His safe return. By Pallas’ will,
Telemachus is giv’n the skill
To know his father. Those that lay
In ambush, to prevent the way
Of young Ulyssides for home,
Retire, with anger overcome.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Πι̑.
To his most dear
Ulysses shows.
The wise-son here
His father knows.
Ulysses and divine Eumæus rose
Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose,
Made fire, brake fast, and to their pasture send
The gather’d herds, on whom their swains attend.
The self-tire barking dogs all fawn’d upon,
Nor bark’d, at first sight of Ulysses’ son.
The whinings of their fawnings yet did greet
Ulysses’ ears, and sounds of certain feet,
Who thus bespake Eumæus: “Sure some friend,
Or one well-known, comes, that the mastiffs spend
Their mouths no louder. Only some one near
They whine, and leap about, whose feet I hear.”
Each word of this speech was not spent, before
His son stood in the entry of the door.
Out-rush’d amaz’d Eumæus, and let go
The cup to earth, that he had labour’d so,
Cleans’d for the neat wine, did the prince-surprise,
Kiss’d his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes,
Both his white hands, and tender tears distill’d.
There breath’d no kind-soul’d father that was fill’d
Less with his son’s embraces, that had liv’d
Ten years in far-off earth, now new retriev’d,
His only child too, gotten in his age,
And for whose absence he had felt the rage
Of griefs upon him, than for this divin’d
So-much-for-form was this divine-for-mind;
Who kiss’d him through, who grew about him kissing,
As fresh from death ‘scap’d. Whom so long time missing,
He wept for joy, and said: “Thou yet art come,
Sweet light, sweet sun-rise, to thy cloudy home.
O, never I look’d, when once shipp’d away
For Pylos’ shores, to see thy turning day.
Come, enter, lov’d son, let me feast my heart
With thy sweet sight, new-come, so far apart.
Nor, when you liv’d at home, would you walk down
Often enough here, but stay’d still at town;
It pleas’d you then to cast such forehand view
About your house on that most damnéd crew.” 1
“It shall be so then, friend,” said he, “but now
I come to glad mine eyes with thee, and know
If still my mother in her house remain,
Or if some Wooer hath aspir’d to gain
Of her in nuptials; for Ulysses’ bed,
By this, lies all with spiders’s cobwebs spread,
In penury of him that should supply it.”
“She still,” said he, “holds her most constant quiet,
Aloft thine own house, for the bed’s respect;
But, for her lord’s sad loss, sad nights and days
Obscure her beauties, and corrupt their rays.”
This said, Eumæus took his brazen spear,
And in he went; when, being enter’d near
Within the stony threshold; from his seat
His father rose to him, who would not let
Th’ old man remove, but drew him back and prest
With earnest terms his sitting, saying: “Guest,
Take here your seat again, we soon shall get
Within our own house here some other seat.
Here’s one will fetch it.” This said, down again
His father sat, and to his son his swain
Strew’d fair green osiers, and impos’d thereon
A good soft sheepskin, which made him a throne.
Then he appos’d to them his last-left roast,
And in a wicker basket bread engrost,
Fill’d luscious wine, and then took opposite seat
To the divine Ulysses. When, the meat
Set there before them, all fell-to, and eat.
When they had fed, the prince said: “Pray thee say,
Whence comes this guest? What seaman gave him way
To this our isle? I hope these feet of his
Could walk no water. Who boasts he he is?”
“I’ll tell all truly son: From ample Crete
He boasts himself, and says, his erring feet
Have many cities trod, and God was he
Whose finger wrought in his infirmity.
But, to my cottage, the last ‘scape of his
Was from a Thesprot’s ship. Whate’er he is,
I’ll give him you, do what you please; his vaunt
Is, that he is, at most, a suppliant.”
“Eumæus,” said the prince, “to tell me this,
You have afflicted my weak faculties;
For how shall I receive him to my house
With any safety, that suspicious
Of my young forces (should I be assay’d
With any sudden violence) may want aid
To shield myself? Besides, if I go home,
My mother is with two doubts overcome,
If she shall stay with me, and take fit care
For all such guests as there seek guestive fare,
Her husband’s bed respecting, and her fame
Amongst the people; or her blood may frame
A liking to some Wooer, such as best
May bed her in his house, not giving least.
And thus am I unsure of all means free
To use a guest there, fit for his degree.
But, being thy guest, I’ll be his supply
For all weeds, such as mere necessity
Shall more than furnish. Fit him with a sword,
And set him where his heart would have been shor’d;
Or, if so pleas’d, receive him in thy shed,
I’ll send thee clothes, I vow, and all the bread
His wish would eat, that to thy men and thee
He be no burthen. But that I should be
His mean to my house; where a company
Of wrong-professing Wooers wildly live,
I will in no sort author, lest they give
Foul use to him, and me as gravely grieve.
For what great act can anyone achieve
Against a multitude, although his mind
Retain a courage of the greatest kind?
For all minds have not force in one degree.”
Ulysses answer’d: “O friend, since ’tis free
For any man to change fit words with thee,
I’ll freely speak: Methinks, a wolfish pow’r
My heart puts on to tear and to devour,
To hear your affirmation, that, in spite
Of what may fall on you, made opposite,
Being one of your proportion, birth, and age,
These Wooers should in such injustice rage.
What should the cause be? Do you wilfully
Endure their spoil? Or hath your empery
Been such amongst your people, that all gather
In troop, and one voice (which ev’n God doth father)
And vow your hate so, that they suffer them?
Or blame your kinsfol
k’s faiths, before th’ extreme
Of your first stroke hath tried them, whom a man,
When strifes to blows rise, trusts, though battle ran
In huge and high waves? Would to heav’n my spirit
Such youth breath’d, as the man that must inherit
Yet-never-touch’d Ulysses, or that he,
But wand’ring this way, would but come, and see
What my age could achieve (and there is Fate
For Hope yet left, that he may recreate
His eyes with such an object) this my head
Should any stranger strike off, if stark dead
I struck not all, the house in open force
Ent’ring with challenge! If their great concourse
Did over-lay me, being a man alone,
(Which you urge for yourself) be you that one,
I rather in mine own house wish to die
One death for all, than so indecently
See evermore deeds worse than death applied,
Guests wrong’d with vile words and blow-giving pride,
The women-servants dragg’d in filthy kind
About the fair house, and in corners blind
Made serve the rapes of ruffians, food devour’d
Idly and rudely, wine exhaust, and pour’d
Through throats profane; and all about a deed
That’s ever wooing, and will never speed.”
“I’ll tell you, guest, most truly,” said his son,
“I do not think that all my people run
One hateful course against me; nor accuse
Kinsfolks that I in strifes of weight might use;
But Jove will have it so, our race alone
(As if made singular) to one and one
His hand confining. Only to the king,
Jove-bred Arcesius, did Laertes spring;
Only to old Laertes did descend
Ulysses; only to Ulysses’ end
Am I the adjunct, whom he left so young,
That from me to him never comfort sprung.
And to all these now, for their race, arise
Up in their house a brood of enemies.
As many as in these isles bow men’s knees,
Samos, Dulichius, and the rich-in-trees
Zacynthus, or in this rough isle’s command,
So many suitors for the nuptials stand,
That ask my mother, and, mean space, prefer
Their lusts to all spoil, that dishonour her.
Nor doth she, though she loaths, deny their suits,
Nor they denials take, though taste their fruits.
But all this time the state of all things there
Their throats devour, and I must shortly bear
A part in all. And yet the periods
Of these designs lie in the knees of Gods.
Of all loves then, Eumæus, make quick way
To wise Penelopé, and to her say
My safe return from Pylos, and alone,
Return thou hither, having made it known.
Nor let, besides my mother, any ear
Partake thy message, since a number bear
My safe return displeasure.” He replied;
“I know, and comprehend you. You divide
Your mind with one that understands you well.
But, all in one yet, may I not reveal
To th’ old hard-fated Arcesiades
Your safe return? Who, through his whole distress
Felt for Ulysses, did not yet so grieve,
But with his household he had will to live,
And serv’d his appetite with wine and food,
Survey’d his husbandry, and did his blood
Some comforts fitting life; but since you took
Your ship for Pylos, he would never brook
Or wine or food, they say, nor cast an eye
On any labour, but sits weeping by,
And sighing out his sorrows, ceaseless moans
Wasting his body, turn’d all skin and bones.”
“More sad news still,” said he, “yet, mourn he still;
For if the rule of all men’s works be will,
And his will his way goes, mine stands inclin’d
T’ attend the home-turn of my nearer kind. 2
Do then what I enjoin; which giv’n effect,
Err nor to field to him, but turn direct,
Entreating first my mother, with most speed,
And all the secrecy that now serves need,
To send this way their store-house guardian,
And she shall tell all to the aged man.” 3
He took his shoes up, put them on, and went.
Nor was his absence hid from Jove’s descent,
Divine Minerva, who took straight to view,
A goodly woman’s shape that all works knew,
And, standing in the entry, did prefer
Her sight t’ Ulysses; but, though meeting her,
His son Telemachus nor saw nor knew.
The Gods’ clear presences are know to few.
Yet, with Ulysses, ev’n the dogs did see,
And would not bark, but, whining lovingly,
Fled to the stall’s far side. When she her eyne
Mov’d to Ulysses; he knew her design,
And left the house, pass’d the great sheep-cote’s wall,
And stood before her. She bade utter all
Now to his son, nor keep the least unlos’d,
That, all the Wooers’ deaths being now dispos’d,
They might approach the town; affirming; she
Not long would fail t’ assist to victory.
This said, she laid her golden rod on him,
And with his late-worn weeds grac’d ev’ry limb,
His body straighten’d, and his youth instill’d,
His fresh blood call’d up, ev’ry wrinkle fill’d
About his broken eyes, and on his chin
The brown hair spread. When his whole trim wrought in,
She issued, and he enter’d to his son,
Who stood amaz’d, and thought some God had done
His house that honour, turn’d away his eyes,
And said; “Now guest, you grace another guise
Than suits your late show. Other weeds you wear,
And other person. Of the starry sphere
You certainly present some deathless God.
Be pleas’d, that to your here-vouchsaf’d abode
We may give sacred rites, and offer gold,
To do us favour.” He replied; “I hold
No deified state. Why put you thus on me
A God’s resemblance? I am only he
That bears thy father’s name; for whose lov’d sake
Thy youth so grieves, whose absence makes thee take
Such wrongs of men.” Thus kiss’d he him, nor could
Forbear those tears that in such mighty hold
He held before, still held, still issuing ever;
And now, the shores once broke, the springtide never
Forbore earth from the cheeks he kiss’d. His son,
By all these violent arguments not won
To credit him his father, did deny
His kind assumpt, and said, some Deity
Feign’d that joy’s cause, to make him grieve the more;
Affirming, that no man, whoever wore
The garment of mortality, could take,
By any utmost pow’r his soul could make,
Such change in
to it, since, at so much will,
Not Jove himself could both remove and fill
Old age with youth, and youth with age so spoil,
In such an instant. “You wore all the soil
Of age but now, and were old; and but now
You bear that young grace that the Gods indow
Their heav’n-born forms withal.” His father said:
“Telemachus! Admire, nor stand dismay’d,
But know thy solid father; since within
He answers all parts that adorn his skin.
There shall no more Ulyssesses come here.
I am the man, that now this twentieth year
(Still under suff’rance of a world of ill)
My country-earth recover. ’Tis the will
The prey-professor Pallas puts in act,
Who put me thus together, thus distract
In aged pieces as ev’n now you saw,
This youth now rend’ring. ’Tis within the law
Of her free pow’r. Sometimes to show me poor,
Sometimes again thus amply to restore
My youth and ornaments, she still would please.
The Gods can raise, and throw men down, with ease.”
This said, he sat; when his Telemachus pour’d
Himself about him; tears on tears he show’r’d,
And to desire of moan increas’d the cloud.
Both wept and howl’d, and laid out shrieks more loud
Than or the bird-bone-breaking eagle rears,
Or brood-kind vulture with the crooked seres,
When rustic hands their tender eyries draw,
Before they give their wings their full-plum’d law.
But miserably pour’d they from beneath
Their lids their tears, while both their breasts did breathe
As frequent cries; and, to their fervent moan,
The light had left the skies, if first the son
Their dumb moans had not vented, with demand
What ship it was that gave the natural land
To his bless’d feet? He then did likewise lay
Hand on his passion, and gave these words way:
“I’ll tell thee truth, my son: The men that bear
Much fame for shipping, my reducers were
To long-wish’d Ithaca, who each man else
That greets their shore give pass to where he dwells.
The Phæacensian peers, in one night’s date,
While I fast slept, fetch’d th’ Ithacensian state,
Grac’d me with wealthy gifts, brass, store of gold,
And robes fair-wrought; all which have secret hold
In caves that by the Gods’ advice I chus’d.
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 144