The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman
Page 138
That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended,
Assuring me my country should see ended
My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts.
O Jove! Great Guardian of poor suppliants,
That others sees, and notes too, shutting in
All in thy plagues that most presume on sin,
Revenge me on them. Let me number now
The goods they gave, to give my mind to know
If they have stol’n none in their close retreat.”
The goodly caldrons then, and tripods, set
In sev’ral ranks from out the heap, he told,
His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold,
And nothing lack’d; and yet this man did mourn
The but suppos’d miss of his home-return,
And creeping to the shore with much complaint;
Minerva (like a shepherd, young, and quaint, 6
As king sons are, a double mantle cast
Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac’d
With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart)
Appear’d to him, whose sight rejoic’d his heart,
To whom he came, and said: “O friend! Since first
I meet your sight here, be all good the worst
That can join our encounter. Fare you fair,
Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,
But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.
As to a God I offer pray’rs to thee,
And low access make to thy lovéd knee.
Say truth, that I may know, what country then,
What common people live here, and what men?
Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,
Being near the sea, to some rich continent?”
She answer’d: “Stranger, whatsoe’er you are,
Y’are either foolish, or come passing far,
That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,
For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble,
But passing many know it; and so many,
That of all nations there abides not any,
From where the morning rises and the sun,
To where the even and night their courses run,
But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough,
And so for use of horse unapt enough,
Yet with sad barrenness not much infested, 7
Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,
And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great,
The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat.
It feeds a goat and ox well, being still
Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill
With heav’n’s continual show’rs; and wooded so,
It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.
And therefore, Stranger, the extended name
Of this dominion makes access by fame
From this extreme part of Achaia
As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.”
This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land
Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand
He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high,
That other end he put to his reply
Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad
His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d
A veil on truth; for evermore did wind
About his bosom a most crafty mind,
Which thus his words show’d: “I have far at sea,
In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,
Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,
With these my fortunes; whose whole value more
I left in Crete amongst my children there,
From whence I fly for being the slaughterer
Of royal Idomen’s most-lovéd son,
Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run
Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew,
Because he would deprive me of my due
In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so
(The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe
Of mind and body in the wars of men.
Nor did I gratify his father then
With any service, but, as well as he
Sway’d in command of other soldiery,
So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,
When gloomy night the cope of heav’n did dim,
And no man knew; but, we lodg’d close, he came,
And I put out to him his vital flame.
Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword,
I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard
A ship of the renown’d Phœnician state;
When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate,
Obtain’d my pass of men in her command;
Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land
Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,
Where the Epeïans in great empire shine.
But force of weather check’d that course to them,
Though (loth to fail me) to their most extreme
They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence,
We err’d, and put in here, with much expence
Of care and labour; and in dead of night,
When no man there serv’d any appetite
So much as with the memory of food,
Though our estates exceeding needy stood.
But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep
My weary pow’rs invaded, and from ship
They fetching these my riches, with just hand
About me laid them, while upon the sand
Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they
(Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,
Left sad alone.” The Goddess laugh’d, and took
His hand in hers, and with another look
(Assuming then the likeness of a dame,
Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame
Of virtuous housewif’ries) she answer’d thus:
“He should be passing-sly, and covetous
Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee 8
In any craft, though any God should be
Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.
Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate 9
In over-reaches! Not secure thy state
Without these wiles, though on thy native shore
Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store
Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth
Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth
Is known to either. Thou of men art far,
For words and counsels, the most singular,
But I above the Gods in both may boast
My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost
The knowledge ev’n of me, the Seed of Jove,
Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove
In all thy labours their extremes, and stood
Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good
Known to the good Phæacians, and receiv’d.
And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d
Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me
The close reserving of these goods for thee,
Which the renown’d Phæacian states bestow’d
At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d
With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace
I now will amplify, and tell what case
; Thy household stands in, utt’ring all those pains
That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.
Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give
To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,
But silent suffer over all again
Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.”
“Goddess,” said he, “unjust men, and unwise,
That author injuries and vanities,
By vanities and wrongs should rather be
Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,
Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n,
That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n
Up to all domage those poor few that strive
To imitate it, and like the Deities live?
But where you wonder that I know you not
Through all your changes, that skill is not got
By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face
Is still distinguish’d by thy free-giv’n grace;
And therefore, truly to acknowledge thee
In thy encounters, is a mastery
In men most-knowing; for to all men thou
Tak’st sev’ral likeness. All men think they know
Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view
Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few,
Through all thy changes to discern thee right
Asks chief love to thee, and inspiréd light.
But this I surely know, that, some years past,
I have been often with thy presence grac’d,
All time the sons of Greece wag’d war at Troy;
But when Fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy
Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town,
Our ships all boarded, and when God had blown
Our fleet in sunder, I could never see
The Seed of Jove, nor once distinguish thee
Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.
But only in my proper spirit involv’d,
Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d
Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace
By open speech confirm’d me, in a place
Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou
Didst give me guide, and all their city show;
And that was the renown’d Phæacian earth.
Now then, ev’n by the Author of thy birth,
Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies
My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes
Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch
At some far shore, and that thy wit is such
Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same
Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?”
“I see,” said she, “thou wilt be ever thus
In ev’ry worldly good incredulous,
And therefore have no more the pow’r to see
Frail life more plagued with infelicity
In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.
Another man, that so long miseries
Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d
To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d
In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire
What states they hold, affects not thy desire,
Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be
A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee
In loving tears, that then the sight may prove
A full reward for either’s mutual love.
But I would never credit in you both
Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth
Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,
I knew as well, should make returnless ends;
Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so
To stand their safeguard, since so high did go
His wrath for thy extinction of the eye
Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why
I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground
Thy credit on my words: This haven is own’d
By th’ agéd sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow
This is the olive with the ample bough,
And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave
That to the Fount-Nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave,
As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run
The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done
Hundreds of off’rings to the Naiades,
Here Mount Neritus shakes his curléd tress
Of shady woods.” This said, she clear’d the cloud
That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d
His country to him. Glad he stood with sight
Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight;
And instantly to all the Nymphs he paid
(With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said:
“Ye Nymphs the Naiades, great Seed of Jove,
I had conceit that never more should move
Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,
And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice
Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more
I pay your names in off’rings as before;
Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent,
The mighty Pillager, with life convent
My person home, and to my sav’d decease
Of my lov’d son’s sight add the sweet increase.”
“Be confident,” said Pallas, “nor oppress
Thy spirits with care of these performances,
But these thy fortunes let us straight repose
In this divine cave’s bosom, that may close
Reserve their value; and we then may see
How best to order other acts to thee.”
Thus enter’d she the light-excluding cave,
And through it sought some inmost nook to save
The gold, the great brass, and robes richly-wrought,
Giv’n to Ulysses. All which in he brought,
Laid down in heap; and she impos’d a stone
Close to the cavern’s mouth. Then sat they on
The sacred olive’s root, consulting how
To act th’ insulting Wooers’ overthrow;
When Pallas said: “Examine now the means
That best may lay hands on the impudence
Of those proud Wooers, that have now three years
Thy roof’s rule sway’d, and been bold offerers
Of suit and gifts to thy renownéd wife,
Who for thy absence all her desolate life
Dissolves in tears till thy desir’d return;
Yet all her Wooers, while she thus doth mourn,
She holds in hope, and ev’ry one affords
(In fore-sent message) promise; but her words
Bear other utt’rance than her heart approves.”
“O Gods,” said Ithacus, “it now behoves
My fate to end me in the ill decease
That Agamemnon underwent, unless
You tell me, and in time; their close intents.
Advise then means to the reveng’d events
We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind
To stand close to me, and but such a mind
Breathe in my bosom, as when th’ Ilion tow’rs
We tore in cinders. O if equal pow’rs
Thou wouldst enflame amidst my nerves as then,
I could encounter wi
th three hundred men,
Thy only self, great Goddess, had to friend,
In those brave ardors thou wert wont t’ extend!”
“I will be strongly with thee,” answer’d she,
“Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me.
When both whose pow’rs combine, I hope the bloods
And brains of some of these that waste thy goods
Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then:
I first will render thee unknown to men,
And on thy solid lineaments make dry
Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply
In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe
In such a cloak as ev’ry eye shall lothe;
Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change
Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange
To all the Wooers, thy young son, and wife.
But to thy herdsman first present thy life,
That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee,
That loves thy son and wife Penelopé.
Thy search shall find him set aside his herd,
That are with taste-delighting acorns rear’d,
And drink the dark-deep water of the spring,
Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing
Raiser of herds. There stay, and, taking seat
Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat
Of home-occurrents, while I make access
To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress
Of lov’d Telemachus, who went in quest
Of thy lov’d fame, and liv’d the welcome guest
Of Menelaus.” The much-knower said:
“Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred
The art to order all acts, tell in this
His error to him? Let those years of his
Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain
The woes there raging, while unworthy men
Devour his fortunes?” “Let not care extend
Thy heart for him,” said she, “myself did send
His person in thy search; to set his worth,
By good fame blown, to such a distance forth.
Nor suffers he in any least degree
The grief you fear, but all variety
That Plenty can yield in her quiet’st fare,
In Menelaus’ court, doth sit and share.
In whose return from home, the Wooers yet
Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set
To sea, to intercept his life before
He touch again his birth’s attempted shore.
All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do,
But rather, that the earth shall overgo