by Homer
Two two-leav’d gates, the one of ivory,
The other horn. Those dreams that Fantasy
Takes from the polish’d ivory port, delude
The dreamer ever, and no truth include;
Those that the glittering horn-gate lets abroad,
Do evermore some certain truth abode.
But this my dream I hold of no such sort
To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port
It had access from, it did highly please
My son and me. And this my thoughts profess:
That day that lights me from Ulysses’ court
Shall both my infamy and curse consort.
I therefore purpose to propose them now,
In strong contention, Ulysses his bow;
Which he that easily draws, and from his draft
Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft,
All set up in a row, and from them all
His stand-far-off kept firm), my fortunes shall
Dispose, and take me to his house from hence,
Where I was wed a maid, in confluence
Of feast and riches; such a court here then
As I shall ever in my dreams retain.’
‘Do not,’ said he, ‘defer the gameful prize,
But set to task their importunities
With something else than nuptials; for your lord
Will to his court and kingdom be restor’d
Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow.’
‘O guest,’ replied Penelope, ‘would you
Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears
Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres!
But none can live without the death of sleep.
Th’ immortals in our mortal memories keep
Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so,
As by the fate and portion of our woe,
Our times spent here, to let us nightly try
That while we live, as much live as we die.
In which use I will to my bed ascend,
Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end
Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy
For vile, lewd, never-to-be-named Troy.
Yet there I’ll prove for sleep, which take you here,
Or on the earth, if that your custom were,
Or have a bed dispos’d for warmer rest.’
Thus left she with her ladies her old guest,
Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed,
Whose sight did ever duly make her shed
Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep,
Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep.
The end of the nineteenth book
Book 20
The Argument
Ulysses, in the wooers’ beds
Resolving first to kill the maids,
That sentence giving off, his care
For other objects doth prepare.
Another Argument
Psi
Jove’s thunder chides,
But cheers the king,
The wooers’ prides
Discomfiting.
Book 20
Ulysses in the entry laid his head,
And under him an oxhide newly flay’d,
Above him sheep fells store; and over those
Eurynome cast mantles. His repose
Would bring no sleep yet, studying the ill
He wish’d the wooers; who came by him still
With all their wenches, laughing, wantoning,
In mutual lightness; which his heart did sting,
Contending two ways: if, all patience fled,
He should rush up and strike those strumpets dead,
Or let that night be last, and take th’ extreme
Of those proud wooers, that were so supreme
In pleasure of their high-fed fantasies.
His heart did bark within him to surprise
Their sports with spoils; no fell she-mastiff can,
Amongst her whelps, fly eag’rer on a man
She doth not know, yet scents him something near,
And fain would come to please her tooth, and tear,
Than his disdain, to see his roof so fil’d
With those foul fashions, grew within him wild
To be in blood of them. But, finding best
In his free judgment to let passion rest,
He chid his angry spirit, and beat his breast,
And said: ‘Forbear, my mind, and think on this:
There hath been time when bitter agonies
Have tried thy patience. Call to mind the day
In which the Cyclop, which pass’d manly sway
Of violent strength, devour’d thy friends; thou then
Stood’st firmly bold, till from that hellish den
Thy wisdom brought thee off, when nought but death
Thy thoughts resolved on.’ This discourse did breathe
The fiery boundings of his heart, that still
Lay in that aesture, without end his ill
Yet manly suff’ring. But from side to side
It made him toss apace. You have not tried
A fellow roasting of a pig before
A hasty fire, his belly yielding store
Of fat and blood, turn faster, labour more
To have it roast, and would not have it burn,
Than this and that way his unrest made turn
His thoughts and body, would not quench the fire,
And yet not have it heighten his desire
Past his discretion, and the fit enough
Of haste and speed, that went to all the proof
His well-laid plots and his exploits requir’d,
Since he, but one, to all their deaths aspir’d.
In this contention Pallas stoop’d from heav’n,
Stood over him, and had her presence giv’n
A woman’s form, who sternly thus began:
‘Why, thou most sour and wretched-fated man
Of all that breathe, yet liest thou thus awake?
The house in which thy cares so toss and take
Thy quiet up is thine; thy wife is there
And such a son, as if thy wishes were
To be suffic’d with one they could not mend.’
‘Goddess,’ said he, ‘tis true; but I contend
To right their wrongs, and, though I be but one,
To lay unhelp’d and wreakful hand upon
This whole resort of impudents, that here
Their rude assemblies never will forbear.
And yet a greater doubt employs my care,
That if their slaughters in my reaches are,
And I perform them, Jove and you not pleas’d,
How shall I fly their friends? And would stand seis’d
Of counsel to resolve this care in me.’
‘Wretch,’ she replied, ‘a friend of worse degree
Might win thy credence, that a mortal were,
And us’d to second thee, though nothing near
So pow’rful in performance nor in care;
Yet I, a goddess, that have still had share
In thy achievements, and thy person’s guard,
Must still be doubted by thy brain, so hard
To credit anything above thy pow’r –
And that must come from heav’n – if every hour
There be not personal appearance made,
And aid direct giv’n,
that may sense invade.
I’ll tell thee, therefore, clearly: if there were
Of divers-languag’d men an army here
Of fifty companies, all driving hence
Thy sheep and oxen, and with violence
Offer’d to charge us, and besiege us round,
Thou shouldst their prey reprise, and them confound.
Let sleep then seize thee. To keep watch all night
Consumes the spirits, and makes dull the sight.’
Thus pour’d the goddess sleep into his eyes,
And reascended the Olympian skies.
When care-and-lineament-resolving sleep
Had laid his temples in his golden steep,
His wise-in-chaste-wit-worthy wife did rise,
First sitting up in her soft bed, her eyes
Open’d with tears, in care of her estate,
Which now her friends resolv’d to terminate
To more delays, and make her marry one.
Her silent tears then ceas’d, her orison
This queen of women to Diana made:
‘Rev’rend Diana, let thy darts invade
My woeful bosom, and my life deprive,
Now at this instant, or soon after drive
My soul with tempests forth, and give it way
To those far-off dark vaults, where never day
Hath pow’r to shine, and let them cast it down
Where refluent Oceanus doth crown
His curled head, where Pluto’s orchard is,
And entrance to our after miseries.
As such stern whirlwinds ravish’d to that stream
Pandareus’ daughters, when the gods to them
Had reft their parents, and them left alone,
Poor orphan children, in their mansion;
Whose desolate life did love’s sweet queen incline
To nurse with pressed milk and sweetest wine;
Whom Juno deck’d beyond all other dames
With wisdom’s light, and beauty’s moving flames;
Whom Phoebe goodliness of stature render’d;
And to whose fair hands wise Minerva tender’d
The loom and needle in their utmost skill;
And while love’s empress scaled th’ Olympian hill
To beg of lightning-loving Jove (since he
The means to all things knows, and doth decree
Fortunes, infortunes, to the mortal race)
For those poor virgins, the accomplish’d grace
Of sweetest nuptials, the fierce Harpies prey’d
On every good and miserable maid,
And to the hateful Furies gave them all
In horrid service: yet may such fate fall
From steep Olympus on my loathed head,
Or fair-chair’d Phoebe strike me instant dead,
That I may undergo the gloomy shore
To visit great Ulysses’ soul, before
I soothe my idle blood and wed a worse.
And yet, beneath how desperate a curse
Do I live now! It is an ill that may
Be well endur’d, to mourn the whole long day,
So night’s sweet sleeps, that make a man forget
Both bad and good, in some degree would let
My thoughts leave grieving; but, both day and night,
Some cruel god gives my sad memory sight.
This night, methought, Ulysses grac’d my bed
In all the goodly state with which he led
The Grecian army; which gave joys extreme
To my distress, esteeming it no dream,
But true indeed; and that conceit I had,
That when I saw it false I might be mad,
Such cruel fates command in my life’s guide.’
By this the morning’s orient dews had dyed
The earth in all her colours; when the king,
In his sweet sleep, suppos’d the sorrowing
That she us’d waking in her plaintive bed
To be her mourning, standing by his head,
As having known him there; who straight arose,
And did again within the hall dispose
The carpets and the cushions, where before
They served the seats. The hide without the door
He carried back, and then, with held-up hands,
He pray’d to him that heav’n and earth commands:
‘O father Jove, if through the moist and dry
You, willing, brought me home, when misery
Had punish’d me enough by your free dooms,
Let some of these within those inner rooms,
Startled with horror of some strange ostent,
Come here, and tell me that great Jove hath bent
Threat’nings without at some lewd men within.’
To this his pray’r Jove shook his sable chin,
And thunder’d from those pure clouds that, above
The breathing air, in bright Olympus move.
Divine Ulysses joy’d to hear it roar.
Report of which a woman miller bore
Straight to his ears; for near to him there ground
Mills for his corn, that twice six women found
Continual motion, grinding barley meal,
And wheat, man’s marrow. Sleep the eyes did seal
Of all the other women, having done
Their usual task; which yet this dame alone
Had scarce given end to, being, of all the rest,
Least fit for labour. But when these sounds press’d
Her ears, above the rumbling of her mill,
She let that stand, look’d out, and heav’n’s steep hill
Saw clear and temperate; which made her (unware
Of giving any comfort to his care
In that strange sign he pray’d for) thus invoke:
‘O king of men and gods, a mighty stroke
Thy thund’ring hand laid on the cope of stars,
No cloud in all the air; and therefore wars
Thou bidst to some men in thy sure ostent!
Perform to me, poor wretch, the main event,
And make this day the last, and most extreme,
In which the wooers’ pride shall solace them
With whorish banquets in Ulysses’ roof,
That, with sad toil to grind them meal enough,
Have quite dissolv’d my knees. Vouchsafe, then, now
Thy thunders may their latest feast foreshow.’
This was the boon Ulysses begg’d of Jove,
Which, with his thunder, through his bosom drove
A joy, that this vaunt breath’d: ‘Why now these men,
Despite their pride, will Jove make pay me pain.’
By this had other maids than those that lay
Mix’d with the wooers, made a fire like day
Amidst the hearth of the illustrious hall;
And then the prince, like a celestial,
Rose from his bed, to his embalm’d feet tied
Fair shoes, his sword about his breast applied,
Took to his hand his sharp-pil’d lance, and met,
Amidst the entry, his old nurse, that set
His haste at sudden stand; to whom he said:
‘O, my lov’d nurse, with what grace have you laid
And fed my guest here? Could you so neglect
His age, to lodge him thus? Though all respect
I give my mother’s wisdom, I must yet
Affirm it fail’d in this; for she hath set
&
nbsp; At much more price a man of much less worth,
Without his person’s note, and yet casts forth
With ignominious hands, for his form sake,
A man much better.’ ‘Do not faulty make,
Good son, the faultless. He was giv’n his seat
Close to her side, and food till he would eat,
Wine till his wish was serv’d; for she requir’d
His wants, and will’d him all things he desir’d;
Commanded her chief maids to make his bed,
But he, as one whom sorrow only fed
And all infortune, would not take his rest
In bed, and coverings fit for any guest,
But in the entry, on an ox’s hide
Never at tanner’s, his old limbs implied
In warm sheep-fells; yet over all we cast
A mantle, fitting for a man more grac’d.’
He took her answer, left the house, and went,
Attended with his dogs, to sift th’ event
Of private plots, betwixt him and his sire
In common counsel. Then the crew entire
Of all the household maids Euryclea bad
Bestir them through the house, and see it clad
In all best form; gave all their parts; and one
She set to furnish every seat and throne
With needleworks, and purple clothes of state;
Another set to scour and cleanse the plate;
Another all the tables to make proud
With porous sponges; others she bestow’d
In all speed to the spring, to fetch from thence
Fit store of water; all at all expense
Of pains she will’d to be, for this to all
Should be a day of common festival,
And not a wooer now should seek his home
Elsewhere than there, but all were bid to come
Exceeding early, and be raised to heav’n
With all the entertainment could be giv’n.
They heard with greedy ears, and everything
Put straight in practice. Twenty to the spring
Made speed for water; many in the house
Took pains; and all were both laborious
And skill’d in labour; many fell to fell
And cleave their wood; and all did more than well.
Then troop’d the lusty wooers in, and then
Came all from spring; at their heels loaded men
With slaughter’d brawns, of all the herd the prize,
That had been long fed up in several sties;
Eumaeus and his men convey’d them there.
He, seeing now the king, began to cheer,