your chamber, see you there repose, Cheer’d with your women, and nor look afford Without your court, nor any man a word.” This said, he arm’d; to arms both son and swain His pow’r commanding, who did entertain His charge with spirit, op’d the gates and out, He leading all. And now was hurl’d about Aurora’s ruddy fire; through all whose light Minerva led them through the town from sight.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
By Mercury the Wooers’ souls Are usher’d to th’ infernal pools. Ulysses with Laertes met, The people are in uproar set Against them, for the Wooers’ ends; Whom Pallas stays and renders friends.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ω. The uproar’s fire, The people’s fall: The grandsire, sire, And son, to all.
Cyllenian Hermes, with his golden rod, The Wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout Forth to th’ Infernals; who came murmuring out. And as amidst the desolate retreat Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings, But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise About the cavern; so these, grumbling, rose And flock’d together. Down before them goes None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways, And straight to those straits; where the ocean stays His lofty current in calm deeps, they flew, Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew, And to the close of Phœbus’ orient gates, The nation then of dreams, and then the states Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead Had habitable situatión. And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son, Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus, And Ajax, the supremely strenuous Of all the Greek host next Pelëion; All which assembled about Maia’s son. And to them, after, came the mournful ghost Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost In false Ægisthus’ court. Achilles then Beholding there that mighty king of men, Deplor’d his plight, and said: “O Atreus’ son! Of all heroës, all opinion Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so. And is the issue this, that first in woe Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down? None borne past others’ Fates can pass his own. I wish to heav’n that in the height of all Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall, That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end! But now a wretched death did Fate extend To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.” “O Thetis’ son,” said he, “the vital flame Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields, The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields. About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy Were sacrific’d to slaughter. Thy just joy Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot In such a death as great Apollo shot At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate. All day we fought about thee; nor at all Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet. But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet, Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease, Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase. Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas That started up thy mother from the waves; And all the márine Godheads left their caves, Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair. The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense, Had taken ship and fled for ever thence, If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d Their rushing off; his counsels having sway’d In all times former with such cause their courses; Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces, For all they saw was Thetis come from sea, With others of the wat’ry progeny, To see and mourn for her deceaséd son. Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won; And round about thee stood th’ old sea-God’s Seeds Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine, By varied turns their heav’nly voices venting, All in deep passion for thy death consenting. And then of all our army not an eye You could have seen undrown’d in misery, The moving Muse so rul’d in ev’ry mind. Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d To celebration of thy mournéd end; Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend. The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep We slew past number. Then the precious spoil, Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil And pleasant honey we embalm’d, and then Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the Gods did rain. In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame; To which a number of heroical name, As prest to sacrifice their vital right To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d. Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d In infinite tumult. But when all the night The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite Thy body was with the enamour’d fire: We came in early morn, and an entire Collection made of ev’ry ivory bone; Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fit unctión, A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave, By Bacchus giv’n her and did form receive From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d Mix’d with the bones of Menœtiades And brave Antilochus; who, in decease Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear. About thee then a matchless sepulchre The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d, For height and conspicuity, the eyes Of living men and their posterities. Thy mother then obtain’d the Gods’ consent To institute an honour’d game, that spent The best approvement of our Grecian fames. In whose praise I must say that many games About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize With miracles to me from all before. In which thy silver-footed mother bore The institution’s name, but thy deserts, Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts. And thus, through all the worst effects of Fate, Achilles’ fame ev’n Death shall propagate. While anyone shall lend the light an eye Divine Æacides shall never die. But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d As rights to me? When, having quite achiev’d An end with safety, and with conquest, too, Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do Of all our enemies there, at home a friend And wife have giv’n me inglorious end?” While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy Brought-near Ulysses’ noble victory To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends The Wooers’ suffer’d, and show’d those his friends; Whom now amaze invaded with the view And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon, Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown To great Atrides; who first spake, and said: “Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid On your alive parts that hath made you make This land of darkness the retreat you take, So all together, all being like in years, Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers A city honours, men to make a part More strong for any object? Hath your smart Been felt from Neptune, being at sea—his wrath The winds and waves exciting to your scathe? Or have offensive men impos’d this fate— Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate? Or for your city fighting and your wives, Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives? Inform me truly. I was once your guest, When I and Menelaus had profest First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore On Ithaca, with purpose to implore Ulysses’ aid, that city-racing man, In wreak of the adult’rous Phrygian. Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date We spent at sea, in hope to instigate In our arrival old Laertes’ son, Whom, hardly yet, to our design we won.” The soul made answer: “Worthiest king of men, I well remember ev’ry passage then You now reduce to thought, and will relate The truth in whole form of our timeless fate: “We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king, Who (though her second marriage were a thing Of most hate to her) she would yet deny At no part our affections, nor comply With any in performance, but decreed, In her delays, the cruel Fates we feed. Her craft was this: She undertook to weave A funeral garment destin’d to receive The corse of old Laertes; being a task Of infinite labour, and which time would ask. In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay With this attraction: ‘Youths, that come in way Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board My choice for present nuptials, and sustain, Lest what is past me of this web be vain, Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need The old Laertes; who, possessing much, Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch My honour highly with each vulgar dame.’ Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame All-day she labour’d, her day’s work not small, But ev’ry night-time she unwrought it all. Three years continuing this imperfect task; But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask In no more covert, since her trusted maid Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d. With which surpriz’d, she could no more protract Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact To what remain’d, wash’d-up, and set thereon A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon The whole work show’d together. And when now Of mere necessity her honour’d vow She must make good to us, ill-fortune brought Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought Of his arrival, but far-off at field Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest, Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profest. At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand, And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land, When yet not home he went, but laid his way Up to his herdsman where his father lay; And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore The swine-herd and his King, the swain before, Telemachus in other ways bestow’d His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d. The swain the King led after, who came on Raggéd and wretched, and still lean’d upon A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home, Where (on the sudden and so wretched come) Nor we nor much our elders once did dream Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme Of words and blows to him; all which he bore With that old patience he had learn’d before. But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own, His son and he fetch’d all their armour down, Fast-lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use, He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce His bow to us to draw; of which no one Could stir the string; himself yet set upon The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease, Shot through the steels, and then began to seize Our armless bosoms; striking first the breast Of king Antinous, and then the rest In heaps turn’d over; hopeful of his end Because some God, he knew, stood firm his friend. Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood. And thus our souls came here; our bodies laid Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d To any friend to take us home and give Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.” Atrides’ ghost gave answer: “O bless’d son Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won With mighty virtue thy unmatchéd wife. How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life, Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid! For which her virtues shall extend applause, Beyond the circles frail mortality draws; The deathless in this vale of death comprising Her praise in numbers into infinites rising. The daughter Tyndarus begat begot No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot That knit her spouse and her with murd’rous swords. For which posterities shall put hateful words To notes of her that all her sex defam’d, And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.” To this effect these these digressions made In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade. Ulysses and his son, now past the town, Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown By old Laertes’ labour, when, with cares For his lost son, he left all court affairs, And took to this rude upland; which with toil He made a sweet and habitable soil; Where stood a house to him; about which ran, In turnings thick and labyrinthian, Poor hovels, where his necessary men That did those works (of pleasure to him then) Might sit, and eat, and sleep. In his own house An old Sicilian dame liv’d, studious To serve his sour age with her cheerful pains. Then said Ulysses to his son and swains: “Go you to town, and for your dinner kill The best swine ye can choose; myself will still Stay with my father, and assay his eye If my acknowledg’d truth it can descry, Or that my long time’s travel doth so change My sight to him that I appear as strange.” Thus gave he arms to them, and home they hied. Ulysses to the fruitful field applied His present place; nor found he Dolius there, His sons, or any servant, anywhere In all that spacious ground; all gone from thence Were dragging bushes to repair a fence, Old Dolius leading all. Ulysses found His father far above in that fair ground, Employ’d in proining of a plant; his weeds All torn and tatter’d, fit for homely deeds, But not for him. Upon his legs he wore Patch’d boots to guard him from the bramble’s gore; His hands had thorn-proof hedging mittens on; His head a goat-skin casque; through all which shone His heart giv’n over to abjectest moan. Him when Ulysses saw consum’d with age, And all the ensigns on him that the rage Of grief presented, he brake out in tears; And, taking stand then where a tree of pears Shot high his forehead over him, his mind Had much contention, if to yield to kind, Make straight way to his father, kiss, embrace, Tell his return, and put on all the face And fashion of his instant-told return; Or stay th’ impulsion, and the long day burn Of his quite loss giv’n in his father’s fear A little longer, trying first his cheer With some free dalliance, th’ earnest being so near. This course his choice preferr’d, and forth he went. His father then his aged shoulders bent Beneath what years had stoop’d, about a tree Busily digging: “O, old man,” said he, “You want no skill to dress and deck your ground, For all your plants doth order’d distance bound. No apple, pear, or olive, fig; or vine, Nor any plat or quarter you confine To grass or flow’rs stands empty of your care, Which shows exact in each peculiar; And yet (which let not move you) you bestow No care upon yourself, though to this show Of outward irksomeness to what you are You labour with an inward froward care, Which is your age, that should wear all without More neat and cherishing. I make no doubt That any sloth you use procures your lord To let an old man go so much abhorr’d In all his weeds; nor shines there in your look A fashion and a goodliness so took With abject qualities to merit this Nasty entreaty. Your resemblance is A very king’s, and shines through this retreat. You look like one that having wash’d and eat Should sleep securely, lying sweet and neat. _It is the ground of age, when cares abuse it, To know life’s end, and, as ’tis sweet, so use it._ “But utter truth, and tell what lord is he That rates your labour and your liberty? Whose orchard is it that you husband thus? Or quit me this doubt, for if Ithacus This kingdom claims for his, the man I found At first arrival here is hardly sound Of brain or civil, not enduring stay To tell nor hear me my inquiry out Of that my friend, if still he bore about His life and being, or were div’d to death, And in the house of him that harboureth The souls of men. For once he liv’d my guest; My land and house retaining interest In his abode there; where there sojourn’d none As guest from any foreign region Of more price with me. He deriv’d his race From Ithaca, and said his father was Laertes, surnam’d Arcesiades, I had him home, and all the offices Perform’d to him that fitted any friend, Whose proof I did to wealthy gifts extend: Seven talents gold; a bowl all-silver, set With pots of flowers; twelve robes that had no pleat! Twelve cloaks, or mantles, of delicious dye; Twelve inner weeds; twelve suits of tapestry. I gave him likewise women skill’d in use Of loom and needle, freeing him to choose Four the most fair.” His father, weeping, said: “Stranger! The earth to which you are convey’d Is Ithaca; by such rude men possess’d, Unjust and insolent, as first address’d To your encounter; but the gifts you gave Were giv’n, alas! to the ungrateful grave. If with his people, where you now arrive, Your fate had been to find your friend alive, You should have found like guest-rites from his hand, Like gifts, and kind pass to your wishéd land. But how long since receiv’d you for your guest Your friend, my son, who was th’ unhappiest Of all men breathing, if he were at all? O born when Fates and ill-aspects let fall A cruel influence for him! Far away From friends and country destin’d to allay. The sea-bred appetites, or, left ashore, To be by fowls and upland monsters tore, His life’s kind authors nor his wealthy wife Bemoaning, as behov’d, his parted life, Nor closing, as in honour’s course it lies To all men dead, in bed his dying eyes. But give me knowledge of your name and race. What city bred you? Where the anchoring-place Your ship now rides-at lies that shor’d you here And where your men? Or, if a passenger In other keels you came, who (giving land To your adventures here, some other strand To fetch in further course) have left to us Your welcome presence?” His reply was thus: “I am of Alybandé, where I hold My name’s chief house, to much renown extoll’d. My father Aphidantes, fam’d to spring From Polypemon, the Molossian king. My name Eperitus. My taking land On this fair Isle was rul’d by the command Of God or fortune, quite against consent Of my free purpose, that in course was bent For th’ isle Sicania. My ship is held Far from the city, near an ample field. And for Ulysses, since his pass from me ’Tis now five years. Unbless’d by destiny, That all this time hath had the fate to err! Though, at his parting, good birds did augur His putting-off, and on his right hand flew, Which to his passage my affection drew, His spirit joyful; and my hope was now To guest with him, and see his hand bestow Rites of our friendship.” This a cloud of grief Cast over all the forces of his life. With both his hands the burning dust he swept Up from the earth, which on his head he heapt, And fetch’d a sigh as in it life were broke. Which grieved his son, and gave so smart a stroke Upon his nostrils with the inward stripe, That up the vein rose there; and weeping ripe He was to see his sire feel such woe For his dissembled joy; which now let go, He sprung from earth, embrac’d and kiss’d his sire, And said: “O father! He of whom y’ enquire Am I myself, that, from you twenty years, Is now return’d. But do not break in tears, For now we must not forms of kind maintain, But haste and guard the substance. I have slain All my wife’s Wooers, so revenging now Their wrong so long time suffer’d. Take not you The comfort of my coming then to heart At this glad instant, but, in prov’d desert Of your grave judgment, give moan glad suspense, And on the sudden put this consequence In act as absolute, as all time went To ripening of your resolute assent.” All this haste made not his staid faith so free To trust his words; who said: “If you are he, Approve it by some sign.” “This scar then see,” Replied Ulysses, “giv’n me by the boar Slain in Parnassus, I being sent before By your’s and by my honour’d mother’s will, To see your sire Autolycus fulfill The gifts he vow’d at giving of my name. I’ll tell you, too, the trees, in goodly frame Of this fair orchard, that I ask’d of you Being yet a child, and follow’d for your show And name of ev’ry tree. You gave me then Of fig-trees forty, apple-bearers ten, Pear-trees thirteen, and fifty ranks of vine; Each one of which a season did confine For his best eating. Not a grape did grow That grew not there, and had his heavy brow When Jove’s fair daughters, the all ripening Hours, Gave timely date to it.” This charg’d the pow’rs Both of his knees and heart with such impression Of sudden comfort, that it gave possession Of all to Trance, the signs were all so true, And did the love that gave them so renew. He cast his arms about his son and sunk, The circle slipping to his feet; so shrunk Were all his age’s forces with the fire Of his young love rekindled. The old sire The son took up quite lifeless. But his breath Again respiring, and his soul from death His body’s pow’r recov’ring, out he cried, And said: “O Jupiter! I now have tried That still there live in heav’n rememb’ring Gods Of men that serve them; though the periods They set on their appearances are long In best men’s suff’rings, yet as sure as strong They are in comforts, be their strange delays Extended never so from days to days. Yet see the short joys or the soon-mix’d fears Of helps withheld by them so many years! For if the Wooers now have paid the pain Due to their impious pleasures, now again Extreme fear takes me, lest we straight shall see The Ithacensians here in mutiny, Their messengers dispatch’d to win to friend The Cephallenian cities.” “Do not spend Your thoughts on these cares,” said his suff’ring son, “But be of comfort, and see that course run That best may shun the worst. Our house is near, Telemachus and both his herdsmen there To dress our supper with their utmost haste; And thither haste we.” This said, forth they past, Came home, and found Telemachus at feast With both his swains; while who had done, all drest With baths and balms and royally array’d The old king was by his Sicilian maid. By whose side Pallas stood, his crook’d-age straight’ning, His flesh more plumping, and his looks enlight’ning. Who issuing then to view, his son admir’d The Gods’ aspects into his form inspir’d, And said: “O father, certainly some God By your addression in this state hath stood, More great, more rev’rend, rend’ring you by far At all your parts than of yourself you are!” “I would to Jove,” said he, “the Sun, and She That bears Jove’s shield, the state had stood with me That help’d me take-in the well-builded tow’rs Of strong Nericus (the Cephalian pow’rs To that fair city leading) two days past, While with the Wooers thy conflict did last, And I had then been in the Wooers’ wreak! I should have help’d thee so to render weak Their stubborn knees, that in thy joy’s desert Thy breast had been too little for thy heart.” This said, and supper order’d by their men, They sat to it; old Dolius ent’ring then, And with him, tried with labour, his sons came, Call’d by their mother, the Sicilian dame That brought them up and dress’d their father’s fare, As whose age grew, with it increas’d her care To see him serv’d as fitted. When thus set These men beheld Ulysses there at meat, They knew him, and astonish’d in the place Stood at his presence; who, with words of grace, Call’d to old Dolius, saying: “Come and eat, And banish all astonishment. Your meat Hath long been ready, and ourselves made stay, Expecting ever when your wishéd way Would reach amongst us.” This brought fiercely on Old Dolius from his stand; who ran upon, With both his arms abroad, the King, and kiss’d Of both his rapt up hands the either wrist, Thus welcoming his presence: “O my love, Your presence here, for which all wishes strove, No one expected. Ev’n the Gods have gone In guide before you to your mansión. Welcome, and all joys to your heart contend. Knows yet Penelope? Or shall we send Some one to tell her this?” “She knows,” said he, “What need these troubles, father, touch at thee?” Then came the sons of Dolius, and again Went over with their father’s entertain, Welcom’d, shook hands, and then to feast sat down. About which while they sat, about the town Fame flew, and shriek’d about the cruel death And fate the Wooers had sustain’d beneath Ulysses’ roofs. All heard; together all From hence and thence met in Ulysses’ hall, Short-breath’d and noiseful, bore out all the dead To instant burial, while their deaths were spread To other neighbour cities where they liv’d, From whence in swiftest fisher-boats arriv’d Men to transfer them home. In mean space here The heavy nobles all in council were; Where, met in much heap, up to all arose Extremely-griev’d Eupitheus so to lose His son Antinous, who, first of all, By great Ulysses’ hand had slaught’rous fall. Whose father, weeping for him, said: “O friends, This man hath author’d works of dismal ends, Long since conveying in his guide to Troy Good men, and many that did ships employ, All which are lost, and all their soldiers dead; And now the best men Cephallenia bred His hand hath slaughter’d. Go we then (before His ’scape to Pylos, or the Elians’ shore, Where rule the Epeans) ’gainst his horrid hand; For we shall grieve, and infamy will brand Our fames for ever, if we see our sons And brothers end in these confusions, Revenge left uninflicted. Nor will I Enjoy one day’s life more, but grieve and die With instant onset. Nor should you survive To keep a base and beastly name alive. Haste, then, lest flight prevent us.” This with tears His griefs advis’d, and made all sufferers In his affliction. But by this was come Up to the council from Ulysses’ home— When sleep had left them, which the slaughters there And their self-dangers from their eyes in fear Had two nights intercepted—those two men That just Ulysses sav’d out of the slain, Which Medon and the sacred singer were. These stood amidst the council; and the fear The slaughter had impress’d in either’s look Stuck still so ghastly, that amaze it strook Through ev’ry there beholder. To whose ears One thus enforc’d, in his fright, cause of theirs: “Attend me, Ithacensians! This stern fact Done by Ulysses was not put in act Without the Gods’ assistance. These self eyes Saw one of the immortal Deities Close by Ulysses, Mentor’s form put on At ev’ry part. And this sure Deity shone Now near Ulysses, setting on his bold And slaught’rous spirit, now the points controll’d Of all the Wooers’ weapons, round about The arm’d house whisking, in continual rout Their party putting, till in heaps they fell.” This news new fears did through their spirits impell, When Halitherses (honour’d Mastor’s son, Who of them all saw only what was done Present and future) the much-knowing man And aged heroë this plain course ran Amongst their counsels: “Give me likewise ear, And let me tell ye, friends, that these ills bear On your malignant spleens their sad effects, Who not what I persuaded gave respects, Nor what the people’s pastor, Mentor, said,— That you should see your issues’ follies stay’d In those foul courses, by their petulant life The goods devouring, scandalling the wife Of no mean person, who, they still would say, Could never more see his returning-day. Which yet appearing now, now give it trust, And yield to my free counsels: Do not thrust Your own safe persons on the acts your sons So dearly bought, lest their confusions On your lov’d heads your like addictions draw.” This stood so far from force of any law To curb their loose attempts, that much the more They rush’d to wreak, and made rude tumult roar. The greater part of all the court arose; Good counsel could not ill designs dispose. Eupitheus was persuader of the course, Which, cómplete-arm’d, they put in present force; The rest sat still in council. These men met Before the broad town, in a place they set All girt in arms; Eupitheus choosing chief To all their follies, who put grief to grief, And in his slaughter’d son’s revenge did burn. But Fate gave never feet to his return, Ordaining there his death. Then Pallas spake To Jove, her Father, with intent to make His will high arbiter of th’ act design’d, And ask’d of him what his unsearchéd mind Held undiscover’d? If with arms, and ill, And grave encounter he, would first fulfill His sacred purpose, or both parts combine In peaceful friendship? He ask’d: “Why incline These doubts thy counsels? Hast not thou decreed That Ithacus should come and give his deed The glory of revenge on these and theirs? Perform thy will; the frame of these affairs Have this fit issue: When Ulysses’ hand Hath reach’d full wreak, his then renown’d command Shall reign for ever, faithful truces strook ’Twixt him and all; for ev’ry man shall brook His sons’ and brothers’ slaughters; by our mean To send Oblivion in, expunging clean The character of enmity in them all, As in best leagues before. _Peace, festival, And riches in abundance, be the state That crowns the close of wise Ulysses’ Fate.”_ This spurr’d the free, who from heav’n’s continent To th’ Ithacensian isle made straight descent. Where, dinner past, Ulysses said: “Some one Look out to see their nearness.” Dolius’ son Made present speed abroad, and saw them nigh, Ran back, and told, bade arm; and instantly Were all in arms. Ulysses’ part was four, And six more sons of Dolius; all his pow’r Two only more, which were his aged sire And like-year’d Dolius, whose lives’-slak’d fire All-white had left their heads, yet, driv’n by need, Made soldiers both of necessary deed. And now, all-girt in arms, the ports set wide, They sallied forth, Ulysses being their guide; And to them in the instant Pallas came, In form and voice like Mentor, who a flame Inspir’d of comfort in Ulysses’ heart With her seen presence. To his son, apart, He thus then spake: “Now, son, your eyes shall see, Expos’d in slaught’rous fight, the enemy, Against whom who shall best serve will be seen. Disgrace not then your race, that yet hath been For force and fortitude the foremost tried Of all earth’s offsprings.” His true son replied: “Yourself shall see, lov’d father, if you please, That my deservings shall in nought digress From best fame of our race’s foremost merit.” The old king sprung for joy to hear his spirit, And said: “O lov’d Immortals, what a day Do your clear bounties to my life display! I joy, past measure, to behold my son And nephew close in such contention Of virtues martial.” Pallas, standing near, Said: “O my friend! Of all supremely dear, Seed of Arcesius, pray to Jove and Her That rules in arms, his daughter, and a dart, Spritefully brandish’d, hurl at th’ adverse part.” This said, he pray’d; and she a mighty force Inspir’d within him, who gave instant course To his brave-brandish’d lance, which struck the brass That cheek’d Eupitheus’ casque, and thrust his pass Quite through his head; who fell, and sounded falling, His arms the sound again from earth recalling. Ulysses and his son rush’d on before, And with their both-way-headed darts did gore Their enemies’ breasts so thick, that all had gone The way of slaughter, had not Pallas thrown Her voice betwixt them, charging all to stay And spare expense of blood. Her voice did fray The blood so from their faces that it left A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth; And to the common mother of their birth, The city, all fled, in desire to save The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw His smoking lightning ’twixt them, that had fall Before Minerva, who then out did call Thus to Ulysses: “Born of Jove! Abstain From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee. Abstain, then, lest you move the Deity.” Again then, ’twixt both parts the Seed of Jove, Athenian Pallas, of all future love A league compos’d, and for her form took choice Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
“SO WROUGHT DIVINE ULYSSES”
_So wrought divine Ulysses through his woes, So crown’d the light with him his mother’s throes, As through his great Renowner I have wrought, And my safe sail to sacred anchor brought. Nor did the Argive ship more burthen feel, That bore the care of all men in her keel, Than my adventurous bark; the Colchian fleece Not half so precious as this Soul of Greece, In whose Songs I have made our shores rejoice, And Greek itself vail to our English voice. Yet this inestimable Pearl will all Our dunghill chanticleers but obvious call; Each modern scraper this Gem scratching by, His oat preferring far. Let such let lie. So scorn the stars the clouds, as true-soul’d men Despise deceivers. For, as clouds would fain Obscure the stars, yet (regions left below With all their envies) bar them but of show, For they shine ever, and will shine, when they Dissolve in sinks, make mire, and temper clay; So puff’d impostors (our muse-vapours) strive, With their self-blown additions, to deprive Men solid of their full, though infinite short They come in their compare, and false report Of levelling or touching at their light, That still retain their radiance, and clear right, And shall shine ever, when, alas! one blast Of least disgrace tears down th’ impostor’s mast, His tops and tacklings, his whole freight, and he Confiscate to the fishy monarchy, His trash, by foolish Fame brought now, from hence Given to serve mackarel forth, and frankincense. Such then, and any too soft-eyed to see, Through works so solid, any worth, so free Of all the learn’d professions, as is fit To praise at such price, let him think his wit Too weak to rate it, rather than oppose With his poor pow’rs Ages and Hosts of Foes._
TO THE RUINS OF TROY AND GREECE
_Troy rac’d, Greece wrack’d, who mourns? Ye both may boast, Else th’ Iliads and Odysseys had been lost!_
AD DEUM
_The Only True God (betwixt Whom and me I only bound my comfort, and agree With all my actions) only truly knows, And can judge truly, me, with all that goes To all my faculties, In Whose free Grace And Inspiration I only place All means to know (with my means, study, pray’r, In and from His Word taken) stair by stair, In all continual contentation, rising To knowledge of His Truth, and practising His Will in it, with my sole Saviour’s Aid, Guide, and Enlight’ning; nothing done, nor said, Nor thought, that good is, but acknowledg’d by His Inclination, Skill, and Faculty. By which, to find the way out to His Love Past all the worlds, the sphere is where doth move My studies, pray’rs, and pow’rs; no pleasure taken But sign’d by His, for which, my blood forsaken, My soul I cleave to, and what (in His Blood That hath redeem’d, cleans’d, taught her) fits her good._
DEO OPT. MAX. GLORIA