_Eum._ Light of mine eyes, thou’rt come, Telemachus;
All shall go forward with us once again.
_Ul._ (_aside_). He calls him father, and I may not speak.
_Tel._ Hath aught been wrong?
_Eum._ Nay, nought is changed for that.
’Twas only lack of thee: and with the fear
Some ill might hap to thee, what dost thou think
Must old Eumæus feel?
_Tel._ What couldst thou fear?
_Eum._ Didst thou not know? The wooers sent a ship
To take thee, son. Thou didst not? Well, some god
Protected thee. Now let me look on thee. 531
Come within. Sit thee down.
_Tel._ So will I gladly.
Ere I would venture to the house, I came
To talk with thee, and learn if aught has passed.
My mother?...
_Eum._ All is well, prince, yet; she bides
Patient and brave, and weeps both day and night;
Weeps too for thee. Give me thy spear, my son.
Now sit thee down. I say we have feared for thee.
_Tel._ (_to Ul._). Nay, rise not, stranger; there be other seats,
And men to set them.—Pardon me that my joy 540
O’erlooked thee. Thou hast guests, Eumæus?
_Eum._ Nay,
None but this ancient father.
_Tel._ And who is he?
_Eum._ To me is he a stranger as to thee.
’Twas yesterday, he tells me, that his ship
Thesprotian, as he says, driven from her course,
Put in for water: when for some mistrust
Or weariness of voyage he remained.
He hath fed with me, but thou being now returned
He looks to be a suppliant at the house.
He is thy man.
_Tel._ Eumæus, thou must know 550
I could not, whatsoe’er his claim, receive him
Where I myself am threatened: and even my mother
Holds no sure mind, wavering from day to day
Who shall be master. No: there is no place
For suppliants at the house: but as thy guest
I still may treat him well: here he shall have
Raiment and all he needs, and I will give him
A sword, and bid him fare where’er he will.
But not to the house I bid him come, for fear
Violence befall him and I be accursed. 560
_Ul._ Sir, since thy kindness makes me bold to speak,
Thou hast my thanks; nor can I hear thy wrongs,
Nor see thy shame unmoved, for thou art noble.
Hast thou provoked this, tell me, or are thy people
Moved by some god to hate, or is’t thy brethren
Play thee false?
_Tel._ Nay, there is neither grudge nor hate
Betwixt me and my folk, nor do my brethren
Stand faithlessly aloof. ’Tis all to say
That Zeus hath made our house of single heirs:
Arceisios gat one only son Laertes, 570
And he one only son, Ulysses; I,
Ulysses’ son, am too his only child:
And he hath left his house the prey of foes.
I cannot aid thee, stranger.
_Ul._ O would that I
Were young as thou, and in my present mood;
That I were this Ulysses or his son:
Far rather would I die slain in my halls
By my thick foes, than see this reckless wrong;
My good farms plundered, and my herds devoured,
My red wine wasted, and my handmaidens 580
Hither and thither haled about, at will
Of such a rabble as fear not God nor man,
Spoilers and robbers, who have set their hearts
Vainly upon a purpose, which I say
Shall never be accomplished.
_Athena appears at the door to Ulysses._
_Tel._ I pray the gods
It never be, and thank thee well, my friend,
For thy good will.
_Eum._ How art thou moved, old man.
_Ul._ The heart unmoved by others’ wrongs is dead:
And yet maybe I am somewhat overwrought;
If I may go within ...
_Eum._ Ay, go within, 590
And rest thee; thou hast need.
_Ul._ I thank thee, friend.
I’ll lay me down to sleep: here I but shackle
Your private talk.
_Eum._ Be at thy ease, I pray.
_Tel._ Go, father; rest thee well.
_Ul._ I thank thee, sir. [_Exit._
_Eum._ How earnest thou, son? Where didst thou land?
_Tel._ Is’t true
The wooers sent a ship?
_Eum._ Didst thou not meet them?
_Tel._ Hark now, and hear in what strange manner warned
I knew their ambush, to avoid them.
_Eum._ Ah!
Thou knewest it, thou knewest!
_Tel._ Wilt thou think
I was at Sparta but three days ago? 600
There in my sleep the goddess, at whose word
I made this voyage, came and stood beside me,
Called me by name, and bade me quick return;
And for my safety warned me that a ship
’Twixt Ithaca and Samè lay in wait;
Which if I would avoid I must sail round,
Keeping the west of the isle; and for that voyage
She promised a fair wind. So the next morn
Was I at Pylos; whence as I set forth,
I found the wind, and sailing day and night, 610
With swift unbroken passage came to shore
Last evening north of the isle. Hither alone
I passed in the dark, and sent my ship about.
_Eum._ That was well done: I praise the gods for that.
I knew that they would save thee.
_Tel._ But, Eumæus,
What of the ship? What knowest thou? What means it?
Were all agreed plotting my life together,
Or whose deed is it?
_Eum._ One rancorous spirit rules them,—
Save Lord Amphinomus, who stands as ever
Within the bounds: of all the rest there’s none 620
That would not take thy life by stealth, nor one
Who openly would dare.
_Tel._ Who sailed the ship?
_Eum._ Antinous.
_Tel._ Ah!
_Eum._ And if I die to avenge it,
Son, he shall pay for it.
_Tel._ Talk, I pray, of safety,
Not of revenge. Shall I make bold to go
Straight to the house, or must I hide me here?
_Eum._ Bide, son, bide! ’Tis not safe. Let me go, son.
When once ’tis known in the isle that thou’rt returned,
Then thou mayst shew thyself. The cowards fear
The love the people bear thee. Let me go. 630
_Tel._ Is all else well?
_Eum._ All’s well where ill is well.
_Tel._ Eumæus, I’ll not venture yet: but thou
Haste to the house, and in my mother’s ear
Whisper I am here: but let none other guess
That thou hast tidings of me.
_Eum._ Not to tell
Thy grandsire, son? He scarce hath eat or drunk
While thou hast been away: ’twere well he knew,
And quickly; for an hour is much to one
Whose life leans on the grave.
_Tel._ My safe return
Can be no secret, but my hiding-place 640
Must not be known: therefore I would not have
Thee for my herald. Thou mayst bid my mother
Send one to comfort him; but go not thou
Wandering among the hills. My bidding done,
Make swift return. I shall be here.
_Eum._ I pray
Let not that old man here come round thee, son,
With idle stories of thy sire: he is full
Of tales of Troy: and if he win thine ear
He hath a purpose.
_Tel._ He! Nay, trust me, father.
_Eum._ Well, he will try. 650
_Tel._ Fear not.
_Eum._ He hath a tongue:
He saith he fought at Ilion. Then, he saith
He knew Ulysses.
_Tel._ Saith he so?
_Eum._ And then
He hath been in Lacedæmon too.
_Tel._ His talk
While thou’rt away may well beguile the time.
_Eum._ Ay, and thee too. Thou hast not heard, I fear,
Aught of thy father now, where thou hast been?
_Tel._ Somewhat, but nothing recent. What I know
I’ll tell thee later. Thou couldst gather nought
From this old man?
_Eum._ He is cunning: didst thou see
How he could counterfeit? I tell thee, son, 660
He hath not been here an hour, and never knew
Aught of thy father; but he plucks from me
The story word by word, and then at once
Bursts out,—he knew Ulysses: ay, he stayed
Eating to speak of him.
_Tel._ What said he of him?
_Eum._ I would not hear him, son: I would not hear him.
_Tel._ Think you he lied?
_Eum._ Ay, ay. Why, how believe
Thy father now is in Thesprotia,
Where the king Pheidon hath a ship all stored
To bring him home?
_Tel._ Eumæus, good Eumæus! 670
What if ’tis true?
_Eum._ True! There, ’tis as I thought:
I would not leave thee with him, son; he is quick:
He will delude thee.
_Tel._ I must hear his tale,
Though it be false. Go thou: my ship will else
Be round before thee. Go, and never fear
That this old man will turn my head.
_Eum._ Be warned.
Trust him not, son. There is something strange about him
I like not.
_Tel._ Come: as far as to the gate
I will go with thee. [_Exeunt._
_Re-enter Ulysses as himself._
_Ul._ Lo! now the sun in the mid goal of heaven
Hath climbed to view my fortunes, and my shade
On this well-trodden floor falls neither way: 682
So towers my genius; so my future and past
Lie gathered for the moment.—How oft in dreams,
When longing hath forecast this hour, I have loved
The rescuing tears that loosed my heart: and now
The womanish water wells, I bid it back:
For nature stammers in me, and I see
Imagination hath a grasp of joy 689
Finer than sense; and my most passionate spirit,
When most it should leap forth, hangs back unwilling
To officer the trembling instruments,
By which delight is served. Back, then, my tears!
Fate rules; reason should fashion me.—And welcome
Even this harshness of fate; for if my son
Shall know me as I am, not as a merchant
Should I return at ease, that men might ask
Whether Ulysses were returned or no;
Rather in blood than doubt.—Here on this bench
I’ll wait him, nor myself be first to speak: 700
And ’twill be tried for once how a man’s son
Shall know his father, never having seen him.
_Re-enter Telemachus._
_Tel._ Why, who art thou? Not he that on this bench
Sattest so late! In truth I much mistook thee,
Or thou art changed. Thy hair was thin and white,
Thy body rough and pinched with age, thy clothes
Were meanest rags. Say art thou he, the same,
Eumæus’ guest from the Thesprotian ship?
_Ul._ Ay, son, I am.
_Tel._ Surely thou art a god.
Be gracious to our house! [_Kneels._
_Ul._ (_rising_). Nay, rise, my son. 710
I am no god. Why wilt thou liken me
To those immortals? I am thy father, son,
Ulysses to my home at last returned. [_Kisses him._
_Tel._ Alas, thou art a god, and thy words mock me.
_Ul._ Thou knowest me not. [_Sits._
_Tel._ Say, if thou wert a man,
How couldst thou put that change of semblance on,
Which only gods may use?
_Ul._ The wise Athena
Uses me as she will: then was I old
That none might know me; now I am myself
That thou mayst know.—’Tis I. 720
_Tel._ Father! my father!
O, happy day. [_Weeps on his neck._
_Ul._ Thy kisses, O, my son:
Thy kisses and thy tears, my son, my son.
_Tel._ O, thou art come. O, happy, happy day.
_Ul._ I am come, Telemachus: but how to know
’Tis I?
_Tel._ O, I am sure; who could be like thee?
I knew too thou wouldst come, dear father, and yet
I never honoured thee enough: I thought
I should be worthy of thee: now I fear ...
_Ul._ I must be unlike thy thought, son; but in thee
I see myself again of twenty years: 730
Nay, I was somewhat thicker, but maybe
That will make up; and thou hast got instead
Thy mother’s grace. ’Tis true we mostly shape
Less to the father.
_Tel._ How, sire, didst thou come?
_Ul._ A good Phæacian ship brought me last night.
I came to land in the dark: and all the spoils
I have brought with me are hidden in the cave,
Till we may fetch them forth. 738
_Tel._ First come thou home.
_Ul._ And would I might. The hope of twenty years
Is gathered in this hour. Come home, thou sayst:
Ah, son; and would I might; but what of them
That stop the way?
_Tel._ The suitors of my mother?
O, they will fly to hear of thy return.
_Ul._ They must not fly. All, where they have done me wrong,
Must with their lives atone. This is the cause
Of my disguise, that none should know me here
But thou, to whom alone I am revealed,
That plotting with thee I may draw the net
About them. This the goddess bids me, son;
To slay thy mother’s wooers.
_Tel._ Father, I know 750
Thou art unmatchable among the Greeks
In warriorship and wisdom, ay, and here
Is none would dare to face thee: yet by tens
They reckon, and I fear would overpower thee
By very number.
_Ul._ Say: how many be they?
_Tel._ Out of Dulichium there be two and fifty
Princes and lords, each with his serving-man:
From Samè, four and twenty: from Zakynthus
A score; and even of Ithaca itself
Twelve of the best, with Phemius the bard, 760
Medon, and many followers: ’gainst all these
We are but two.
_Ul._ I fear them not, my son.
_Tel._ Seek other aid, I pray, ere ’gainst so many
We venture.
_Ul._ What, son, sayst thou, if Athena
And father Zeus aid us? will they, thou thinkest,
Suffice, or must we cast about to find
Some other champion?
_Tel._ Truly they are the best
Thou namest, father; tho’ among the clouds
Their seat is, and their countenance withheld
From mortal men.
_Ul._ They will not hold aloof, 770
When once our spears are plunging in the breasts
Of that vain rabble. Goes thy heart with mine?
_Tel._ With thee and for thee, father, will I fight,
Askest thou?
_Ul._ Wilt thou bear to look on me
As late thou sawest me, and seeing me so,
Find not the least diminishment of love?
_Tel._ I never shall forget this godlike mien,
Whence to disguise thou deignest as a god.
_Ul._ But when thou seest me mocked and scorned, a slave,
A beggar where I am lord, wilt thou discover 780
No indignation?
_Tel._ I will hide my wrath.
_Ul._ For I must be thy guest among my foes.
_Tel._ To be my guest, if they should set upon thee
To drive thee forth, will force me to resist.
_Ul._ Fear not the threatenings of those doomèd men.
_Tel._ They all are armed, and thou wilt be unarmed.
_Ul._ Tho’ they provoke me I will bide my time.
_Tel._ But how if they assault thee unprepared?
_Ul._ The goddess will withhold their impious hands.
_Tel._ Lurk rather here until the plot be ripe. 790
_Ul._ Nay, son; and were the lure of home less strong
To me so long deprived, yet would I see
Myself the wrongs there done me, see the shame
Of which men speak; and, once within the hall,
I can take count and measure of my foes.
A just cause, bold heart, and the aid of heaven
Should still thy fear.
_Tel._ Tell me thy bidding, father!
_Ul._ Ay, so ’tis best: and thro’ thee I may come
To see thy mother;—hark, the course is plain:
Go to the town; announce thine own return; 800
Thence to the house, and to Eumæus say
Thou wilt receive me; he must know no more:
Bid him to-morrow fetch me to the hall.
And when thou seest thy mother, tell her thus;
Thou hast seen a stranger in Eumæus’ hut,
Who having known thy father, carries news
That he is near. As to confirm thy tale,
Bring her to speech with me when none are by.
Ourselves may meet at night, and then consult
In secret on what stratagem may grow 810
From that occasion, or what further thing
The goddess may command.
_Tel._ Now thy disguise
Is my chief fear, father; I know these men:
Their insolent assumption would not brook
Any intruder, but against a beggar
They will make sport of outrage.
_Ul._ Sayst thou so?
Then shall we prove them thus: be they good men
They will show pity: if they mock my rags,
Try if they honour thee; and bid them make,
Each of his own, a portion unto me. 820
I then shall see their hearts: the more they rage,
Force them the more with full authority.
This canst thou well do. ’Tis thy harder task
Not to betray me. Youth is bold of heart
And hot in battle, but to guard the tongue
And to restrain the hand come with long years.
_Tel._ Now let this trial prove me once for all,
Whether in keeping counsel and in battle
I am thy true son, or another man.
_Ul._ All hangs on thee; for none but thou must know, 830
Not even thy mother. Tell me, I would learn
If in her thought I am alive or dead;
And what thine own mind was, fear not to say.
_Tel._ Truly ’twixt hope and hopelessness, we stood
In blank uncertainty; and if not yet
Our wishes wore the colour of our fears,
Now was the turn.
_Ul._ I come then not too soon?
_Tel._ Nay, nor too late.
_Ul._ ’Tis well, but time is short;
Tarry no longer. Get thee home, and there
Ordain a sacrifice, such as befits 840
This day of days: such as may well content
The favourable deities, and appease
The unfriendly. Guess, son, if thy heart is stirred,
How ’tis with me. The ties of home are dear,
And what a man is born to, both the place,
Where’er it be, that hath received his being
Out of oblivion, and given his mind
The shapes and hues of earth, the sights of heaven,
The place whence he sets forth to meet strange things,
Whither returns to find his own, himself; 850
This bides, the harbour of his fancy,—and draws him
Spite of all else from world’s end to world’s end.
And more, more dear, are those whose place it was,
Whose name he is called by, whom he calls his own,
Whose love hath borne and nurtured him, whose life
He is offshoot of and diligent support.
This love thou knowest, and being to-day returned
But from short voyage, mayst in little gauge
My joy returning after many years.
But what thou know’st not—mayst thou come to know!— 860
I’ll tell thee. There be ties dearer than place
Or parents; there be bonds that break in pieces
The hearts that break them, and whose severance
Is more than banishment. Boy, ’tis thy mother
That makes this Ithaca the world to me;
These tears are hers: and seeing thee, my son,
Whose picture I have carried in my heart,
And year by year have checked and altered still
With vain imagination to thy growth
Since last I left thee fondled in her arms, 870
I learn how dear art thou. Now on thy brow
I’ll set this kiss. Begone and do my bidding.
The goddess calls me: I must take again
That shape which late thou saw’st me in. Farewell.
Forget not when I am changèd what I am.
_Tel._ Thy first commands are dear, sire; I obey.