by Homer
Hath this dog bark’d out, and can yet do worse!
This man shall I have giv’n into my hands,
When in a well-built ship to far-off lands
I shall transport him, that, should I want here,
My sale of him may find me victuals there.
And, for Ulysses, would to heav’n his joy
The silver-bearing-bow god would destroy
This day, within his house, as sure as he
The day of his return shall never see.’
This said, he left them going silent on;
But he out-went them, and took straight upon
The palace royal, which he enter’d straight,
Sat with the wooers, and his trencher’s freight
The carvers gave him of the flesh there vented,
But bread the reverend butleress presented.
He took against Eurymachus his place,
Who most of all the wooers gave him grace.
And now Ulysses and his swain got near,
When round about them visited their ear
The hollow harp’s delicious-stricken string,
To which did Phemius, near the wooers, sing.
Then by the hand Ulysses took his swain,
And said: ‘Eumaeus, one may here see plain,
In many a grace, that Laertiades
Built here these turrets, and, ’mongst others these,
His whole court arm’d with such a goodly wall,
The cornice and the cope majestical,
His double gates and turrets, built too strong
For force or virtue ever to expugn.
I know the feasters in it now abound,
Their cates cast such a savour; and the sound
The harp gives argues an accomplish’d feast.
The gods made music banquet’s dearest guest.’
‘These things,’ said he,’ your skill may tell with ease,
Since you are grac’d with greater knowledges.
But now consult we how these works shall sort,
If you will first approach this praised court,
And see these wooers, I remaining here;
Or I shall enter, and yourself forbear?
But be not you too tedious in your stay,
Lest thrust ye be and buffeted away.
Brain hath no fence for blows; look to ’t, I pray.’
‘You speak to one that comprehends,’ said he.
‘Go you before, and here adventure me.
I have of old been used to cuffs and blows;
My mind is harden’d, having borne the throes
Of many a sour event in waves and wars,
Where knocks and buffets are no foreigners.
And this same harmful belly by no mean
The greatest abstinent can ever wean.
Men suffer much bane by the belly’s rage;
For whose sake ships in all their equipage
Are arm’d, and set out to th’ untamed seas,
Their bulks full fraught with ills to enemies.’
Such speech they chang’d; when in the yard there lay
A dog call’d Argus, which, before his way
Assum’d for Ilion, Ulysses bred,
Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead,
As being too young, but, growing to his grace,
Young men made choice of him for every chace,
Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts.
But, his king gone, and he now past his parts,
Lay all abjectly on the stable’s store,
Before the ox-stall, and mules’ stable door,
To keep the clothes cast from the peasants’ hands,
While they laid compass on Ulysses’ lands,
The dog, with ticks (unlook’d to) overgrown.
But by this dog no sooner seen but known
Was wise Ulysses; who new enter’d there,
Up went his dog’s laid ears, and, coming near,
Up he himself rose, fawn’d, and wagg’d his stern,
Couch’d close his ears, and lay so; nor discern
Could ever more his dear-lov’d lord again.
Ulysses saw it, nor had power t’ abstain
From shedding tears; which (far-off seeing his swain)
He dried from his sight clean; to whom he thus
His grief dissembled: ‘Tis miraculous,
That such a dog as this should have his lair
On such a dunghill, for his form is fair.
And yet I know not if there were in him
Good pace or parts, for all his goodly limb,
Or he lived empty of those inward things,
As are those trencher-beagles tending kings,
Whom for their pleasure’s or their glory’s sake,
Or fashion, they into their favours take.’
‘This dog,’ said he, ‘was servant to one dead
A huge time since. But if he bore his head,
For form and quality, of such a height
As when Ulysses, bound for th’ Ilion fight,
Or quickly after, left him, your rapt eyes
Would then admire to see him use his thighs
In strength and swiftness. He would nothing fly,
Nor anything let ’scape. If once his eye
Seiz’d any wild beast, he knew straight his scent;
Go where he would, away with him he went.
Nor was there ever any savage stood
Amongst the thickets of the deepest wood
Long time before him, but he pull’d him down,
As well by that true hunting to be shown
In such vast coverts, as for speed of pace
In any open lawn. For in deep chace
He was a passing wise and well-nos’d hound.
And yet is all this good in him uncrown’d
With any grace here now, nor he more fed
Than any errant cur. His king is dead,
Far from his country; and his servants are
So negligent they lend his hound no care.
Where masters rule not, but let men alone,
You never there see honest service done.
That man’s half virtue Jove takes quite away,
That once is sun-burnt with the servile day.’
This said, he enter’d the well-builded towers,
Up bearing right upon the glorious wooers,
And left poor Argus dead; his lord’s first sight
Since that time twenty years bereft his light.
Telemachus did far the first behold
Eumaeus enter, and made signs he should
Come up to him. He, noting, came, and took
On earth his seat. And then the master cook
Served in more banquet; of which part he set
Before the wooers, part the prince did get;
Who sate alone, his table plac’d aside,
To which the herald did the bread divide.
After Eumaeus, enter’d straight the king,
Like to a poor and heavy aged thing,
Bore hard upon his staff, and was so clad
As would have made his mere beholder sad.
Upon the ashen floor his limbs he spread,
And ’gainst a cypress threshold stay’d his head,
The tree wrought smooth, and in a line direct
Tried by the plumb and by the architect.
The prince then bade the herdsman give him bread,
The finest there, and see that prostrated
&n
bsp; At-all-parts plight of his giv’n all the cheer
His hands could turn to: ‘Take,’ said he, ‘and bear
These cates to him, and bid him beg of all
These wooers here, and to their festival
Bear up with all the impudence he can;
Bashful behaviour fits no needy man.’
He heard, and did his will. ‘Hold guest,’ said he,
‘Telemachus commends these cates to thee,
Bids thee bear up, and all these wooers implore.
Wit must make impudent whom fate makes poor.’
‘O Jove,’ said he, ‘do my poor pray’rs the grace
To make him blessed’st of the mortal race,
And every thought now in his generous heart
To deeds that further my desires convert.’
Thus took he in with both his hands his store,
And in the uncouth scrip, that lay before
His ill-shod feet, repos’d it; whence he fed
All time the music to the feasters play’d.
Both jointly ending, then began the wooers
To put in old act their tumultuous pow’rs;
When Pallas standing close did prompt her friend,
To prove how far the bounties would extend
Of those proud wooers, so to let him try
Who most, who least, had learn’d humanity.
However, no thought touch’d Minerva’s mind
That any one should ’scape his wreak design’d.
He handsomely became all, crept about
To every wooer, held a forc’d hand out,
And all his work did in so like a way
As he had practis’d begging many a day.
And though they knew all beggars could do this,
Yet they admir’d it as no deed of his
(Though far from thought of other), used expense
And pity to him, who he was, and whence,
Inquiring mutually. Melanthius then:
‘Hear me, ye wooers of the far-fam’d queen,
About this beggar. I have seen before
This face of his; and know for certain more,
That this swain brought him hither. What he is,
Or whence he came, flies me.’ Reply to this
Antinous made, and mock’d Eumaeus thus:
‘O thou renowned herdsman, why to us
Brought’st thou this beggar? Serves it not our hands,
That other land-leapers, and cormorands,
Profane poor knaves, lie on us, unconducted,
But you must bring them? So amiss instructed
Art thou in course of thrift, as not to know
Thy lord’s goods wrack’d in this their overflow?
Which think’st thou nothing, that thou call’st in these?’
Eumaeus answer’d: ‘Though you may be wise,
You speak not wisely. Who calls in a guest
That is a guest himself? None call to feast
Other than men that are of public use,
Prophets or poets, whom the gods produce,
Physicians for men’s ills, or architects.
Such men the boundless earth affords respects
Bounded in honour, and may call them well.
But poor men who calls? Who doth so excel
In others’ good to do himself an ill?
But all Ulysses’ servants have been still
Eyesores in your way more than all that woo,
And chiefly I. But what care I for you,
As long as these roofs hold as thralls to none
The wise Penelope and her godlike son?’
‘Forbear,’ said he, ‘and leave this tongue’s bold ill.
Antinous uses to be crossing still,
And give sharp words; his blood that humour bears,
To set men still together by the ears.
But,’ turning then t’ Antinous, ‘O,’ said he,
‘You entertain a father’s care of me,
To turn these eating guests out. ’Tis advice
Of needful use for my poor faculties.
But god doth not allow this; there must be
Some care of poor men in humanity.
What you yourselves take, give; I not envy,
But give command that hospitality
Be giv’n all strangers. Nor shall my pow’rs fear,
If this mood in me reach my mother’s ear –
Much less the servants’, that are here to see
Ulysses’ house kept in his old degree.
But you bear no such mind, your wits more cast
To fill yourself than let another taste.’
Antinous answer’d him: ‘Brave spoken man,
Whose mind’s free fire see check’d no virtue can!
If all we wooers here would give as much
As my mind serves, his largess should be such
As would for three months serve his far-off way
From troubling your house with more cause of stay.’
This said, he took a stool up, that did rest,
Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast,
And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all,
And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival.
And so Ulysses for the present was,
And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass
Bent to the door to eat – yet could not leave
Antinous so, but said: ‘Do you too give,
Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me
As you not worst were of the company,
But best, and so much that you seem the king,
And therefore you should give some better thing
Than bread, like others. I will spread your praise
Through all the wide world, that have in my days
Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways
Of other men even to the title Blest;
And often have I giv’n an erring guest
(How mean soever) to the utmost gain
Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men,
And had all other comings in, with which
Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich.
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 suffering 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-faced 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 every 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
Not 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 desperate 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!