Might eas’ly judge whom her pains brought to light;
Nausicaa so, whom never husband tam’d,
Above them all in all the beauties flam’d.
But when they now made homewards, and array’d,
Ord’ring their weeds disorder’d as they play’d,
Mules and coach ready, then Minerva thought
What means to wake Ulysses might be wrought,
That he might see this lovely-sighted maid,
Whom she intended should become his aid,
Bring him to town, and his return advance.
Her mean was this, though thought a stool-ball chance: 4
The queen now, for the upstroke, struck the ball
Quite wide off th’ other maids, and made it fall
Amidst the whirlpools. At which out shriek’d all,
And with the shriek did wise Ulysses wake;
Who, sitting up, was doubtful who should make
That sudden outcry, and in mind thus striv’d:
“On what a people am I now arriv’d?
At civil hospitable men, that fear
The Gods? Or dwell injurious mortals here?
Unjust, and churlish? Like the female cry
Of youth it sounds. What are they? Nymphs bred high
On tops of hills, or in the founts of floods,
In herby marshes, or in leafy woods?
Or are they high-spoke men I now am near?
I’ll prove, and see.” With this, the wary peer
Crept forth the thicket, and an olive bough
Broke with his broad hand, which he did bestow
In covert of his nakedness, and then
Put hasty head out. Look how from his den
A mountain lion looks, that, all embrued
With drops of trees, and weather-beaten-hued,
Bold of his strength, goes on, and in his eye
A burning furnace glows, all bent to prey
On sheep, or oxen, or the upland hart,
His belly charging him, and he must part
Stakes with the herdsman in his beasts’ attempt,
Ev’n where from rape their strengths are most exempt;
So wet, so weather-beat, so stung with need,
Ev’n to the home-fields of the country’s breed
Ulysses was to force forth his access,
Though merely naked; and his sight did press
The eyes of soft-hair’d virgins. Horrid was
His rough appearance to them; the hard pass
He had at sea stuck by him. All in flight
The virgins scatter’d, frighted with this sight,
About the prominent windings of the flood.
All but Nausicaa fled; but she fast stood,
Pallas had put a boldness in her breast,
And in her fair limbs tender fear comprest.
And still she stood him, as resolv’d to know
What man he was, or out of what should grow
His strange repair to them. And here was he
Put to his wisdom; if her virgin knee
He should be bold, but kneeling, to embrace,
Or keep aloof, and try with words of grace,
In humblest suppliance, if he might obtain
Some cover for his nakedness, and gain
Her grace to show and guide him to the town.
The last he best thought, to be worth his own,
In weighing both well; to keep still aloof,
And give with soft words his desires their proof,
Lest, pressing so near as to touch her knee,
He might incense her maiden modesty.
This fair and fil’d speech then shew’d this was he:
“Let me beseech, O queen, this truth of thee,
Are you of mortal, or the defied, race?
If of the Gods, that th’ ample heav’ns embrace,
I can resemble you to none above
So near as to the chaste-born birth of Jove,
The beamy Cynthia. Her you full present,
In grace of ev’ry God-like lineament,
Her goodly magnitude, and all th’ address
You promise of her very perfectness.
If sprung of humans, that inhabit earth,
Thrice blest are both the authors of your birth,
Thrice blest your brothers, that in your deserts
Must, ev’n to rapture, bear delighted hearts,
To see, so like the first trim of a tree,
Your form adorn a dance. But most blest he,
Of all that breathe, that hath the gift t’ engage
Your bright neck in the yoke of marriage,
And deck his house with your commanding merit
I have not seen a man of so much spirit,
Nor man, nor woman, I did ever see,
At all parts equal to the parts in thee.
T’ enjoy your sight, doth admiration seize
My eyes, and apprehensive faculties.
Lately in Delos (with a charge of men
Arriv’d, that render’d me most wretched then,
Now making me thus naked) I beheld
The burthen of a palm, whose issue swell’d
About Apollo’s fane, and that put on
A grace like thee; for Earth had never none
Of all her sylvan issue so adorn’d.
Into amaze my very soul was turn’d,
To give it observation; as now thee
To view, O virgin, a stupidity
Past admiration strikes me, join’d with fear
To do a suppliant’s due, and press so near,
As to embrace thy knees. Nor is it strange,
For one of fresh and firmest spirit would change
T’ embrace so bright an object. But, for me,
A cruel habit of calamity
Prepar’d the strong impression thou hast made;
For this last day did fly night’s twentieth shade
Since I, at length, escap’d the sable seas;
When in the mean time th’ unrelenting prease
Of waves and stern storms toss’d me up and down,
From th’ isle Ogygia. And now God hath thrown
My wrack on this shore, that perhaps I may
My mis’ries vary here; for yet their stay,
I fear, Heav’n hath not order’d, though, before
These late afflictions, it hath lent me store.
O queen, deign pity then, since first to you
My fate importunes my distress to vow.
No other dame, nor man, that this Earth own,
And neighbour city, I have seen or known.
The town then show me; give my nakedness
Some shroud to shelter it, if to these seas
Linen or woollen you have brought to cleanse.
God give you, in requital, all th’ amends
Your heart can wish, a husband, family,
And good agreement. Nought beneath the sky
More sweet, more worthy is, than firm consent
Of man and wife in household government.
It joys their wishers-well, their enemies wounds,
But to themselves the special good redounds.”
She answer’d: “Stranger! I discern in thee
Nor sloth, nor folly, reigns; and yet I see
Th’ art poor and wretched. In which I conclude,
That industry nor wisdom make endued
Men with those gifts that make them best to th’ eye;
Jove only orders
man’s felicity.
To good and bad his pleasure fashions still
The whole proportion of their good and ill.
And he, perhaps, hath form’d this plight in thee,
Of which thou must be patient, as he free.
But after all thy wand’rings, since thy way,
Both to our earth, and near our city, lay,
As being expos’d to our cares to relieve,
Weeds, and what else a human hand should give
To one so suppliant and tam’d with woe,
Thou shalt not want. Our city I will show,
And tell our people’s name: This neighbour town,
And all this kingdom, the Phæacians own.
And (since thou seem’dst so fain to know my birth,
And mad’st a question, if of heav’n or earth.)
This earth hath bred me; and my father’s name
Alcinous is, that in the pow’r and frame
Of this isle’s rule is supereminent.”
Thus, passing him, she to the virgins went,
And said: “Give stay both to your feet and fright.
Why thus disperse ye for a man’s mere sight?
Esteem you him a Cyclop, that long since
Made use to prey upon our citizens?
This man no moist man is, (nor wat’rish thing, 5
That’s ever flitting, ever ravishing
All it can compass; and, like it, doth range
In rape of women, never stay’d in change).
This man is truly manly, wise, and stay’d, 6
In soul more rich the more to sense decay’d,
Who nor will do, nor suffer to be done,
Acts lewd and abject; nor can such a one
Greet the Phæacians with a mind envíous,
Dear to the Gods they are, and he is pious,
Besides, divided from the world we are,
The out-part of it, billows circular
The sea revolving round about our shore;
Nor is there any man that enters more
Than our own countrymen, with what is brought
From other countries. This man, minding nought
But his relief, a poor unhappy wretch,
Wrack’d here, and hath no other land to fetch,
Him now we must provide for. From Jove come 7
All strangers, and the needy of a home,
Who any gift, though ne’er so small it be,
Esteem as great, and take it gratefully.
And therefore, virgins, give the stranger food,
And wine; and see ye bathe him in the flood,
Near to some shore to shelter most inclin’d.
To cold-bath-bathers hurtful is the wind,
Not only rugged making th’ outward skin,
But by his thin pow’rs pierceth parts within.
This said, their flight in a return they set,
And did Ulysses with all grace entreat,
Show’d him a shore, wind-proof, and full of shade,
By him a shirt and utter mantle laid,
A golden jug of liquid oil did add,
Bad wash, and all things as Nausicaa bad.
Divine Ulysses would not use their aid;
But thus bespake them: “Ev’ry lovely maid,
Let me entreat to stand a little by, 8
That I, alone, the fresh flood may apply
To cleanse my bosom of the sea-wrought brine,
And then use oil, which long time did not shine
On my poor shoulders. I’ll not wash in sight
Of fair-hair’d maidens. I should blush outright,
To bathe all-bare by such a virgin light.”
They mov’d, and mus’d a man had so much grace,
And told their mistress what a man he was.
He cleans’d his broad soil’d shoulders, back, and head
Yet never tam’d, but now had foam and weed
Knit in the fair curls. Which dissolv’d, and he
Slick’d all with sweet oil, the sweet charity
The untouch’d virgin show’d in his attire
He cloth’d him with. Then Pallas put a fire,
More than before, into his sparkling eyes,
His late soil set off with his soon fresh guise.
His locks, cleans’d, curl’d the more, and match’d, in pow’r
To please an eye, the hyacinthian flow’r.
And as a workman, that can well combine
Silver and gold, and make both strive to shine,
As being by Vulcan, and Minerva too,
Taught how far either may be urg’d to go
In strife of eminence, when work sets forth
A worthy soul to bodies of such worth,
No thought reproving th’ act, in any place,
Nor Art no debt to Nature’s liveliest grace;
So Pallas wrought in him a grace as great
From head to shoulders, and ashore did seat
His goodly presence. To which such a guise
He show’d in going, that it ravish’d eyes.
All which continued, as he sat apart,
Nausicaa’s eye struck wonder through her heart,
Who thus bespake her consorts: “Hear me, you
Fair-wristed virgins! This rare man, I know,
Treads not our country-earth, against the will
Of some God thronéd on th’ Olympian hill.
He show’d to me, till now, not worth the note,
But now he looks as he had godhead got.
I would to heav’n my husband were no worse,
And would be call’d no better, but the course
Of other husbands pleas’d to dwell out here.
Observe and serve him with our utmost cheer.”
She said, they heard and did. He drunk and eat
Like to a harpy, having touch’d no meat
A long before time. But Nausicaa now
Thought of the more grace she did lately vow,
Had horse to chariot join’d, and up she rose,
Up cheer’d her guest, and said: “Guest, now dispose
Yourself for town, that I may let you see
My father’s court, where all the peers will be
Of our Phæacian state. At all parts, then,
Observe to whom and what place y’ are t’ attain;
Though I need usher you with no advice,
Since I suppose you absolutely wise.
While we the fields pass, and men’s labours there,
So long, in these maids’ guides, directly bear
Upon my chariot (I must go before
For cause that after comes, to which this more
Be my induction) you shall then soon end
Your way to town, whose tow’rs you see ascend 9
To such a steepness. On whose either side
A fair port stands, to which is nothing wide
An ent’rer’s passage; on whose both hands ride
Ships in fair harbours; which once past, you win
The goodly market-place (that circles in
A fane to Neptune, built of curious stone,
And passing ample) where munitión,
Gables, and masts, men make, and polish’d oars;
For the Phæacians are not conquerors
By bows nor quivers; oars, masts, ships they are
With which they plough the sea, and wage their war.
And now the cause comes why I lead the way,
Not taking you to coach: The men, that sway
In work of those tools that so fit our state,
Are rude mechanicals, that rare and late
Work in the market-place; and those are they
Whose bitter tongues I shun, who straight would say
(For these vile vulgars are extremely proud,
And foully-languag’d) ‘What is he, allow’d
To coach it with Nausicaa, so large set,
And fairly fashion’d? Where were these two met?
He shall be sure her husband. She hath been
Gadding in some place, and, of foreign men
Fitting her fancy, kindly brought him home
In her own ship. He must, of force, be come
From some far region; we have no such man.
It may be, praying hard, when her heart ran
On some wish’d husband, out of heav’n some God
Dropp’d in her lap; and there lies she at road
Her cómplete life time. But, in sooth, if she,
Ranging abroad, a husband, such as he
Whom now we saw, laid hand on, she was wise,
For none of all our nobles are of prize
Enough for her; he must beyond sea come,
That wins her high mind, and will have her home.
Of our peers many have importun’d her,
Yet she will none.’ Thus these folks will confer
Behind my back; or, meeting, to my face
The foul-mouth rout dare put home this disgrace;
And this would be reproaches to my fame,
For, ev’n myself just anger would inflame,
If any other virgin I should see,
Her parents living, keep the company
Of any man to any end of love,
Till open nuptials should her act approve.
And therefore hear me, guest, and take such way,
That you yourself may compass, in your stay,
Your quick deduction by my father’s grace,
And means to reach the root of all your race.
We shall, not far out of our way to town,
A never-fell’d grove find, that poplars crown,
To Pallas sacred, where a fountain flows,
And round about the grove a meadow grows,
In which my father holds a manor-house,
Deck’d all with orchards, green, and odorous,
As far from town as one may hear a shout.
There stay, and rest your foot-pains, till full out
We reach the city; where, when you may guess
We are arriv’d, and enter our access
Within my father’s court, then put you on
For our Phæacian state, where, to be shown
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 121