by Homer
Her youngest issue (in some small degree
Her daughter yet preferr’d), a brave young dame.
And when of youth the dearly-loved flame
Was lighted in us, marriage did prefer
The maid to Samos; whence was sent for her
Infinite riches, when the queen bestow’d
A fair new suit, new shoes, and all, and vow’d
Me to the field, but passing loath to part,
As loving me more than she lov’d her heart.
And these I want now; but their business grows
Upon me daily, which the gods impose,
To whom I hold all, give account to them,
For I see none left to the diadem
That may dispose all better. So, I drink
And eat of what is here; and whom I think
Worthy or reverend, I have given to, still,
These kinds of guest-rites; for the household ill
(Which, where the queen is, riots) takes her quite
From thought of these things. Nor is it delight
To hear, from her plight, of or work or word;
The wooers spoil all. But yet my men will board
Her sorrows often, with discourse of all,
Eating and drinking of the festival
That there is kept, and after bring to field
Such things as servants make their pleasures yield.
‘O me, Eumaeus,’ said Laertes’ son,
‘Hast thou then err’d so of a little one,
Like me, from friends and country? Pray thee say,
And say a truth, doth vast Destruction lay
Her hand upon the wide-way’d seat of men,
Where dwelt thy sire and reverend mother then,
That thou art spar’d there? Or else, set alone
In guard of beeves or sheep, set th’ enemy on,
Surpris’d and shipp’d, transferr’d, and sold thee here?
He that bought thee paid well, yet bought not dear.’
‘Since thou enquir’st of that, my guest,’ said he,
‘Hear and be silent, and, mean space, sit free
In use of these cups to thy most delights;
Unspeakable in length now are the nights.
Those that affect sleep yet, to sleep have leave,
Those that affect to hear, their hearers give.
But sleep not ere your hour; much sleep doth grieve.
Whoever lists to sleep, away to bed,
Together with the morning raise his head,
Together with his fellows break his fast,
And then his lord’s herd drive to their repast.
We two, still in our tabernacle here
Drinking and eating, will our bosoms cheer
With memories and tales of our annoys.
Betwixt his sorrows every human joys,
He most, who most hath felt and furthest err’d.
And now thy will to act shall be preferr’d.
There is an isle above Ortygia,
If thou hast heard, they call it Syria,
Where, once a day, the sun moves backward still.
’Tis not so great as good, for it doth fill
The fields with oxen, fills them still with sheep,
Fills roofs with wine, and makes all corn there cheap.
No dearth comes ever there, nor no disease
That doth with hate us wretched mortals seize,
But when men’s varied nations, dwelling there
In any city, enter th’ aged year,
The silver-bow-bearer, the Sun, and she
That bears as much renown for archery,
Stoop with their painless shafts, and strike them dead,
As one would sleep, and never keep the bed.
In this isle stand two cities, betwixt whom
All things that of the soil’s fertility come
In two parts are divided. And both these
My father rul’d, Ctesius Ormenides,
A man like the immortals. With these states
The cross-biting Phoenicians traffick’d rates
Of infinite merchandise in ships brought there,
In which they then were held exempt from peer.
There dwelt within my father’s house a dame,
Born a Phoenician, skilful in the frame
Of noble housewif’ries, right tall and fair.
Her the Phoenician great-wench-net-layer
With sweet words circumvented, as she was
Washing her linen. To his amorous pass
He brought her first, shor’d from his ship to her,
To whom he did his whole life’s love prefer,
Which of these breast-exposing dames the hearts
Deceives, though fashion’d of right honest parts.
He ask’d her after, what she was, and whence?
She, passing presently, the excellence
Told of her father’s turrets, and that she
Might boast herself sprung from the progeny
Of the rich Sidons, and the daughter was
Of the much-year-revenu’d Arybas;
But that the Taphian pirates made their prise,
As she return’d from her field-housewif’ries,
Transferr’d her hither, and, at that man’s house
Where now she lived, for value precious
Sold her to th’ owner. He that stole her love
Bade her again to her birth’s sent remove,
To see the fair roofs of her friends again,
Who still held state, and did the port maintain
Herself reported. She said: ‘Be it so,
So you, and all that in your ship shall row,
Swear to return me in all safety hence.’
All swore. Th’ oath past, with every consequence,
She bade: ‘Be silent now, and not a word
Do you, or any of your friends, afford,
Meeting me afterward in any way,
Or at the washing-fount, lest some display
Be made, and told the old man, and he then
Keep me strait bound, to you and to your men
The utter ruin plotting of your lives.
Keep in firm thought then every word that strives
For dangerous utterance. Haste your ship’s full freight
Of what you traffic for, and let me straight
Know by some sent friend she hath nil in hold,
And with myself I’ll bring thence all the gold
I can by all means finger; and, beside,
I’ll do my best to see your freight supplied
With some well-weighing burthen of mine own.
For I bring up in house a great man’s son,
As crafty as myself, who will with me
Run every way along, and I will be
His leader, till your ship hath made him sure.
He will an infinite great price procure,
Transfer him to what languag’d men ye may.’
This said, she gat her home, and there made stay
A whole year with us, goods of great avail
Their ship enriching. Which now fit for sail,
They sent a messenger t’ inform the dame;
And to my father’s house a fellow came,
Full of Phoenician craft, that to be sold
A tablet brought, the body all of gold,
The verge all amber. This had ocular view
Both by my honour’d mother and the crew
Of her house-handmaids, ha
ndled, and the price
Bent, ask’d, and promis’d. And while this device
Lay thus upon the forge, this jeweller
Made privy signs, by winks and wiles, to her
That was his object; which she took, and he,
His sign seeing noted, hied to ship. When she
(My hand still taking, as she us’d to do
To walk abroad with her) convey’d me so
Abroad with her, and in the portico
Found cups, with tasted viands, which the guests
That us’d to flock about my father’s feasts
Had left. They gone (some to the council court,
Some to hear news amongst the talking sort),
Her theft three bowls into her lap convey’d,
And forth she went. Nor was my wit so stay’d
To stay her, or myself. The sun went down,
And shadows round about the world were flown,
When we came to the hav’n in which did ride
The swift Phoenician ship; whose fair broad side
They boarded straight, took us up; and all vent
Along the moist waves. Wind Saturnius sent.
Six days we day and night sail’d; but when Jove
Put up the sev’nth day, she that shafts doth love
Shot dead the woman, who into the pump
Like to a dop-chick div’d, and gave a thump
In her sad settling. Forth they cast her then
To serve the fish and sea-calves, no more men;
But I was left there with a heavy heart;
When wind and water drave them quite apart
Their own course, and on Ithaca they fell,
And there poor me did to Laertes sell.
And thus these eyes the sight of this isle prov’d.’
‘Eumaeus,’ he replied, ‘thou much hast mov’d
The mind in me with all things thou hast said,
And all the suff’rance on thy bosom laid.
But, truly, to thy ill hath Jove join’d good,
That one whose veins are serv’d with human blood
Hath bought thy service, that gives competence
Of food, wine, cloth to thee; and sure th’ expence
Of thy life’s date here is of good desert,
Whose labours not to thee alone impart
Sufficient food and housing, but to me;
Where I through many a heap’d humanity
Have hither err’d, where, though like thee not sold,
Nor stay’d like thee yet, nor nought needful hold.’
This mutual speech they us’d, nor had they slept
Much time before the much-near Morning leapt
To her fair throne. And now struck sail the men
That serv’d Telemachus, arriv’d just then
Near his lov’d shore; where now they stoop’d the mast,
Made to the port with oars, and anchor cast,
Made fast the ship, and then ashore they went,
Dress’d supper, fill’d wine; when (their appetites spent)
Telemachus commanded they should yield
The ship to th’ owner, while himself at field
Would see his shepherds; when light drew to end
He would his gifts see, and to town descend,
And in the morning at a feast bestow
Rewards for all their pains. ‘And whither now,’
Said Theoclymenus, ‘my loved son,
Shall I address myself? Whose mansion,
Of all men, in this rough-hewn isle, shall I
Direct my why to? Or go readily
To thy house and thy mother?’ He replied:
‘Another time I’ll see you satisfied
With my house entertainment, but as now
You should encounter none that could bestow
Your fit entreaty, and (which less grace were)
You could not see my mother, I not there;
For she’s no frequent object, but apart
Keeps from her wooers, woo’d with her desert,
Up in her chamber, at her housewif’ry.
But I’ll name one to whom you shall apply
Direct repair, and that’s Eurymachus,
Renown’d descent to wise Polybius,
A man whom th’ Ithacensians look on now
As on a god, since he of all that woo
Is far superior man, and likest far
To wed my mother, and as circular
Be in that honour as Ulysses was.
But heav’n-hous’d Jove knows the yet hidden pass
Of her disposure, and on them he may
A blacker sight bring than her nuptial day.’
As this he utter’d, on his right hand flew
A saker, sacred to the god of view,
That in his talons truss’d and plumed a dove;
The feathers round about the ship did rove,
And on Telemachus fell; whom th’ augur then
Took fast by th’ hand, withdrew him from his men,
And said: ‘Telemachus! This hawk is sent
From god; I knew it for a sure ostent
When first I saw it. Be you well assur’d,
There will no wooer be by heav’n endur’d
To rule in Ithaca above your race,
But your pow’rs ever fill the regal place.’
‘I wish to heav’n,’ said he, ‘thy word might stand.
Thou then shouldst soon acknowledge from my hand
Such gifts and friendship as would make thee, guest,
Met and saluted as no less than blest.’
This said, he call’d Piraeus, Clytus’ son,
His true associate, saying: ‘Thou hast done
(Of all my followers to the Pylian shore)
My will in chief in other things, once more
Be chiefly good to me; take to thy house
This loved stranger, and be studious
T’ embrace and greet him with thy greatest fare,
Till I myself come and take off thy care.’
The famous-for-his-lance said: ‘If your stay
Take time for life here, this man’s care I’ll lay
On my performance, nor what fits a guest
Shall any penury withhold his feast.’
Thus took he ship, bade them board, and away.
They boarded, sat, but did their labour stay
Till he had deck’d his feet, and reach’d his lance.
They to the city; he did straight advance
Up to his sties, where swine lay for him store,
By whose side did his honest swine-herd snore,
Till his short cares his longest nights had ended,
And nothing worse to both his lords intended.
The end of the fifteenth book
Book 16
The Argument
The prince at field, he sends to town
Eumaeus, to make truly known
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
Pi
To his most dear
Ulysses shows.
The wise son here
His father knows.
Book 16
Ulysses and divine Eumaeus rose
Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose,
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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 Eumaeus: ‘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 Eumaeus, 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 ’scaped. 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 lived 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 damned crew.’
‘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’ 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,