And ample vineyard grounds it is decreed
In my next care that I must haste and see
His long’d-for presence. In the mean time, be
Your wisdom us’d, that since, the sun ascended,
The fame will soon be through the town extended
Of those I here have slain, yourself, got close
Up to your chamber, see you there repose,
Cheer’d with your women, and nor look afford
Without your court, nor any man a word.”
This said, he arm’d; to arms both son and swain
His pow’r commanding, who did entertain
His charge with spirit, op’d the gates and out,
He leading all. And now was hurl’d about
Aurora’s ruddy fire; through all whose light
Minerva led them through the town from sight.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
By Mercury the Wooers’ souls
Are usher’d to th’ infernal pools.
Ulysses with Laertes met,
The people are in uproar set
Against them, for the Wooers’ ends;
Whom Pallas stays and renders friends.
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ω.
The uproar’s fire,
The people’s fall:
The grandsire, sire,
And son, to all.
Cyllenian Hermes, with his golden rod,
The Wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode
Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout
Forth to th’ Infernals; who came murmuring out.
And as amidst the desolate retreat
Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat
Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings
Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings,
But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise
And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise
About the cavern; so these, grumbling, rose
And flock’d together. Down before them goes
None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways,
And straight to those straits; where the ocean stays
His lofty current in calm deeps, they flew,
Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew,
And to the close of Phœbus’ orient gates,
The nation then of dreams, and then the states
Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead
Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead
Had habitable situatión.
And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son,
Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus,
And Ajax, the supremely strenuous
Of all the Greek host next Pelëion;
All which assembled about Maia’s son.
And to them, after, came the mournful ghost
Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost
In false Ægisthus’ court. Achilles then
Beholding there that mighty king of men,
Deplor’d his plight, and said: “O Atreus’ son!
Of all heroës, all opinion
Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command
Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand
At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so.
And is the issue this, that first in woe
Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down?
None borne past others’ Fates can pass his own.
I wish to heav’n that in the height of all
Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall,
That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee
A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see
Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end!
But now a wretched death did Fate extend
To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.”
“O Thetis’ son,” said he, “the vital flame
Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields,
The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields.
About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy
Were sacrific’d to slaughter. Thy just joy
Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot
In such a death as great Apollo shot
At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay
Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way
With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state
Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate.
All day we fought about thee; nor at all
Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall
A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet.
But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet,
Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid
Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid
The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease,
Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase.
Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas
That started up thy mother from the waves;
And all the márine Godheads left their caves,
Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair.
The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air
And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense,
Had taken ship and fled for ever thence,
If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d
Their rushing off; his counsels having sway’d
In all times former with such cause their courses;
Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces,
For all they saw was Thetis come from sea,
With others of the wat’ry progeny,
To see and mourn for her deceaséd son.
Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won;
And round about thee stood th’ old sea-God’s Seeds
Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds
Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine
Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine,
By varied turns their heav’nly voices venting,
All in deep passion for thy death consenting.
And then of all our army not an eye
You could have seen undrown’d in misery,
The moving Muse so rul’d in ev’ry mind.
Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d
To celebration of thy mournéd end;
Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend.
The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap
Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep
We slew past number. Then the precious spoil,
Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil
And pleasant honey we embalm’d, and then
Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the Gods did rain.
In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame;
To which a number of heroical name,
As prest to sacrifice their vital right
To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d.
Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d
In infinite tumult. But when all the night
The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite
Thy body was with the enamour’d fire:
We came in early morn, and an entire
Collection made of ev’ry ivory bone;
Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fi
t unctión,
A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave,
By Bacchus giv’n her and did form receive
From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d
Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d
Mix’d with the bones of Menœtiades
And brave Antilochus; who, in decease
Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear.
About thee then a matchless sepulchre
The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d
Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d,
For height and conspicuity, the eyes
Of living men and their posterities.
Thy mother then obtain’d the Gods’ consent
To institute an honour’d game, that spent
The best approvement of our Grecian fames.
In whose praise I must say that many games
About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes
Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize
With miracles to me from all before.
In which thy silver-footed mother bore
The institution’s name, but thy deserts,
Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts.
And thus, through all the worst effects of Fate,
Achilles’ fame ev’n Death shall propagate.
While anyone shall lend the light an eye
Divine Æacides shall never die.
But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d
As rights to me? When, having quite achiev’d
An end with safety, and with conquest, too,
Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do
Of all our enemies there, at home a friend
And wife have giv’n me inglorious end?”
While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy
Brought-near Ulysses’ noble victory
To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends
The Wooers’ suffer’d, and show’d those his friends;
Whom now amaze invaded with the view
And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew
Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon,
Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown
To great Atrides; who first spake, and said:
“Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid
On your alive parts that hath made you make
This land of darkness the retreat you take,
So all together, all being like in years,
Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers
A city honours, men to make a part
More strong for any object? Hath your smart
Been felt from Neptune, being at sea — his wrath
The winds and waves exciting to your scathe?
Or have offensive men impos’d this fate —
Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate?
Or for your city fighting and your wives,
Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives?
Inform me truly. I was once your guest,
When I and Menelaus had profest
First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore
On Ithaca, with purpose to implore
Ulysses’ aid, that city-racing man,
In wreak of the adult’rous Phrygian.
Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date
We spent at sea, in hope to instigate
In our arrival old Laertes’ son,
Whom, hardly yet, to our design we won.”
The soul made answer: “Worthiest king of men,
I well remember ev’ry passage then
You now reduce to thought, and will relate
The truth in whole form of our timeless fate:
“We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king,
Who (though her second marriage were a thing
Of most hate to her) she would yet deny
At no part our affections, nor comply
With any in performance, but decreed,
In her delays, the cruel Fates we feed.
Her craft was this: She undertook to weave
A funeral garment destin’d to receive
The corse of old Laertes; being a task
Of infinite labour, and which time would ask.
In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay
With this attraction: ‘Youths, that come in way
Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord
Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board
My choice for present nuptials, and sustain,
Lest what is past me of this web be vain,
Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed
Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need
The old Laertes; who, possessing much,
Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch
My honour highly with each vulgar dame.’
Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame
All-day she labour’d, her day’s work not small,
But ev’ry night-time she unwrought it all.
Three years continuing this imperfect task;
But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask
In no more covert, since her trusted maid
Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d.
With which surpriz’d, she could no more protract
Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact
To what remain’d, wash’d-up, and set thereon
A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon
The whole work show’d together. And when now
Of mere necessity her honour’d vow
She must make good to us, ill-fortune brought
Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought
Of his arrival, but far-off at field
Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield
Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest,
Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profest.
At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand,
And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land,
When yet not home he went, but laid his way
Up to his herdsman where his father lay;
And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore
The swine-herd and his King, the swain before,
Telemachus in other ways bestow’d
His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d.
The swain the King led after, who came on
Raggéd and wretched, and still lean’d upon
A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home,
Where (on the sudden and so wretched come)
Nor we nor much our elders once did dream
Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme
Of words and blows to him; all which he bore
With that old patience he had learn’d before.
But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own,
His son and he fetch’d all their armour down,
Fast-lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use,
He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce
His bow to us to draw; of which no one
Could stir the string; himself yet set upon
The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease,
Shot through the steels, and then began to seize
Our armless bosoms; striking first the breast
Of king Antinous, and then the rest
Because some God, he knew, stood firm his friend.
Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood
The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood.
And thus our souls came here; our bodies laid
Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d
To any friend to take us home and give
Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live
Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed
Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.”
Atrides’ ghost gave answer: “O bless’d son
Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won
With mighty virtue thy unmatchéd wife.
How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life,
Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid
Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid!
For which her virtues shall extend applause,
Beyond the circles frail mortality draws;
The deathless in this vale of death comprising
Her praise in numbers into infinites rising.
The daughter Tyndarus begat begot
No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot
That knit her spouse and her with murd’rous swords.
For which posterities shall put hateful words
To notes of her that all her sex defam’d,
And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.”
To this effect these these digressions made
In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade.
Ulysses and his son, now past the town,
Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown
By old Laertes’ labour, when, with cares
For his lost son, he left all court affairs,
And took to this rude upland; which with toil
He made a sweet and habitable soil;
Where stood a house to him; about which ran,
In turnings thick and labyrinthian,
Poor hovels, where his necessary men
That did those works (of pleasure to him then)
Might sit, and eat, and sleep. In his own house
An old Sicilian dame liv’d, studious
To serve his sour age with her cheerful pains.
Then said Ulysses to his son and swains:
“Go you to town, and for your dinner kill
The best swine ye can choose; myself will still
Stay with my father, and assay his eye
If my acknowledg’d truth it can descry,
Or that my long time’s travel doth so change
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 161