Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so;
To which, his mean was this: He made me go
Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort
Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates, where, in port,
I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore,
And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore
Up to the mountains, who, intemperate,
And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate,
Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence,
And unwean’d children, with the foul expence
Both of their fames and bloods. The cry then flew
Straight to the city; and the great fields grew
With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms;
When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms)
An ill flight cast amongst my men; not one
Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon
The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood
Their ill fate thick about them; some in blood,
And some in bondage; toils led by constraint
Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent
To Cyprus with a stranger-prince they met,
Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat
Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command.
And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.”
“And what God sent,” said he, “this suff’ring bane
To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane
My board so boldly, lest I show thee here
Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there.
You are a saucy set-fac’d vagabond.
About with all you go, and they, beyond
Discretion, give thee, since they find not here
The least proportion set down to their cheer.
But ev’ry fountain hath his under-floods.
It is no bounty to give others’ goods.”
“O Gods,” replied Ulysses, “I see now,
You bear no soul in this your goodly show.
Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get
Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat;
Since, sitting where another’s board is spread,
That flows with feast, not to the broken bread
Will your allowance reach.” “Nay then,” said he,
And look’d austerely, “if so saucy be
Your suffer’d language, I suppose, that clear
You shall not ‘scape without some broken cheer.”
Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit
The king’s right shoulder, ‘twixt his neck and it.
He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart
Nor stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart
Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close
He bound in silence, shook his head, and went
Out to the entry, where he then gave vent
To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat,
And talk’d still to the Wooers: “Hear me yet,
Ye Wooers of the Queen. It never grieves
A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves,
Or other main possessions, a man fights;
But for his harmful belly this man smites,
Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe.
And if the poor have Gods, and Furies too,
Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath,
He shall be worn upon the dart of death.”
“Harsh guest,” said he, “sit silent at your meat,
Or seek your desp’rate plight some safer seat,
Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years,
And rend your rotten rags about your ears.”
This made the rest as highly hate his folly,
As he had violated something holy.
When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began:
“Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man
On such an errant wretch. O ill dispos’d!
Perhaps some sacred Godhead goes enclos’d
Ev’n in his abject outside; for the Gods
Have often visited these rich abodes
Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs
(Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs,
Observing, as they pass still, who they be
That piety love, and who impiety.”
This all men said, but he held sayings cheap.
And all this time Telemachus did heap
Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart,
To see his father stricken; yet let part
No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought
As deep as those ills that were after wrought.
The Queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke,
Said to her maid (as to her Wooer she spoke),
“I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun,
Would strike thy heart so.” Her wish, thus begun,
Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursued
Her execration, and did thus conclude:
“So may our vows call down from heav’n his end,
And let no one life of the rest extend
His life till morning.” “O Eurynomé,”
Replied the Queen, “may all Gods speak in thee,
For all the Wooers we should rate as foes,
Since all their weals they place in others’ woes!
But this Antinous we past all should hate,
As one resembling black and cruel Fate.
A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need,
Ask’d all, and ev’ry one gave in his deed,
Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants,
Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts,
And with a cruel blow, his force let fly,
‘Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.”
These minds, above, she and her maids did show,
While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below.
In which time she Eumæus call’d, and said:
“Go, good Eumæus, and see soon convey’d
The stranger to me; bid him come and take
My salutations for his welcome’s sake,
And my desire serve, if he hath not heard
Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d
Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall
He hath by him been met and spoke withal?”
“O Queen,” said he, “I wish to heav’n your ear
Were quit of this unrev’rend noise you hear
From these rude Wooers, when I bring the guest;
Such words your ear would let into your breast
As would delight it to your very heart.
Three nights and days I did my roof impart
To his fruition (for he came to me
The first of all men since he fled the sea)
And yet he had not giv’n a perfect end
To his relation of what woes did spend
The spite of Fate on him, but as you see 5
A singer, breathing out of Deity
Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near
Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear;
So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat,
Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete,
Where first the memories of Minos were,
A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear
As his true father; and from then
ce came he
Tir’d on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea,
To cast himself in dust, and tumble here,
At Wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer.
But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell,
A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell
The still survival; who his native light
Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.”
“Call him,” said she, “that he himself may say
This over to me. We shall soon have way
Giv’n by the Wooers; they, as well at gate,
As set within doors, use to recreate
Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead
They follow; and may well; for still they tread
Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted
In poor-kept houses, only something tasted
Their bread and wine is by their household swains,
But they themselves let loose continual reins
To our expenses, making slaughter still
Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill,
And vainly lavishing our richest wine;
All these extending past the sacred line,
For here lives no man like Ulysses now
To curb these reins. But should he once show
His country-light his presence, he and his
Would soon revenge these Wooers’ injuries.”
This said, about the house, in echoes round,
Her son’s strange neesings made a horrid sound; 6
At which the Queen yet laugh’d, and said: “Go call
The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all
My words last utter’d, what a neesing brake
From my Telemachus? From whence I make,
This sure conclusion: That the death and fate
Of ev’ry Wooer here is near his date.
Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true
What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new,
These hands shall yield him.” This said, down he went,
And told Ulysses, “that the Queen had sent
To call him to her, that she might enquire
About her husband what her sad desire
Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true,
Both coat, and cassock (which he needed) new
Her hands would put on him; and that the bread,
Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread,
Should freely feed his hunger now from her,
Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.”
His answer was: “I will with fit speed tell
The whole truth to the Queen; for passing well
I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d
In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d
With this rude multitude of Wooers here,
The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere.
Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault,
Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault
From my poor shoulders. Therefore, though she haste,
Beseech the Queen her patience will see past
The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire.
’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire
In th’ ev’ning’s cold, because my weeds, you know,
Are passing thin; for I made bold to show
Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.”
He heard, and hasted; and met instantly
The Queen upon the pavement in his way,
Who ask’d: “What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay
Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear
Of th’ unjust Wooers? Or thus hard doth bear
On any other doubt the house objects?
He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects
To his fear’d safety.” “He does right,” said he,
“And what he fears should move the policy
Of any wise one; taking care to shun
The violent Wooers. He bids bide, till sun
Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, Queen,
‘Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen,
May pass th’ encounter; you to speak more free,
And he your ear gain less distractedly.”
“The guest is wise,” said she, “and well doth give
The right thought use. Of all the men that live,
Life serves none such as these proud Wooers are,
To give a good man cause to use his care.”
Thus, all agreed, amongst the Wooers goes
Eumæus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close,
Said: “Now, my love, my charge shall take up me,
(Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see
In fit protection. But, in chief, regard
Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard,
Lest suff’rance seize you. Many a wicked thought
Conceal these Wooers; whom just Jove see brought
To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.”
“So chance it, friend,” replied Telemachus,
“Your bever taken, go. In first of day
Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may.
To me and to th’ Immortals be the care
or whatsoever here the safeties are.”
This said, he sat in his elaborate throne.
Eumæus (fed to satisfaction)
Went to his charge, left both the court and walls
Full of secure and fatal festivals,
In which the Wooers’ pleasures still would sway.
And now begun the even’s near-ending day.
THE END OF THE SEVENTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
ENDNOTES.
1 Intending his fat herd, kept only for the Wooers’ dainty palates.
2 The dog died as soon as he had seen Ulysses.
3 Ulysses’ ruthful fashion of entry to his own hall.
4 His — intending Ulysses.
5 Simile, in which Ulysses is compared with a poet for the sweetness of his speech.
6 Neezing a good omen.
THE EIGHTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses and rogue Irus fight.
Penelope vouchsafes her sight
To all her Wooers; who present
Gifts to her, ravish’d with content.
A certain parlé then we sing.
Betwixt a Wooer and the King.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Σίγμα.
The beggar’s glee.
The King’s high fame.
Gifts giv’n to see
A virtuous dame.
There came a common beggar to the court,
Who in the city begg’d of all resort,
Excell’d in madness of the gut, drunk, ate,
Past intermission, was most hugely great,
Yet had no fibres in him nor no force,
In sight a man, in mind a living corse.
His true name was Arnæus, for his mother
Impos’d it from his birth, and yet another
The city youth would give him (from the course
He after took, deriv’d out of the force
That need held on him, which was up and down
To run on all men’s errands through the town)
Which sounded Irus. When whose gut was come,
He needs would bar Ulysses his own
home,
And fell to chiding him: “Old man,” said he,
“Your way out of the entry quickly see
Be with fair language taken, lest your stay
But little longer see you dragg’d away.
See, sir, observe you not how all these make
Direct signs at me, charging me to take
Your heels, and drag you out? But I take shame.
Rise yet, y’ are best, lest we two play a game
At cuffs together.” He bent brows, and said:
“Wretch! I do thee no ill, nor once upbraid
Thy presence with a word, nor, what mine eye
By all hands sees thee giv’n, one thought envy.
Nor shouldst thou envy others. Thou may’st see
The place will hold us both; and seem’st to me
A beggar like myself; which who can mend?
The Gods give most to whom they least are friend.
The chief goods Gods give, is in good to end.
But to the hands’ strife, of which y’ are so free,
Provoke me not, for fear you anger me;
And lest the old man, on whose scorn you stood,
Your lips and bosom make shake hands in blood.
I love my quiet well, and more will love
To-morrow than to-day. But if you move
My peace beyond my right, the war you make
Will never after give you will to take
Ulysses’ house into your begging walk.”
“O Gods,” said he, “how volubly doth talk
This eating gulf! And how his fume breaks out,
As from an old crack’d oven! Whom I will clout
So bitterly, and so with both hands mall
His chaps together, that his teeth shall fall
As plain seen on the earth as any sow’s,
That ruts the corn-fields, or devours the mows.
Come, close we now, that all may see what wrong
An old man tempts that takes at cuffs a young.”
Thus in the entry of those lofty tow’rs
These two, with all spleen, spent their jarring pow’rs.
Antinous took it, laugh’d, and said: “O friends,
We never had such sport! This guest contends
With this vast beggar at the buffet’s fight.
Come, join we hands, and screw up all their spite.”
All rose in laughters; and about them bore
All the ragg’d rout of beggars at the door.
Then mov’d Antinous the victor’s hire
To all the Wooers thus: “There are now at fire
Two breasts of goat; both which let law set down
Before the man that wins the day’s renown,
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 148