The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  Might so assail, that where their spirits dream

  On our deaths first, we first may slaughter them!’

  Thus the much-sufferer said; and all let fly,

  When every man struck dead his enemy.

  Ulysses slaughter’d Demoptolemus.

  Euryades by young Telemachus

  His death encounter’d. Good Eumaeus slew

  Elatus. And Philoetius overthrew

  Pisander. All which tore the paved floor

  Up with their teeth. The rest retir’d before

  Their second charge to inner rooms; and then

  Ulysses follow’d, from the slaughter’d men

  Their darts first drawing. While which work was done,

  The wooers threw with huge contention

  To kill them all; when with her swallow wing

  Minerva cuff’d, and made their javelins ring

  Against the doors and thresholds, as before.

  Some yet did graze upon their marks. One tore

  The prince’s wrist, which was Amphimedon,

  Th’ extreme part of the skin but touch’d upon.

  Ctesippus over good Eumaeus’ shield

  His shoulder’s top did taint; which yet did yield

  The lance free pass, and gave his hurt the ground.

  Again then charged the wooers, and girt round

  Ulysses with their lances; who turn’d head,

  And with his javelin struck Eurydamas dead.

  Telemachus dislif’d Amphimedon;

  Eumaeus, Polybus; Philoetius won

  Ctesippus’ bosom with his dart, and said,

  In quittance of the jester’s part he play’d,

  The neat’s foot hurling at Ulysses: ‘Now,

  Great son of Polytherses, you that vow

  Your wit to bitter taunts, and love to wound

  The heart of any with a jest, so crown’d

  Your wit be with a laughter, never yielding

  To fools in folly, but your glory building

  On putting down in fooling, spitting forth

  Puff’d words at all sorts, cease to scoff at worth,

  And leave revenge of vile words to the gods,

  Since their wits bear the sharper edge by odds;

  And, in the mean time, take the dart I drave,

  For that right hospitable foot you gave

  Divine Ulysses, begging but his own.’

  Thus spake the black-ox-herdsman; and straight down

  Ulysses struck another with his dart –

  Damastor’s son. Telemachus did part,

  Just in the midst, the belly of the fair

  Evenor’s son, his fierce pile taking air

  Out at his back. Flat fell he on his face,

  His whole brows knocking, and did mark the place.

  And now man-slaught’ring Pallas took in hand

  Her snake-fring’d shield, and on that beam took stand

  In her true form, where swallow-like she sat.

  And then, in this way of the house and that,

  The wooers, wounded at the heart with fear,

  Fled the encounter, as, in pastures where

  Fat herds of oxen feed, about the field

  (As if wild madness their instincts impell’d)

  The high-fed bullocks fly, whom in the spring,

  When days are long, gad-bees or breezes sting.

  UIysses and his son the flyers chas’d,

  As when, with crooked beaks and seres, a cast

  Of hill-bred eagles, cast off at some game,

  That yet their strengths keep, but (put up) in flame

  The eagle stoops; from which along the field

  The poor fowls make wing, this and that way yield

  Their hard-flown pinions, then the clouds assay

  For ’scape or shelter, their forlorn dismay

  All spirit exhaling, all wings’ strength to carry

  Their bodies forth, and, truss’d up, to the quarry

  Their falc’ners ride in, and rejoice to see

  Their hawks perform a flight so fervently:

  So, in their flight, Ulysses with his heir

  Did stoop and cuff the wooers, that the air

  Broke in vast sighs, whose heads they shot and cleft,

  The pavement boiling with the souls they reft.

  Liodes, running to Ulysses, took

  His knees, and thus did on his name invoke:

  ‘Ulysses! Let me pray thee, to my place

  Afford the reverence, and to me the grace,

  That never did or said to any dame

  Thy court contain’d, or deed or word to blame,

  But others so affected I have made

  Lay down their insolence; and, if the trade

  They kept with wickedness have made them still

  Despise my speech, and use their wonted ill,

  They have their penance by the stroke of death,

  Which their desert divinely warranteth.

  But I am priest amongst them, and shall I,

  That nought have done worth death, amongst them die?

  From thee this proverb then will men derive:

  Good turns do never their mere deeds survive.’

  He, bending his displeased forehead, said:

  ‘If you be priest among them, as you plead,

  Yet you would marry, and with my wife too,

  And have descent by her. For all that woo

  Wish to obtain – which they should never do,

  Dames’ husbands living. You must therefore pray,

  Of force and oft, in court here, that the day

  Of my return for home might never shine;

  The death to me wish’d therefore shall be thine.’

  This said, he took a sword up that was cast

  From Agelaus, having struck his last,

  And on the priest’s mid neck he laid a stroke

  That struck his head off, tumbling as he spoke.

  Then did the poet Phemius (whose surname

  Was call’d Terpiades, who thither came

  Forced by the wooers) fly death; but being near

  The court’s great gate, he stood, and parted there

  In two his counsels: either to remove

  And take the altar of Herceian Jove

  (Made sacred to him, with a world of art

  Engrav’n about it, where were wont t’ impart

  Laertes and Ulysses many a thigh

  Of broad-brow’d oxen to the deity),

  Or venture to Ulysses, clasp his knee,

  And pray his ruth. The last was the decree

  His choice resolv’d on. ’Twixt the royal throne

  And that fair table that the bowl stood on

  With which they sacrific’d, his harp he laid

  Along the earth, the king’s knees hugg’d, and said:

  ‘Ulysses! Let my pray’rs obtain of thee

  My sacred skill’s respect, and ruth to me!

  It will hereafter grieve thee to have slain

  A poet, that doth sing to gods and men.

  I of myself am taught, for god alone

  All sorts of song hath in my bosom sown,

  And I, as to a god, will sing to thee;

  Then do not thou deal like the priest with me.

  Thine own lov’d son Telemachus will say,

  That not to beg here, nor with willing way

  Was my access to thy high court address’d,

  To give the wooers my song after feast,

  But, being
many, and so much more strong,

  They forc’d me hither, and compell’d my song.’

  This did the prince’s sacred virtue hear,

  And to the king, his father, said: ‘Forbear

  To mix the guiltless with the guilty’s blood.

  And with him likewise let our mercies save

  Medon the herald, that did still behave

  Himself with care of my good from a child,

  If by Eumaeus yet he be not kill’d,

  Or by Philoetius, nor your fury met,

  While all this blood about the house it swet.’

  This Medon heard, as lying hid beneath

  A throne set near, half dead with fear of death;

  A new-flay’d oxhide, as but there thrown by,

  His serious shroud made, he lying there to fly.

  But hearing this he quickly left the throne,

  His oxhide cast as quickly, and as soon

  The prince’s knees seiz’d, saying: ‘O my love,

  I am not slain, but here alive and move.

  Abstain yourself, and do not see your sire

  Quench with my cold blood the unmeasur’d fire

  That flames in his strength, making spoil of me,

  His wrath’s right, for the wooers’ injury.’

  Ulysses smiled, and said: ‘Be confident

  This man hath sav’d and made thee different,

  To let thee know, and say, and others see,

  Good life is much more safe than villany.

  Go then, sit free without from death within,

  This much-renowned singer from the sin

  Of these men likewise quit. Both rest you there,

  While I my house purge as it fits me here.’

  This said, they went and took their seat without

  At Jove’s high altar, looking round about,

  Expecting still their slaughter; when the king

  Search’d round the hall, to try life’s hidden wing

  Made from more death. But all laid prostrate there

  In blood and gore he saw. Whole shoals they were,

  And lay as thick as in a hollow creek

  Without the white sea, when the fishers break

  Their many-meshed draught-net up, there lie

  Fish frisking on the sands, and fain the dry

  Would for the wet change, but th’ all-seeing beam

  The sun exhales hath suck’d their lives from them:

  So one by other sprawl’d the wooers there.

  Ulysses and his son then bid appear

  The nurse Euryclea, to let her hear

  His mind in something fit for her affair.

  He op’d the door, and call’d, and said: ‘Repair,

  Grave matron long since born, that art our spy

  To all this house’s servile housewif’ry;

  My father calls thee, to impart some thought

  That asks thy action.’ His word found in nought

  Her slack observance, who straight op’d the door

  And enter’d to him, when himself before

  Had left the hall. But there the king she view’d

  Amongst the slain, with blood and gore imbru’d.

  And as a lion skulking all in night,

  Far-off in pastures, and come home, all dight

  In jaws and breast-locks with an ox’s blood

  New feasted on him, his looks full of mood:

  So look’d Ulysses, all his hands and feet

  Freckled with purple. When which sight did greet

  The poor old woman (such works being for eyes

  Of no soft temper) out she brake in cries,

  Whose vent, though throughly open’d, he yet clos’d,

  Call’d her more near, and thus her plaints compos’d:

  ‘Forbear, nor shriek thus, but vent joys as loud.

  It is no piety to bemoan the proud,

  Though ends befall them moving ne’er so much;

  These are the portions of the gods to such.

  Men’s own impieties in their instant act

  Sustain their plagues, which are with stay but wrack’d.

  But these men gods nor men had in esteem,

  Nor good nor bad had any sense in them.

  Their lives directly ill were, therefore, cause

  That death in these stern forms so deeply draws.

  Recount, then, to me those licentious dames

  That lost my honour and their sex’s shames.’

  ‘I’ll tell you truly,’ she replied: ‘There are

  Twice five-and-twenty women here that share

  All work amongst them; whom I taught to spin,

  And bear the just bands that they suffer’d in.

  Of all which only there were twelve that gave

  Themselves to impudence and light behave,

  Nor me respecting, nor herself – the queen.

  And for your son he hath but lately been

  Of years to rule; nor would his mother bear

  His empire where her women’s labours were.

  But let me go and give her notice now

  Of your arrival. Sure some god doth show

  His hand upon her in this rest she takes,

  That all these uproars bears and never wakes.’

  ‘Nor wake her yet,’ said he, ‘but cause to come

  Those twelve light women to this outer room.’

  She made all utmost haste to come and go,

  And bring the women he had summon’d so.

  Then both his swains and son he bade go call

  The women to their aid, and clear the hall

  Of those dead bodies, cleanse each board and throne

  With wetted sponges. Which with fitness done,

  He bade take all the strumpets ’twixt the wall

  Of his first court and that room next the hall,

  In which the vessel of the house were scour’d,

  And in their bosoms sheath their every sword,

  Till all their souls were fled, and they had then

  Felt ’twas but pain to sport with lawless men.

  This said, the women came all drown’d in moan,

  And weeping bitterly. But first was done

  The bearing thence the dead; all which beneath

  The portico they stow’d, where death on death

  They heap’d together. Then took all the pains

  Ulysses will’d. His son yet and the swains

  With paring-shovels wrought. The women bore

  Their parings forth, and all the clotter’d gore.

  The house then cleans’d, they brought the women out,

  And put them in a room so wall’d about

  That no means serv’d their sad estates to fly.

  Then said Telemachus: ‘These shall not die

  A death that lets out any wanton blood,

  And vents the poison that gave lust her food,

  The body cleansing, but a death that chokes

  The breath, and altogether that provokes

  And seems as bellows to abhorred lust,

  That both on my head pour’d depraves unjust,

  And on my mother’s, scandalling the court

  With men debauch’d in so abhorr’d a sort.’

  This said, a halser of a ship they cast

  About a cross-beam of the roof, which fast

  They made about their necks, in twelve parts cut,

  And hal’d them up so high they could not put

  Their feet to any stay. As which was done,

&n
bsp; Look how a mavis, or a pigeon,

  In any grove caught with a springe or net,

  With struggling pinions ’gainst the ground doth beat

  Her tender body, and that then strait bed

  Is sour to that swing in which she was bred:

  So striv’d these taken birds, till every one

  Her pliant halter had enforc’d upon

  Her stubborn neck, and then aloft was haul’d

  To wretched death. A little space they sprawl’d,

  Their feet fast moving, but were quickly still.

  Then fetch’d they down Melanthius, to fulfill

  The equal execution; which was done

  In portal of the hall, and thus begun:

  They first slit both his nostrils, cropp’d each ear,

  His members tugg’d off, which the dogs did tear

  And chop up bleeding sweet; and, while red-hot

  The vice-abhorring blood was, off they smote

  His hands and feet; and there that work had end.

  Then wash’d they hands and feet that blood had stain’d,

  And took the house again. And then the king,

  Euryclea calling, bade her quickly bring

  All-ill-expelling brimstone, and some fire,

  That with perfumes cast he might make entire

  The house’s first integrity in all.

  And then his timely will was, she should call

  Her queen and ladies; still yet charging her

  That all the handmaids she should first confer.

  She said he spake as fitted; but, before,

  She held it fit to change the weeds he wore,

  And she would others bring him, that not so

  His fair broad shoulders might rest clad and show

  His person to his servants, was to blame.

  ‘First bring me fire,’ said he. She went, and came

  With fire and sulphur straight; with which the hall

  And of the huge house all rooms capital

  He throughly sweeten’d. Then went nurse to call

  The handmaid servants down; and up she went

  To tell the news, and will’d them to present 630

  Their service to their sov’reign. Down they came

  Sustaining torches all, and pour’d a flame

  Of love about their lord, with welcomes home,

  With huggings of his hands, with laboursome

  Both heads’ and foreheads’ kisses, and embraces,

  And plied him so with all their loving graces

  That tears and sighs took up his whole desire;

  For now he knew their hearts to him entire.

  The end of the twenty second book