The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

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The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 148

by George Chapman


  ‭ 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,

 

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