The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  He was himself? And what th’ inhabited place

  Where liv’d his parents? Whence he fetch’d his race?

  ‘O woman,’ he replied, ‘with whom no man,

  That moves in earth’s unbounded circle, can

  Maintain contention for true honour giv’n,

  Whose fame hath reach’d the fairly-flowing heav’n,

  Who, like a never-ill-deserving king,

  That is well spoke of, first for worshipping,

  And striving to resemble god in empire;

  Whose equal hand impartially doth temper

  Greatness and goodness; to whom therefore bears

  The black earth store of all grain, trees confers

  Cracking with burthen, long-liv’d herds creates,

  All which the sea with her sorts emulates;

  And all this feeds beneath his powerful hand

  Men valiant, many, making strong his land

  With happy lives led; nothing else the cause

  Of all these blessings but well-order’d laws:

  Like such a king are you, in love, in fame,

  And all the bliss that deifies a dame.

  And therefore do not mix this with a moan

  So wretched as is now in question;

  Ask not my race nor country, lest you fill

  My heart yet fuller with repeated ill;

  For I must follow it with many tears,

  Though ’tis not seemly to sit wounding ears

  In public roofs with our particular life.

  Time’s worst expense is still-repeated grief.

  I should be irksome to your ladies here,

  And you yourself would say you urg’d your ear

  To what offends it, my still-broken eyne

  Supposing wounded with your too-much wine.’

  ‘Stranger,’ said she, ‘you fear your own excess

  With giving me too great a nobleness.

  The gods my person, beauty, virtue too,

  Long since subverted, when the Ilion woe

  The Greek design attempted; in which went

  My praise and honour. In his government

  Had I deserv’d your utmost grace, but now

  Sinister deity makes dishonour woo,

  In show of grace, my ruin. All the peers –

  Sylvan Zacynthus’ and Dulichius’ spheres,

  Samos and Ithaca – strange strifes have shown

  To win me, spending on me all mine own;

  Will wed me, in my spite; and these are those

  That take from me all virtue to dispose

  Or guest or suppliant, or take any course

  Amongst my heralds, that should all disburse,

  To order anything. Though I need none

  To give me grief at home, abroad errs one

  That my veins shrink for, whom these holding gone,

  Their nuptials hasten, and find me as slow.

  Good spirits prompted me to make a show

  Of undertaking a most curious task,

  That an unmeasur’d space of time would ask;

  Which they enduring long would often say,

  “When ends thy work?” I soon had my delay,

  And pray’d their stay; for though my lord were dead,

  His father’s life yet matter ministred

  That must employ me; which, to tell them true,

  Was that great work I nam’d. For now near drew

  Laertes’ death, and on my hand did lie

  His funeral-robe, whose end, being now so nigh,

  I must not leave, and lose so much begun,

  The rather lest the Greek dames might be won

  To tax mine honour, if a man so great

  Should greet his grave without his winding sheet.

  Pride made them credulous, and I went on;

  When whatsoever all the day had done

  I made the night help to undo again,

  Though oil and watch it cost, and equal pain.

  Three years my wit secur’d me undiscern’d,

  Yet, when the fourth came, by my maids discern’d,

  False careless wenches, how they were deluded;

  When, by my light discern’d, they all intruded,

  Us’d threat’ning words, and made me give it end.

  And then could I to no more length extend

  My linger’d nuptials; not a counsel more

  Was to be stood upon; my parents bore

  Continual hand on me to make me wed;

  My son grew angry that so ruined

  His goods were by them. He is now a man

  Wise in a great degree, and one that can

  Himself give order to his household fare –

  And Jove give equal glory to his care.

  But thus you must not pass me; I must know,

  It may be for more end, from whence doth grow

  Your race and you; for I suppose you none

  Sprung of old oak, or justled out of stone.’

  He answer’d: ‘O Ulysses’ reverend wife!

  Yet hold you purpose to inquire my life?

  I’ll tell you, though it much afflict me more

  Than all the sorrows I have felt before –

  As worthily it may, since so long time

  As I have wander’d from my native clime

  Through human cities, and in suff’rance still,

  To rip all wounds up, though of all their ill

  I touch but part, must actuate all their pain.

  But, ask you still, I’ll tell, though still sustain.

  In middle of the sable sea there lies

  An isle call’d Crete, a ravisher of eyes,

  Fruitful, and mann’d with many an infinite store;

  Where ninety cities crown the famous shore,

  Mix’d with all-languag’d men. There Greeks survive,

  There the great-minded Eteocretans live,

  There the Dorensians never out of war,

  The Cydons there, and there the singular

  Pelasgian people. There doth Cnossus stand,

  That mighty city, where had most command

  Great Jove’s disciple, Minos, who nine years

  Conferr’d with Jove, both great familiars

  In mutual counsels. And this Minos’ son,

  The mighty-minded king Deucalion,

  Was sire to me and royal Idomen,

  Who with Atrides went to Ilion then,

  My elder brother and the better man,

  My name Aëthon. At that time began

  My knowledge of Ulysses, whom my home

  Receiv’d with guest-rites. He was thither come

  By force of weather, from the Malean coast

  But new got off, where he the navy lost,

  Then under sail for Troy, and wind-bound lay

  Long in Amnisus, hardly got away

  From horrid storms, that made him anchor there,

  In hav’ns that sacred to Lucina were,

  Dreadful and dangerous, in whose bosom crept

  Lucina’s cavern. But in my roof slept

  Ulysses, shor’d in Crete; who first inquir’d

  For royal Idomen, and much desir’d

  To taste his guest-rites, since to him had been

  A welcome guest my brother Idomen.

  The tenth or ’leventh light on Ulysses shin’d

  In stay at Crete, attending then the wind

  For threaten’d Ilion. All which time my house

  With love and entertainments curious

&
nbsp; Embrac’d his person, though a number more

  My hospitable roofs receiv’d before.

  His men I likewise call’d, and from the store

  Allow’d them meal and heat-exciting wine,

  And oxen for their slaughter, to confine

  In my free hand the utmost of their need.

  Twelve days the Greeks stay’d, ere they got them freed,

  A gale so bitter blew out of the north,

  That none could stand on earth, being tumbled forth

  By some stern god. But on the thirteenth day

  The tempest ceas’d, and then went Greeks their way.’

  Thus many tales Ulysses told his wife,

  At most but painting, yet most like the life;

  Of which her heart such sense took through her ears,

  It made her weep as she would turn to tears.

  And as from off the mountains melts the snow,

  Which Zephyr’s breath conceal’d, but was made flow

  By hollow Eurus, which so fast pours down,

  That with their torrent floods have overflown:

  So down her fair cheeks her kind tears did glide,

  Her miss’d lord mourning, set so near her side.

  Ulysses much was mov’d to see her mourn;

  Whose eyes yet stood as dry as iron or horn

  In his untroubled lids, which in his craft

  Of bridling passion he from issue sav’d.

  When she had given her moan so many tears,

  That now ’twas satiate, her yet loving fears

  Ask’d thus much further: ‘You have thus far tried

  My love’s credulity, but if gratified

  With so long stay he was with you, you can

  Describe what weed he wore, what kind of man

  Both he himself was, and what followers

  Observ’d him there.’ ‘Alas,’ said he, ‘the years

  Have grown so many since – this making now

  Their twentieth revolution – that my show

  Of these slight notes will set my memory sore;

  But, to my now remembrance, this he wore:

  A double purple robe, drawn close before

  With golden buttons, plaited thick, and bore

  A facing where a hundred colours shin’d.

  About the skirts a hound a freckled hind

  In full course hunted; on the foreskirts, yet,

  He pinch’d and pull’d her down, when with her feet,

  And all her force, she struggled hard for flight.

  Which had such life in gold, that to the sight

  It seem’d the hind itself for every hue,

  The hound and all so answering the view,

  That all admir’d all. I observ’d beside

  His inner weed, so rarely beautified

  That dumb amaze it bred, and was as thin

  As any dry and tender onion skin;

  As soft ’twas, too, and glister’d like the sun.

  The women were to loving wonder won

  By him and by his weeds. But, by the way,

  You must excuse me, that I cannot say

  He brought this suit from home, or had it there

  Sent for some present, or, perhaps, elsewhere

  Receiv’d it for his guest-gift; for your lord

  Had friends not few, the fleet did not afford

  Many that had not fewer. I bestow’d

  A well-edg’d sword on him, a robe that flow’d

  In folds and fulness, and did reach his feet,

  Of richest purple; brought him to his fleet

  With all my honour; and besides, to add

  To all this sifted circumstance, he had

  A herald there, in height a little more

  Put from the earth, that thicker shoulders wore,

  A swarth complexion and a curled head,

  His name Eurybates; and much in stead

  He stood your king, employ’d in most command,

  Since most of all his mind could understand.’

  When all these signs she knew for chiefly true,

  Desire of moan upon her beauties grew,

  And yet, ev’n that desire suffic’d, she said:

  ‘Till this, my guest, a wretched state array’d

  Your ill-us’d person, but from this hour forth

  You shall be honour’d, and find all the worth

  That fits a friend. Those weeds these hands bestow’d

  From my wardrobe, those gold buttons sew’d

  Before for closure and for ornament.

  But never more must his return present

  The person that gave those adornments state;

  And therefore, under an abhorred fate,

  Was he induc’d to feed the common fame,

  To visit vile Troy, ay too vile to name.’

  ‘No more yet mourn,’ said he, ‘nor thus see pin’d

  Your lovely person. Weeping wastes the mind.

  And yet I blame you not; for any dame

  That weds one young, and brings to him his name,

  Whatever man he is, will mourn his loss.

  Much more respectful then must show your woes

  That weep thus for Ulysses, who, fame says,

  Was equal with the gods in all his ways.

  But where no cause is there must be no moan;

  And therefore hear me, my relation

  Shall lay the clear truth naked to your view:

  I heard amongst the Thesprots for most true,

  That lord Ulysses liv’d, and stood just now

  On his return for home; that wealth did flow

  In his possession, which he made not known,

  But begg’d amongst the people, since alone

  He quite was left, for all his men were lost

  In getting off from the Trinacrian coast;

  Jove and the Sun was wroth with them for rape

  Made of his oxen, and no man let ’scape

  The rugged deeps of Neptune; only he,

  The ship’s keel only keeping, was by sea

  Cast on the fair Phaeacian continent,

  Where men survive that are the gods’ descent,

  And like a god receiv’d him, gave him heaps

  Of wealthy gifts, and would conduct his steps

  Themselves safe home; which he might long ago

  His pleasure make, but profit would not so.

  He gather’d going, and had mighty store

  Of gold in safeguard; so beyond the shore

  That common sails kept, his high food of wit

  Bore glorious top, and all the world for it

  Hath far exceeded. All this Phaedon told,

  That doth the sceptre of Thesprotia hold,

  Who swore to me, in household sacrifice,

  The ship was launch’d, and men to man the prise,

  That soon should set him on his country earth;

  Show’d me the goods, enough to serve the birth

  That in the tenth age of his seed should spring,

  Yet in his court contain’d. But then the king,

  Your husband, for Dodona was in way,

  That from th’ oraculous oak he might display

  Jove’s will what course for home would best prevail,

  To come in pomp, or bear a secret sail.

  But me the king dispatch’d in course before,

  A ship then bound for the Dulichian shore.

  So thus you see his safety whom you mourn;

  Who now is passing near, and his return


  No more will punish with delays, but see

  His friends and country. All which truth to thee

  I’ll seal with sacred oath. Be witness, Jove,

  Thou first and best of all the thron’d above!

  And thou house of the great Laertes’ heir,

  To whose high roofs I tender my repair,

  That what I tell the queen event shall crown!

  This year Ulysses shall possess his own,

  Nay ere the next month ends shall here arrive,

  Nay, ere it enters, here abide alive!’

  ‘O may this prove,’ said she, ‘gifts, friendship then

  Should make your name the most renown’d of men.

  But ’tis of me receiv’d, and must so sort,

  That nor my lord shall ever see his court,

  Nor you gain your deduction thence, for now

  The alter’d house doth no such man allow

  As was Ulysses, if he ever were,

  To entertain a reverend passenger,

  And give him fair dismission. But, maids, see

  Ye bathe his feet, and then with tapestry,

  Best sheets and blankets, make his bed, and lay

  Soft waistcoats by him, that, lodg’d warm, he may

  Ev’n till the golden-seated morning’s ray

  Enjoy good rest; and then, with her first light,

  Bathe, and give alms, that cherish’d appetite

  He may apply within our hall, and sit

  Safe by Telemachus. Or, if th’ unfit

  And harmful mind of any be so base

  To grieve his age again, let none give grace

  Of doing any deed he shall command,

  How wroth soever, to his barbarous hand.

  For how shall you, guest, know me for a dame

  That pass so far, nay, turn and wind the fame

  Of other dames for wisdom, and the frame

  Of household usage, if your poor thin weeds

  I let draw on you want, and worser deeds,

  That may, perhaps, cause here your latest day?

  The life of man is short and flies away.

  And if the ruler’s self of households be

  Ungentle, studying inhumanity,

  The rest prove worse, but he bears all the blame;

  All men will, living, vow against his name

  Mischiefs and miseries, and, dead, supply

  With bitter epitaphs his memory.

  But if himself be noble, noble things

  Doing and knowing, all his underlings

  Will imitate his noblesse, and all guests

  Give it, in many, many interests.’

  ‘But, worthiest queen,’ said he, ‘where you command

  Baths and rich beds for me, I scorn to stand