To taste their crown’d cups, and full trenchers shift.
Their tables ever like their glasses shine,
Loaded with bread, with varied flesh, and wine.
And thou go thither? Stay, for here do none
Grudge at thy presence, nor myself, nor one
Of all I feed. But when Ulysses’ son
Again shall greet us, he shall put thee on
Both coat and cassock, and thy quick retreat
Set where thy heart and soul desire thy seat.”
Industrious Ulysses gave reply:
“I still much wish, that Heav’n’s chief Deity
Lov’d thee, as I do, that hast eas’d my mind
Of woes and wand’rings never yet confin’d.
Nought is more wretched in a human race,
Than country’s want, and shift from place to place.
But for the baneful belly men take care
Beyond good counsel, whosoever are
In compass of the wants it undergoes
By wand’rings, losses, or dependent woes.
Excuse me therefore, if I err’d at home;
Which since thou wilt make here, as overcome
With thy command for stay, I’ll take on me
Cares appertaining to this place, like thee.
Does then Ulysses’ sire, and mother, breathe,
Both whom he left in th’ age next door to death?
Or are they breathless, and descended where
The dark house is, that never day doth clear?”
“Laertes lives,” said he, “but ev’ry hour
Beseecheth Jove to take from him the pow’r
That joins his life and limbs; for with a moan
That breeds a marvel he laments his son
Depriv’d by death, and adds to that another
Of no less depth for that dead son’s dead mother,
Whom he a virgin wedded, which the more
Makes him lament her loss, and doth deplore
Yet more her miss, because her womb the truer
Was to his brave son, and his slaughter slew her.
Which last love to her doth his life engage,
And makes him live an undigested age.
O! such a death she died as never may
Seize anyone that here beholds the day,
That either is to any man a friend,
Or can a woman kill in such a kind.
As long as she had being, I would be
A still inquirer (since ’twas dear to me,
Though death to her, to hear his name) when she
Heard of Ulysses, for I might be bold,
She brought me up, and in her love did hold
My life, compar’d with long-veil’d Ctimené,
Her youngest issue (in some small degree
Her daughter yet preferr’d) a brave young dame.
And when of youth the dearly-lovéd flame
Was lighted in us, marriage did prefer
The maid to Samos; whence was sent for her
Infinite riches, when the queen bestow’d
A fair new suit, new shoes, and all, and vow’d
Me to the field, but passing loth to part,
As loving me more than she lov’d her heart.
And these I want now; but their business grows
Upon me daily, which the Gods impose,
To whom I hold all, give account to them,
For I see none left to the diadem
That may dispose all better. So, I drink
And eat of what is here; and whom I think
Worthy or rev’rend, I have giv’n to, still,
These kinds of guest-rites; for the household ill
(Which, where the queen is, riots) takes her still
From thought of these things. Nor is it delight
To hear, from her plight, of or work or word;
The Wooers spoil all. But yet my men will board
Her sorrows often with discourse of all,
Eating and drinking of the festival
That there is kept, and after bring to field
Such things as servants make their pleasures yield.
“O me, Eumæus,” said Laertes’ son,
“Hast thou then err’d so of a little one,
Like me, from friends and country? Pray thee say,
And say a truth, doth vast Destruction lay
Her hand upon the wide-way’d seat of men, 4
Where dwelt thy sire and rev’rend mother then,
That thou art spar’d there? Or else, set alone
In guard of beeves, or sheep, set th’ enemy on,
Surpris’d, and shipp’d, transferr’d, and sold thee here?
He that bought thee paid well, yet bought not dear.”
“Since thou enquir’st of that, my guest,” said he,
“Hear and be silent, and, mean space, sit free
In use of these cups to thy most delights;
Unspeakable in length now are the nights.
Those that affect sleep yet, to sleep have leave,
Those that affect to hear, their hearers give.
But sleep not ere your hour; much sleep doth grieve.
Whoever lists to sleep, away to bed,
Together with the morning raise his head,
Together with his fellows break his fast,
And then his lord’s herd drive to their repast.
We two, still in our tabernacle here
Drinking and eating, will our bosoms cheer
With memories and tales of our annoys.
Betwixt his sorrows ev’ry human joys,
He most, who most hath felt and furthest err’d.
And now thy will to act shall be preferr’d.
There is an isle above Ortygia,
If thou hast heard, they call it Syria,
Where, once a day, the sun moves backward still.
’Tis not so great as good, for it doth fill
The fields with oxen, fills them still with sheep,
Fills roofs with wine, and makes all corn there cheap.
No dearth comes ever there, nor no disease
That doth with hate us wretched mortals seize,
But when men’s varied nations, dwelling there
In any city, enter th’ aged year,
The silver-bow-bearer, the Sun, and She
That bears as much renown for archery,
Stoop with their painless shafts, and strike them dead,
As one would sleep, and never keep the bed.
In this isle stand two cities, betwixt whom
All things that of the soil’s fertility come
In two parts are divided. And both these
My father rul’d, Ctesius Ormenides,
A man like the Immortals. With these states
The cross-biting Phœnicians traffick’d rates
Of infinite merchandise in ships brought there,
In which they then were held exempt from peer.
There dwelt within my father’s house a dame,
Born a Phœnician, skilful in the frame
Of noble housewif’ries, right tall and fair.
Her the Phœnician great-wench-net-lay’r 5
With sweet words circumvented, as she was
Washing her linen. To his amorous pass
He brought her first, shor’d from his ship to her;
To whom he did his whole life’s love prefer,
Which of these breast-exposing dames the hearts
Deceives, though
fashion’d of right honest parts.
He ask’d her after, what she was, and whence?
She, passing presently, the excellence
Told of her father’s turrets, and that she
Might boast herself sprung from the progeny
Of the rich Sidons, and the daughter was
Of the much-year-revénued Arybas;
But that the Taphian pirates made her prise,
As she return’d from her field-housewif’ries,
Transferr’d her hither, and, at that man’s house
Where now she liv’d, for value precious
Sold her to th’ owner. He that stole her love
Bade her again to her birth’s seat remove,
To see the fair roofs of her friends again,
Who still held state, and did the port maintain
Herself reported. She said: ‘Be it so,
So you, and all that in your ship shall row,
Swear to return me in all safety hence.’
All swore. Th’ oath past, with ev’ry consequence,
She bade: ‘Be silent now, and not a word
Do you, or any of your friends, afford,
Meeting me afterward in any way,
Or at the washing-fount; lest some display
Be made, and told the old man, and he then
Keep me strait bound, to you and to your men
The utter ruin plotting of your lives.
Keep in firm thought then ev’ry word that strives
For dang’rous utt’rance. Haste your ship’s full freight
Of what you traffic for, and let me straight
Know by some sent friend she hath all in hold,
And with myself I’ll bring thence all the gold
I can by all means finger; and, beside,
I’ll do my best to see your freight supplied
With some well-weighing burthen of mine own.
For I bring-up in house a great man’s son,
As crafty as myself, who will with me
Run ev’ry way along, and I will be
His leader, till your ship hath made him sure.
He will an infinite great price procure,
Transfer him to what languag’d men ye may.’
This said, she gat her home, and there made stay
A whole year with us, goods of great avail
Their ship enriching. Which now fit for sail,
They sent a messenger t’ inform the dame;
And to my father’s house a fellow came,
Full of Phœnician craft, that to be sold
A tablet brought, the body all of gold,
The verge all-amber. This had ocular view
Both by my honour’d mother and the crew
Of her house-handmaids, handled, and the price
Beat, ask’d, and promis’d. And while this device
Lay thus upon the forge, this jeweller
Made privy signs, by winks and wiles, to her
That was his object; which she took, and he,
His sign seeing noted, hied to ship. When she,
(My hand still taking, as she us’d to do
To walk abroad with her) convey’d me so
Abroad with her, and in the portico
Found cups, with tasted viands, which the guests
That us’d to flock about my father’s feasts
Had left. They gone (some to the council-court,
Some to hear news amongst the talking sort)
Her theft three bowls into her lap convey’d,
And forth she went. Nor was my wit so stay’d
To stay her, or myself. The sun went down,
And shadows round about the world were flown,
When we came to the haven, in which did ride
The swift Phœnician ship; whose fair broad side
They boarded straight, took us up; and all went
Along the moist waves. Wind Saturnius sent.
Six days we day and night sail’d; but when Jove
Put up the seventh day, She that shafts doth love
Shot dead the woman, who into the pump
Like to a dop-chick div’d, and gave a thump
In her sad settling. Forth they cast her then
To serve the fish and sea-calves, no more men;
But I was left there with a heavy heart;
When wind and water drave them quit apart
Their own course, and on Ithaca they fell,
And there poor me did to Laertes sell.
And thus these eyes the sight of this isle prov’d.”
“Eumæus,” he replied, “thou much hast mov’d
The mind in me with all things thou hast said,
And all the suff’rance on thy bosom laid,
But, truly, to thy ill hath Jove join’d good,
That one whose veins are serv’d with human blood
Hath bought thy service, that gives competence
Of food, wine, cloth to thee; and sure th’ expence
Of thy life’s date here is of good desert,
Whose labours not to thee alone impart
Sufficient food and housing, but to me;
Where I through many a heap’d humanity
Have hither err’d, where, though, like thee, not sold,
Nor stay’d like thee yet, nor nought needful hold.”
This mutual speech they us’d, nor had they slept
Much time before the much-near morning leapt
To her fair throne. And now struck sail the men
That serv’d Telemachus, arriv’d just then
Near his lov’d shore; where now they stoop’d the mast,
Made to the port with oars, and anchor cast,
Made fast the ship, and then ashore they went,
Dress’d supper, fill’d wine; when (their appetites spent)
Telemachus commanded they should yield
The ship to th’ owner, while himself at field
Would see his shepherds; when light drew to end
He would his gifts see, and to town descend,
And in the morning at a feast bestow
Rewards for all their pains. “And whither, now,”
Said Theoclymenus, “my lovéd son,
Shall I address myself? Whose mansión,
Of all men, in this rough-hewn isle, shall I
Direct my way to? Or go readily
To thy house and thy mother?” He replied:
“Another time I’ll see you satisfied
With my house-entertainment, but as now
You should encounter none that could bestow
Your fit entreaty, and (which less grace were)
You could not see my mother, I not there;
For she’s no frequent object, but apart
Keeps from her Wooers, woo’d with her desert,
Up in her chamber, at her housewif’ry
But I’ll name one to whom you shall apply
Direct repair, and that’s Eurymachus,
Renown’d descent to wise Polybius,
A man whom th’ Ithacensians look on now
As on a God, since he of all that woo
Is far superior man, and likest far
To wed my mother, and as circular
Be in that honour as Ulysses was.
But heav’n-hous’d Jove knows the yet hidden pass
Of her disposure, and on them he may
A blacker sight bring than her nuptial day.”
As this he utter’d, on his right hand flew
A saker, sacred to the God of view,
That in his talons truss’d and plum’d a dove;
The feathers round about the ship did rove,
And on Telemachus fell; whom th’ augur then
Took fast by the hand, withdrew him from his men,
And said: “Telemachus! This hawk is sent
From God; I knew it for a sure ostent
When first I saw it. Be you well assur’d,
There will no Wooer be by heav’n endur’d
To rule in Ithaca above your race,
But your pow’rs ever fill the regal place.”
“I wish to heav’n,” said he, “thy word might stand,
Thou then shouldst soon acknowledge from my hand
Such gifts and friendship, as would make thee, guest,
Met and saluted as no less than blest.”
This said, he call’d Piræus, Clytus’ son,
His true associate, saying: “Thou hast done
(Of all my followers to the Pylian shore)
My will in chief in other things, once more
Be chiefly good to me; take to thy house
This lovéd stranger, and be studious
T’ embrace and greet him with thy greatest fare,
Till I myself come and take off thy care.”
The famous-for-his-lance said: “If your stay
Take time for life here, this man’s care I’ll lay
On my performance, nor what fits a guest
Shall any penury withhold his feast.”
Thus took he ship, bade them board, and away.
They boarded, sat, but did their labour stay
Till he had deck’d his feet, and reached his lance.
They to the city; he did straight advance
Up to his styes, where swine lay for him store,
By whose side did his honest swine-herd snore,
Till his short cares his longest nights had ended,
And nothing worse to both his lords intended.
THE END OF THE FIFTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
1 Εὐρύχορον Λακεδαίμονα in quâ ampli ut pulchri chori duci possunt, vel ducuntur; which the vulgar translations turn therefore, latam, seu amplam.
2 Nestor’s son to Menelaus, his ironical question continuing still Homer’s character of Menelaus.
3 His wife betrayed him for money.
4 Supposing him to dwell in a city.
5 Πολυπαίπαλος, admodum vafer, Der. ex παλεύω, pertraho in retia, et παι̑ς, puella.
THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
The Prince at field, he sends to town
Eumæus, to make truly known
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 143