by Homer
On such state now, nor ever thought it yet,
Since first I left the snowy hills of Crete.
When once I fell a-shipboard those thoughts fled;
I love to take now, as long since, my bed.
Though I began the use with sleepless nights,
I many a darkness with right homely rites
Have spent ere this hour, and desir’d the morn
Would come, and make sleep to the world a scorn.
Nor run these dainty baths in my rude head;
Nor any handmaid, to your service bred,
Shall touch my ill-kept feet, unless there live
Some poor old drudge here, that hath learn’d to give
Old men good usage, and no work will fly,
As having suffer’d ill as much as I.
But if there live one such in your command,
I will not shame to give my foot her hand.’
She gave this answer: ‘O my loved guest,
There never enter’d these kind roofs for rest
Stranger or friend that so much wisdom laid
In gage for guest-rites, as your lips have paid.
There lives an old maid in my charge that knows
The good you speak of by her many woes;
That nourish’d and brought up, with curious care,
Th’ unhappy man, your old familiar,
Ev’n since his mother let him view the light,
And oft hath felt in her weak arms his weight;
And she, though now much weaker, shall apply
Her maiden service to your modesty.
Euryclea, rise, and wash the feet of one
That is of one age with your sovereign gone,
Such hands, such feet hath, though of alter’d grace.
Much grief in men will bring on change apace.’
She, from her aged slumber wak’d, did clear
Her heavy eyes, and instantly, to hear
Her sovereign’s name, had work enough to dry
Her cheeks from tears, and to his memory
These moans did offer: ‘O my son,’ said she,
‘I never can take grief enough for thee,
Whom goodness hurts, and whom even Jove’s high spleen,
Since thou art Jove-like, hates the most of men.
For none hath offer’d him so many thighs,
Nor such whole hecatombs of sacrifice,
Fat and selected, as thy zeal hath done;
For all, but praying that thy noble son
Thy happy age might see at state of man.
And yet hath Jove with mists Cimmerian
Put out the light of his returning day.
And as yourself, O father, in your way
Took these fair roofs for hospitable rites,
Yet find, for them, our dogged women’s spites:
So he, in like course, being driv’n to proof,
Long time ere this, what such a royal roof
Would yield his miseries, found such usage there.
And you, now flying the foul language here,
And many a filthy fact of our fair dames,
Fly me like them, and put on causeless shames
To let me cleanse your feet. For not the cause
The queen’s command yields is the pow’r that draws
My will to wash your feet, but what I do
Proceeds from her charge and your reverence too,
Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth
Of your distresses, and past show of truth,
Your strangeness claiming little interest
In my affections. And yet many a guest
Of poor condition hath been harbour’d here,
But never any did so right appear
Like king Ulysses as yourself, for state
Both of your stature, voice, and very gait.’
‘So all have said,’ said he, ‘that ever yet
Had the proportions of our figures met
In their observances; so right your eye
Proves in your soul your judging faculty.’
Thus took she up a cauldron brightly scour’d,
To cleanse his feet in; and into it pour’d
Store of cold wave, which on the fire she set
And therein bath’d, being temperately heat,
Her sovereign’s feet. Who turn’d him from the light,
Since suddenly he doubted her conceit,
So rightly touching at his state before,
A scar now seeing on his foot, that bore
An old note, to discern him, might descry
The absolute truth; which, witness’d by her eye,
Was straight approv’d. He first receiv’d this sore
As in Parnassus’ tops a white-tooth’d boar
He stood in chase withal, who struck him there,
At such time as he lived a sojourner
With his grandsire, Autolycus; who th’ art
Of theft and swearing (not out of the heart,
But by equivocation) first adorn’d
Your witty man withal, and was suborn’d
By Jove’s descent, ingenious Mercury,
Who did bestow it, since so many a thigh
Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow’d
In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow’d
Was ever with him. And this man impos’d
Ulysses’ name, the light being first disclos’d
To his first sight then, when his grandsire came
To see the then preferrer of his fame,
His loved daughter. The first supper done,
Euryclea put in his lap her son,
And pray’d him to bethink and give his name,
Since that desire did all desires inflame.
‘Daughter and son-in-law,’ said he, ‘let then
The name that I shall give him stand with men.
Since I arriv’d here at the hour of pain,
In which mine own kind entrails did sustain
Moan for my daughter’s yet unended throes,
And when so many men’s and women’s woes,
In joint compassion met of human birth,
Brought forth t’ attend the many-feeding earth,
Let Odyssëus be his name, as one
Expos’d to just constraint of all men’s moan.
When here at home he is arriv’d at state
Of man’s first youth, he shall initiate
His practis’d feet in travel made abroad,
And to Parnassus, where mine own abode
And chief means lie, address his way, where I
Will give him from my open’d treasury
What shall return him well, and fit the fame
Of one that had the honour of his name.’
For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace
Of hands and words in him and all his race.
Amphithea, his mother’s mother, too,
Applied her to his love, withal, to do
In grandame’s welcomes, both his fair eyes kist,
And brows; and then commanded to assist
Were all her sons by their respected sire
In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire
Their minds with his command; who home straight led
A five-years-old male ox, fell’d, slew, and flay’d,
Gather’d about him, cut him up with art,
Spitted, and roasted, and his every part
Divided orderly. So all the day
They spe
nt in feast; no one man went his way
Without his fit fill. When the sun was set,
And darkness rose, they slept, till day’s fire het
Th’ enlighten’d earth; and then on hunting went
Both hounds and all Autolycus’ descent.
In whose guide did divine Ulysses go,
Climb’d steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow
All sylvan offsprings round. And soon they reach’d
The concaves, whence air’s sounding vapours fetch’d
Their loud descent. As soon as any sun
Had from the ocean, where his waters run
In silent deepness, rais’d his golden head,
The early huntsmen all the hill had spread,
Their hounds before them on the searching trail –
They near, and ever eager to assail,
Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance,
Of whose first flight he long’d to prove the chance.
Then found they lodg’d a boar of bulk extreme,
In such a queach as never any beam
The sun shot pierc’d, nor any pass let find
The moist impressions of the fiercest wind,
Nor any storm the sternest winter drives,
Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves
In mighty thickness; and through all this flew
The hounds’ loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw,
And all together, rous’d the boar, that rush’d
Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push’d
From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes
Stood close, and dar’d all. On which horrid prise
Ulysses first charg’d; whom above the knee
The savage struck, and ras’d it crookedly
Along the skin, yet never reach’d the bone.
Ulysses’ lance yet through him quite was thrown,
At his right shoulder ent’ring, at his left
The bright head passage to his keenness cleft,
And show’d his point gilt with the gushing gore.
Down in the dust fell the extended boar,
And forth his life flew. To Ulysses round
His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound,
With all art bound it up, and with a charm
Stay’d straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm
Receiv’d full cure, with gifts, and all event
Of joy and love to his lov’d home they sent
Their honour’d nephew; whose return his sire
And reverend mother took with joys entire,
Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave
In good relation, nor of all would save
His wound from utterance; by whose scar he came
To be discover’d by this aged dame.
Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well,
Down from her lap into the cauldron fell
His weighty foot, that made the brass resound,
Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewed ground
Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together
Her breast invaded, and of weeping weather
Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within
Her part expressive, till at length his chin
She took and spake to him: ‘O son,’ said she,
‘Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be;
Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king
I had gone over with the warmed spring.’
Then look’d she for the queen to tell her all;
And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall
In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt,
Minerva that distraction struck throughout
Her mind’s rapt forces that she might not tell.
Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well,
With one hand took her chin, and made all show
Of favour to her, with the other drew
Her offer’d parting closer, ask’d her why
She, whose kind breast had nurs’d so tenderly
His infant life, would now his age destroy,
Though twenty years had held him from the joy
Of his loved country? But, since only she,
god putting her in mind, now knew ’twas he,
He charg’d her silence, and to let no ear
In all the court more know his being there,
Lest, if god gave into his wreakful hand
Th’ insulting wooers’ lives, he did not stand
On any partial respect with her,
Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer
Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel
His punishing finger, give her equal steel.
‘What words,’ said she, ‘fly your retentive pow’rs?
You know you lock your counsels in your tow’rs
In my firm bosom, and that I am far
From those loose frailties. Like an iron bar,
Or bolt of solid’st stone, I will contain,
And tell you this besides: that if you gain,
By god’s good aid, the wooers’ lives in yours,
What dames are here their shameless paramours,
And have done most dishonour to your worth,
My information well shall paint you forth.’
‘It shall not need,’ said he; ‘myself will soon,
While thus I mask here, set on every one
My sure observance of the worst and best.
Be thou then silent, and leave god the rest.’
This said, the old dame for more water went,
The rest was all upon the pavement spent
By known Ulysses’ foot. More brought, and he
Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she
His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm,
And with his piec’d rags hiding close his harm.
The queen came near, and said: ‘Yet, guest, afford
Your further patience, till but in a word
I’ll tell my woes to you; for well I know
That rest’s sweet hour her soft foot orders now,
When all poor men, how much soever griev’d,
Would gladly get their woe-watch’d pow’rs reliev’d.
But god hath giv’n my grief a heart so great
It will not down with rest, and so I set
My judgment up to make it my delight.
All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right
I owe my charge both in my work and maids;
And when the night brings rest to others’ aids,
I toss my bed, Distress, with twenty points,
Slaught’ring the pow’rs that to my turning joints
Convey the vital heat. And as all night
Pandareus’ daughter, poor Edone, sings,
Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs,
When she for Itylus, her loved son,
By Zethus’ issue in his madness done
To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan,
And draws the ears to her of every one:
So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind,
And here and there gives my discourse the wind,
Uncertain whether I shall with my son
Abide still here the safe possession
And guard of all goods, rev’rence to the bed
Of my lov’d lord, and to my far-off-spread
Fame with the people, putting still in use,
Or follow any best Greek I can choo
se
To his fit house, with treasure infinite,
Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight
And want of judgment kept my son in guide,
He was not willing with my being a bride,
Nor with my parting from his court; but now,
Arriv’d at man’s state, he would have me vow
My love to some one of my wooers here,
And leave his court, offended that their cheer
Should so consume his free possessions.
To settle then a choice in these my moans,
Hear and expound a dream that did engrave
My sleeping fancy: twenty geese I have,
All which, methought, mine eye saw tasting wheat
In water steep’d, and joy’d to see them eat;
When straight a crook-beak’d eagle from a hill
Stoop’d, and truss’d all their necks, and all did kill;
When, all left scatter’d on the pavement there,
She took her wing up to the gods’ fair sphere.
I, ev’n amid my dream, did weep and mourn
To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn,
Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came
About my mournings many a Grecian dame,
To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme
The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam
That cross’d my chamber fell, and us’d to me
A human voice, that sounded horribly,
And said: “Be confident, Icarius’ seed,
This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed.
The geese the wooers are; the eagle, I,
Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply
Thy husband’s being, and am come to give
The wooers death, that on my treasure live.”
With this sleep left me, and my waking way
I took, to try if any violent prey
Were made of those my fowls, which well enough
I, as before, found feeding at their trough
Their yoted wheat.’ ‘O woman,’ he replied,
‘Thy dream can no interpretation bide
But what the eagle made, who was your lord,
And said himself would sure effect afford
To what he told you; that confusion
To all the wooers should appear, and none
Escape the fate and death he had decreed.’
She answer’d him: ‘O guest, these dreams exceed
The art of man t’ interpret; and appear
Without all choice or form; nor ever were
Perform’d to all at all parts. But there are
To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare,