The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,

  But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.

  As to a god I offer pray’rs to thee,

  And low access make to thy loved knee.

  Say truth, that I may know, what country then,

  What common people live here, and what men?

  Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,

  Being near the sea, to some rich continent?’

  She answer’d: ‘Stranger, whatsoe’er you are,

  Y’ are either foolish, or come passing far,

  That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,

  For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble,

  But passing many know it; and so many,

  That of all nations there abides not any,

  From where the morning rises and the sun,

  To where the ev’n and night their courses run,

  But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough,

  And so for use of horse unapt enough,

  Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,

  Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,

  And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great,

  The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat.

  It feeds a goat and ox well, being still

  Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill

  With heav’n’s continual showers; and wooded so,

  It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.

  And therefore, stranger, the extended name

  Of this dominion makes access by fame

  From this extreme part of Achaia

  As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.’

  This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land

  Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand

  He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high,

  That other end he put to his reply

  Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad

  His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d

  A veil on truth; for evermore did wind

  About his bosom a most crafty mind,

  Which thus his words show’d: ‘I have far at sea,

  In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,

  Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,

  With these my fortunes; whose whole value more

  I left in Crete amongst my children there,

  From whence I fly for being the slaughterer

  Of royal Idomen’s most loved son,

  Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run

  Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew,

  Because he would deprive me of my due

  In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so

  (The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe

  Of mind and body in the wars of men.

  Nor did I gratify his father then

  With any service, but, as well as he

  Sway’d in command of other soldiery,

  So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,

  When gloomy night the cope of heav’n did dim,

  And no man knew; but, we lodged close, he came,

  And I put out to him his vital flame.

  Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword,

  I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard

  A ship of the renown’d Phoenician state;

  When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate,

  Obtain’d my pass of men in her command;

  Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land

  Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,

  Where the Epeians in great empire shine.

  But force of weather check’d that course to them,

  Though (loath to fail me) to their most extreme

  They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence,

  We err’d, and put in here, with much expence

  Of care and labour, and in dead of night,

  When no man there serv’d any appetite

  So much as with the memory of food,

  Though our estates exceeding needy stood.

  But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep

  My weary powers invaded, and from ship

  They fetching these my riches, with just hand

  About me laid them, while upon the sand

  Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they

  (Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,

  Left sad alone.’ The goddess laugh’d, and took

  His hand in hers, and with another look

  (Assuming then the likeness of a dame,

  Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame

  Of virtuous housewif’ries) she answer’d thus:

  ‘He should be passing sly, and covetous

  Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee

  In any craft, though any god should be

  Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.

  Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate

  In over-reaches! Not secure thy state

  Without these wiles, though on thy native shore

  Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store

  Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth

  Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth

  Is known to either. Thou of men art far,

  For words and counsels, the most singular,

  But I above the gods in both may boast

  My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost

  The knowledge ev’n of me, the seed of Jove,

  Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove

  In all thy labours their extremes, and stood

  Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good

  Known to the good Phaeacians, and receiv’d.

  And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d

  Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me

  The close reserving of these goods for thee,

  Which the renown’d Phaeacian states bestow’d

  At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d

  With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace

  I now will amplify, and tell what case

  Thy household stands in, uttering all those pains

  That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.

  Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give

  To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,

  But silent suffer over all again

  Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.’

  ‘Goddess,’ said he, ‘unjust men, and unwise,

  That author injuries and vanities,

  By vanities and wrongs should rather be

  Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,

  Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n,

  That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n

  Up to all domage those poor few that strive

  To imitate it, and like the deities live?

  But where you wonder that I know you not

  Through all your changes, that skill is not got

  By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face

  Is still distingtush’d by thy free-giv’n grace;

  And therefore, truly, to acknowledge thee

  In thy encounters, is a mastery

  In men most knowing; for to all men thou

  Tak’st several likeness. All men think they know

  Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view

  Appears to all, and yet thy t
ruth to few,

  Through all thy changes to discern thee right

  Asks chief love to thee, and inspired light.

  But this I surely know, that, some years past,

  I have been often with thy presence grac’d,

  All time the sons of Greece waged war at Troy;

  But when fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy

  Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town,

  Our ships all boarded, and when god had blown

  Our fleet in sunder, I could never see

  The seed of Jove, nor once distinguish’d thee

  Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.

  But only in my proper spirit involv’d,

  Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d

  Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace

  By open speech confirm’d me, in a place

  Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou

  Didst give me guide, and all their city show;

  And that was the renown’d Phaeacian earth.

  Now then, even by the author of thy birth,

  Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies

  My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes

  Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch

  At some far shore, and that thy wit is such

  Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same

  Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?’

  ‘I see,’ said she, ‘thou wilt be ever thus

  In every worldly good incredulous,

  And therefore have no more the pow’r to see

  Frail life more plagu’d with infelicity

  In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.

  Another man, that so long miseries

  Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d

  To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d

  In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire

  What states they hold, affects not thy desire,

  Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be

  A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee

  In loving tears, that then the sight may prove

  A full reward for either’s mutual love.

  But I would never credit in you both

  Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth

  Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,

  I knew as well, should make returnless ends;

  Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so

  To stand their safeguard, since so high did go

  His wrath for thy extinction of the eye

  Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why

  I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground

  Thy credit on my words: this hav’n is own’d

  By th’ aged sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow

  This is the olive with the ample bough;

  And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave

  That to the fount-nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave,

  As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run

  The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done

  Hundreds of offerings to the Naiades.

  Here Mount Neritus shakes his curled tress

  Of shady woods.’ This said, she clear’d the cloud

  That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d

  His country to him. Glad he stood with sight

  Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight.

  And instantly to all the nymphs he paid

  (With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said:

  ‘Ye nymphs the Naiades, great seed of Jove,

  I had conceit that never more should move

  Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,

  And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice

  Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more

  I pay your names in off’rings as before,

  Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent,

  The mighty Pillager, with life convent

  My person home, and to my sav’d decease

  Of my loved son’s sight add the sweet increase.’

  ‘Be confident,’ said Pallas, ‘nor oppress

  Thy spirits with care of these performances,

  But these thy fortunes let us straight repose

  In this divine cave’s bosom, that may close

  Reserve their value; and we then may see

  How best to order other acts to thee.’

  Thus enter’d she the light-excluding cave,

  And through it sought some inmost nook to save

  The gold, the great brass, and robes richly wrought,

  Giv’n to Ulysses. All which in he brought,

  Laid down in heap; and she impos’d a stone

  Close to the cavern’s mouth. Then sat they on

  The sacred olive’s root, consulting how

  To act th’ insulting wooers’ overthrow;

  When Pallas said: ‘Examine now the means

  That best may lay hands on the impudence

  Of those proud wooers, that have now three years

  Thy roof’s rule sway’d, and been bold offerers

  Of suit and gifts to thy renowned wife,

  Who for thy absence all her desolate life

  Dissolves in tears till thy desir’d return;

  Yet all her wooers, while she thus doth mourn,

  She holds in hope, and every one affords

  (In fore-sent message) promise; but her words

  Bear other utterance than her heart approves.’

  ‘O gods,’ said Ithacus, ‘it now behoves

  My fate to end me in the ill decease

  That Agamemnon underwent, unless

  You tell me, and in time, their close intents.

  Advise then means to the reveng’d events

  We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind

  To stand close to me, and but such a mind

  Breathe in my bosom, as when th’ Ilion tow’rs

  We tore in cinders. O if equal pow’rs

  Thou wouldst enflame amids my nerves as then,

  I could encounter with three hundred men –

  Thy only self, great goddess, had to friend

  In those brave ardours thou wert wont t’ extend!’

  ‘I will be strongly with thee,’ answer’d she,

  ‘Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me.

  When both whose pow’rs combine, I hope the bloods

  And brains of some of these that waste thy goods

  Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then:

  I first will render thee unknown to men,

  And on thy solid lineaments make dry

  Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply

  In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe

  In such a cloak as every eye shall loathe;

  Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change

  Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange

  To all the wooers, thy young son, and wife.

  But to thy herdsman first present thy life,

  That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee,

  That loves thy son and wife Penelope.

  Thy search shall find him set aside his herd,

  That are with taste-delighting acorns rear’d,

  And drink the dark-deep water of the spring,

  Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing

  Raiser of herds. There stay
, and, taking seat

  Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat

  Of home occurrents, while I make access

  To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress

  Of lov’d Telemachus, who went in quest

  Of thy lov’d fame, and liv’d the welcome guest

  Of Menelaus.’ The much-knower said:

  ‘Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred

  The art to order all acts, tell in this

  His error to him? Let those years of his

  Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain

  The woes there raging, while unworthy men

  Devour his fortunes?’ ‘Let not care extend

  Thy heart for him,’ said she, ‘myself did send

  His person in thy search, to set his worth,

  By good fame blown, to such a distance forth.

  Nor suffers he in any least degree

  The grief you fear, but all variety

  That Plenty can yield in her quiet’st fare,

  In Menelaus’ court, doth sit and share.

  In whose return from home, the wooers yet

  Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set

  To sea, to intercept his life, before

  He touch again his birth’s attempted shore.

  All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do,

  But rather, that the earth shall overgo

  Some one at least of these love-making men,

  By which thy goods so much impair sustain.’

  Thus using certain secret words to him,

  She touch’d him with her rod; and every limb

  Was hid all over with a wither’d skin;

  His bright eyes blear’d; his brow curls white and thin;

  And all things did an aged man present.

  Then, for his own weeds, shirt and coat, all rent,

  Tann’d, and all sootiëd with noisome smoke,

  She put him on; and, over all, a cloak

  Made of a stag’s huge hide, of which was worn

  The hair quite off; a scrip, all patch’d and torn,

  Hung by a cord, oft broke and knit again;

  And with a staff did his old limbs sustain.

  Thus having both consulted of th’ event,

  They parted both; and forth to Sparta went

  The gray-eyed goddess, to see all things done

  That appertain’d to wise Ulysses’ son.

  The end of the thirteenth book

  Book 14

  The Argument

  Ulysses meets amids the field

  His swain Eumaeus; who doth yield

  Kind guest-rites to him, and relate

  Occurrents of his wrong’d estate.