_Ταυ̑._
The King still hid
By what he said;
By what he did
Informs his maid.
Yet did divine Ulysses keep his roof,
And with Minerva plotted still the proof
Of all the Wooers’ deaths; when thus his son
He taught with these fore-counsels: “We must run
A close course with these arms, and lay them by,
And to the Wooers make so fair a sky
As it would never thunder. Let me then,
That you may well retain, repeat again
What in Eumæus’ cottage I advis’d:
If when they see no leisure exercis’d,
In fetching down your arms, and ask what use
Your mind will give them, say, ’tis their abuse
With smoke and rust that makes you take them down,
This not being like the armory well-known
To be the leavings of Laertes’ son
Consorting the design for Ilion;
Your eyes may see how much they are infected,
As all fires’ vapours ever since reflected
On those sole arms. Besides, a graver thought
Jove graves within you, lest, their spirits wrought
Above their pitch with wine, they might contend
At some high banquet, and to wounds transcend,
Their feast inverting; which, perhaps, may be
Their nuptial feast with wise Penelopé.
_The ready weapon, when the blood is up,
Doubles the uproar heighten’d by the cup.
Wrath’s means for act, curb all the ways ye can,
As loadstones draw the steel, so steel draws man._
Retain these words; nor what is good think, thus
Receiv’d at second hand, superfluous.”
The son, obeying, did Euryclea call,
And bade her shut in th’ utter porches all
The other women, till himself brought down
His father’s arms, which all were overgrown
By his neglect with rust, his father gone,
And he too-childish to spend thoughts upon
Those manly implements; but he would now
Reform those young neglects, and th’ arms bestow
Past reach of smoke. The loving nurse replied:
“I wish, O son, your pow’rs would once provide
For wisdom’s habit, see your household were
In thrifty manage, and tend all things there.
But if these arms must down, and ev’ry maid
Be shut in utter rooms, who else should aid
Your work with light?” He answer’d: “This my guest.
There shall no one in my house taste my feast,
Or join in my nave, that shall idly live,[1]
However far hence he his home derive.”
He said, and his words stood. The doors she shut
Of that so well-fill’d house. And th’ other put
Their thoughts in act; best shields, helms, sharpen’d lances,
Brought down; and Pallas before both advances
A golden cresset, that did cast a light
As if the Day sat in the throne of Night.
When, half-amaz’d, the prince said: “O my father,
Mine eyes my soul’s pow’rs all in wonder gather,
For though the walls, and goodly wind-beams here,
All all these pillars, that their heads so rear,
And all of fir, they seem yet all of fire.
Some God is surely with us.” His wise sire
Bade peace, and keep the counsels of the Gods,
Nor ask a word: “These Pow’rs, that use abodes
Above the stars, have pow’r from thence to shine
Through night and all shades to earth’s inmost mine.
Go thou for sleep, and leave me here to wake
The women, and the Queen whose heart doth ache
To make inquiry for myself of me.”
He went to sleep where lights did endlessly
Burn in his night-rooms; where he feasted rest,
Till day’s fair weed did all the world invest.
Thus was divine Ulysses left alone
With Pallas, plotting foul confusion
To all the Wooers. Forth then came the Queen;
Phœbe, with golden Cytherea seen,
Her port presented. Whom they set a chair
Aside the fire, the fashion circular,
The substance silver and rich elephant;
Whose fabric did the cunning finger vaunt
Of great Icmalius, who besides had done
A footstool for her that did suit her throne,
On which they cast an ample skin, to be
The cushion for her other royalty.
And there she sat; about whom came her maids,
Who brought upon a table store of breads,
And bowls that with the Wooers’ wine were crown’d.
The embers then they cast upon the ground
From out the lamps, and other fuel added,
That still with cheerful flame the sad house gladded.
Melantha seeing still Ulysses there,
Thus she held out her spleen: “Still, stranger, here?
Thus late in night? To see what ladies do?
Avaunt you, wretch, hence, go without doors, go;
And quickly, too, lest ye be singed away
With burning firebrands.” He, thus seeing their fray
Continued by her with such spleen, replied:
“Minion! What makes your angry blood thus chide
My presence still? Is it because you see
I shine not in your wanton bravery,
But wear these rags? It fits the needy fate
That makes me beg thus of the common state.
Such poor souls, and such beggars, yet are men;
And ev’n my mean means means had to maintain
A wealthy house, and kept a manly press,
Was counted blessed, and the poor access
Of any beggar did not scorn, but feed,
With often hand, and any man of need
Reliev’d as fitted; kept my servants, too,
Not few, but did with those additions go
That call choice men _The Honest_, who are styl’d
The rich, the great. But what such great ones build
Jove oft pulls down, as thus he ruin’d me;
His will was such, which is his equity.
And therefore, woman, bear you fitting hand
On your behaviour, lest your spirit thus mann’d,
And cherish’d with your beauties, when they wane,
Comes down, your pride now being then your bane;
And in the mean space shun the present danger,
Lest your bold fashion breed your sov’reign’s anger,
Or lest Ulysses come, of whom ev’n yet
Hope finds some life in Fate. Or, be his seat
Amongst the merely ruin’d, yet his son,
Whose life’s heat Phœbus saves, is such a one
As can discover who doth well deserve
Of any woman here his years now serve.”
The Queen gave ear, and thus suppress’d the flame:
“Thou quite without a brow, past female shame,
I hear thy monstrous boldness, which thy head
Shall pay me pains for. Thou hast heard it said,
And from myself too, and ev’ry part
Thy knowledge serves thee, that, to ease my heart
So punish’d in thy witness, my desire
Dwelt on this stranger, that I might inquire
My lost friend’s being. But ’tis ever tried,
_Both man and God are still forgot with pride._
Eurynomé, bring here this guest a seat,
And cushion on it, that we two may treat
Of the affair in question. Set it near,
That I may softly speak, yet he well hear.”
She did this little freely; and he sat
Close by the Queen, who ask’d him, Whence, and what
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 pow’rful 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,
Used 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 ruinéd
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’ rev’rend 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 Aethon. 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 havens that sacred to Lucina were,
Dreadful and dang’rous, 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
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 saft.
When she had giv’n 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 fore skirts, 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 ev’ry 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 curléd 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 out 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 abhorréd 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 Phæacian 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 flood of wit
Bore glorious top, and all the world for it
Hath far exceeded. All this Phædon 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 rev’rend 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
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 lovéd 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 sov’reign 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 sov’reign’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 ev’n 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 driven to proof,
Long time ere this, what such a royal roof
Would yield his mis’ries, 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 rev’rence too;
Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth
Of your distresses, and past show of truth;[2]
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 observance; so right your eye
Proves in your soul your judging faculty.”
Thus took she up a caldron 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 sov’reign’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 liv’d 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 lovéd 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[3]
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 ev’ry part
Divided orderly. So all the day
They spent 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 rac’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 rev’rend mother took with joys entire,
Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave
In good relation, nor of all would save
His wound from utt’rance; 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 caldron fell
His weighty foot, that made the brass resound,
Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewéd 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 warméd 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 lov’d 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 ev’ry 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 lovéd son,
By Zethus’ issue in his madness done
To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan,
And draws the ears to her of ev’ry 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 chuse
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, me thought, 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,
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 glitt’ring 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’ bow;
Which he that eas’ly 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-naméd, 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.