_Ω._
The uproar’s fire,
The people’s fall:
The grandsire, sire,
And son, to all.
Cyllenian Hermes, with his golden rod,
The Wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode
Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout
Forth to th’ Infernals; who came murmuring out.
And as amidst the desolate retreat
Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat
Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings
Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings,
But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise
And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise
About the cavern; so these, grumbling, rose
And flock’d together. Down before them goes
None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways,
And straight to those straits; where the ocean stays
His lofty current in calm deeps, they flew,
Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew,
And to the close of Phœbus’ orient gates,
The nation then of dreams, and then the states
Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead
Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead
Had habitable situatión.
And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son,
Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus,
And Ajax, the supremely strenuous
Of all the Greek host next Pelëion;
All which assembled about Maia’s son.
And to them, after, came the mournful ghost
Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost
In false Ægisthus’ court. Achilles then
Beholding there that mighty king of men,
Deplor’d his plight, and said: “O Atreus’ son!
Of all heroës, all opinion
Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command
Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand
At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so.
And is the issue this, that first in woe
Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down?
_None borne past others’ Fates can pass his own._
I wish to heav’n that in the height of all
Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall,
That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee
A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see
Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end!
But now a wretched death did Fate extend
To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.”
“O Thetis’ son,” said he, “the vital flame
Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields,
The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields.
About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy
Were sacrific’d to slaughter. Thy just joy
Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot
In such a death as great Apollo shot
At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay
Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way
With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state
Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate.
All day we fought about thee; nor at all
Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall
A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet.
But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet,
Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid
Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid
The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease,
Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase.
Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas
That started up thy mother from the waves;
And all the márine Godheads left their caves,
Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair.
The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air
And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense,
Had taken ship and fled for ever thence,
If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d
Their rushing off; his counsels having sway’d
In all times former with such cause their courses;
Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces,
For all they saw was Thetis come from sea,
With others of the wat’ry progeny,
To see and mourn for her deceaséd son.
Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won;
And round about thee stood th’ old sea-God’s Seeds
Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds
Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine
Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine,
By varied turns their heav’nly voices venting,
All in deep passion for thy death consenting.
And then of all our army not an eye
You could have seen undrown’d in misery,
The moving Muse so rul’d in ev’ry mind.
Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d
To celebration of thy mournéd end;
Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend.
The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap
Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep
We slew past number. Then the precious spoil,
Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil
And pleasant honey we embalm’d, and then
Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the Gods did rain.
In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame;
To which a number of heroical name,
As prest to sacrifice their vital right
To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d.
Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d
In infinite tumult. But when all the night
The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite
Thy body was with the enamour’d fire:
We came in early morn, and an entire
Collection made of ev’ry ivory bone;
Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fit unctión,
A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave,
By Bacchus giv’n her and did form receive
From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d
Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d
Mix’d with the bones of Menœtiades
And brave Antilochus; who, in decease
Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear.
About thee then a matchless sepulchre
The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d
Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d,
For height and conspicuity, the eyes
Of living men and their posterities.
Thy mother then obtain’d the Gods’ consent
To institute an honour’d game, that spent
The best approvement of our Grecian fames.
In whose praise I must say that many games
About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes
Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize
With miracles to me from all before.
In which thy silver-footed mother bore
The institution’s name, but thy deserts,
Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts.
And thus, through all the worst effects of Fate,
Achilles’ fame ev’n Death shall propagate.
While anyone shall lend the light an eye
Divine Æacides shall never die.
But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d
As rights to me? When, having quite achiev’d
An end with safety, and with conquest, too,
Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do
Of all our enemies there, at home a friend
And wife have giv’n me inglorious end?”
While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy
Brought-near Ulysses’ noble victory
To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends
The Wooers’ suffer’d, and show’d those his friends;
Whom now amaze invaded with the view
And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew
Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon,
Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown
To great Atrides; who first spake, and said:
“Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid
On your alive parts that hath made you make
This land of darkness the retreat you take,
So all together, all being like in years,
Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers
A city honours, men to make a part
More strong for any object? Hath your smart
Been felt from Neptune, being at sea—his wrath
The winds and waves exciting to your scathe?
Or have offensive men impos’d this fate—
Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate?
Or for your city fighting and your wives,
Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives?
Inform me truly. I was once your guest,
When I and Menelaus had profest
First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore
On Ithaca, with purpose to implore
Ulysses’ aid, that city-racing man,
In wreak of the adult’rous Phrygian.
Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date
We spent at sea, in hope to instigate
In our arrival old Laertes’ son,
Whom, hardly yet, to our design we won.”
The soul made answer: “Worthiest king of men,
I well remember ev’ry passage then
You now reduce to thought, and will relate
The truth in whole form of our timeless fate:
“We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king,
Who (though her second marriage were a thing
Of most hate to her) she would yet deny
At no part our affections, nor comply
With any in performance, but decreed,
In her delays, the cruel Fates we feed.
Her craft was this: She undertook to weave
A funeral garment destin’d to receive
The corse of old Laertes; being a task
Of infinite labour, and which time would ask.
In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay
With this attraction: ‘Youths, that come in way
Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord
Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board
My choice for present nuptials, and sustain,
Lest what is past me of this web be vain,
Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed
Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need
The old Laertes; who, possessing much,
Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch
My honour highly with each vulgar dame.’
Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame
All-day she labour’d, her day’s work not small,
But ev’ry night-time she unwrought it all.
Three years continuing this imperfect task;
But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask
In no more covert, since her trusted maid
Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d.
With which surpriz’d, she could no more protract
Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact
To what remain’d, wash’d-up, and set thereon
A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon
The whole work show’d together. And when now
Of mere necessity her honour’d vow
She must make good to us, ill-fortune brought
Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought
Of his arrival, but far-off at field
Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield
Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest,
Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profest.
At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand,
And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land,
When yet not home he went, but laid his way
Up to his herdsman where his father lay;
And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore
The swine-herd and his King, the swain before,
Telemachus in other ways bestow’d
His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d.
The swain the King led after, who came on
Raggéd and wretched, and still lean’d upon
A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home,
Where (on the sudden and so wretched come)
Nor we nor much our elders once did dream
Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme
Of words and blows to him; all which he bore
With that old patience he had learn’d before.
But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own,
His son and he fetch’d all their armour down,
Fast-lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use,
He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce
His bow to us to draw; of which no one
Could stir the string; himself yet set upon
The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease,
Shot through the steels, and then began to seize
Our armless bosoms; striking first the breast
Of king Antinous, and then the rest
In heaps turn’d over; hopeful of his end
Because some God, he knew, stood firm his friend.
Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood
The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood.
And thus our souls came here; our bodies laid
Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d
To any friend to take us home and give
Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live
Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed
Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.”
Atrides’ ghost gave answer: “O bless’d son
Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won
With mighty virtue thy unmatchéd wife.
How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life,
Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid
Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid!
For which her virtues shall extend applause,
Beyond the circles frail mortality draws;
The deathless in this vale of death comprising
Her praise in numbers into infinites rising.
The daughter Tyndarus begat begot
No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot
That knit her spouse and her with murd’rous swords.
For which posterities shall put hateful words
To notes of her that all her sex defam’d,
And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.”
To this effect these these digressions made
In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade.
Ulysses and his son, now past the town,
Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown
By old Laertes’ labour, when, with cares
For his lost son, he left all court affairs,
And took to this rude upland; which with toil
He made a sweet and habitable soil;
Where stood a house to him; about which ran,
In turnings thick and labyrinthian,
Poor hovels, where his necessary men
That did those works (of pleasure to him then)
Might sit, and eat, and sleep. In his own house
An old Sicilian dame liv’d, studious
To serve his sour age with her cheerful pains.
Then said Ulysses to his son and swains:
“Go you to town, and for your dinner kill
The best swine ye can choose; myself will still
Stay with my father, and assay his eye
If my acknowledg’d truth it can descry,
Or that my long time’s travel doth so change
My sight to him that I appear as strange.”
Thus gave he arms to them, and home they hied.
Ulysses to the fruitful field applied
His present place; nor found he Dolius there,
His sons, or any servant, anywhere
In all that spacious ground; all gone from thence
Were dragging bushes to repair a fence,
Old Dolius leading all. Ulysses found
His father far above in that fair ground,
Employ’d in proining of a plant; his weeds
All torn and tatter’d, fit for homely deeds,
But not for him. Upon his legs he wore
Patch’d boots to guard him from the bramble’s gore;
His hands had thorn-proof hedging mittens on;
His head a goat-skin casque; through all which shone
His heart giv’n over to abjectest moan.
Him when Ulysses saw consum’d with age,
And all the ensigns on him that the rage
Of grief presented, he brake out in tears;
And, taking stand then where a tree of pears
Shot high his forehead over him, his mind
Had much contention, if to yield to kind,
Make straight way to his father, kiss, embrace,
Tell his return, and put on all the face
And fashion of his instant-told return;
Or stay th’ impulsion, and the long day burn
Of his quite loss giv’n in his father’s fear
A little longer, trying first his cheer
With some free dalliance, th’ earnest being so near.
This course his choice preferr’d, and forth he went.
His father then his aged shoulders bent
Beneath what years had stoop’d, about a tree
Busily digging: “O, old man,” said he,
“You want no skill to dress and deck your ground,
For all your plants doth order’d distance bound.
No apple, pear, or olive, fig; or vine,
Nor any plat or quarter you confine
To grass or flow’rs stands empty of your care,
Which shows exact in each peculiar;
And yet (which let not move you) you bestow
No care upon yourself, though to this show
Of outward irksomeness to what you are
You labour with an inward froward care,
Which is your age, that should wear all without
More neat and cherishing. I make no doubt
That any sloth you use procures your lord
To let an old man go so much abhorr’d
In all his weeds; nor shines there in your look
A fashion and a goodliness so took
With abject qualities to merit this
Nasty entreaty. Your resemblance is
A very king’s, and shines through this retreat.
You look like one that having wash’d and eat
Should sleep securely, lying sweet and neat.
_It is the ground of age, when cares abuse it,
To know life’s end, and, as ’tis sweet, so use it._
“But utter truth, and tell what lord is he
That rates your labour and your liberty?
Whose orchard is it that you husband thus?
Or quit me this doubt, for if Ithacus
This kingdom claims for his, the man I found
At first arrival here is hardly sound
Of brain or civil, not enduring stay
To tell nor hear me my inquiry out
Of that my friend, if still he bore about
His life and being, or were div’d to death,
And in the house of him that harboureth
The souls of men. For once he liv’d my guest;
My land and house retaining interest
In his abode there; where there sojourn’d none
As guest from any foreign region
Of more price with me. He deriv’d his race
From Ithaca, and said his father was
Laertes, surnam’d Arcesiades,
I had him home, and all the offices
Perform’d to him that fitted any friend,
Whose proof I did to wealthy gifts extend:
Seven talents gold; a bowl all-silver, set
With pots of flowers; twelve robes that had no pleat!
Twelve cloaks, or mantles, of delicious dye;
Twelve inner weeds; twelve suits of tapestry.
I gave him likewise women skill’d in use
Of loom and needle, freeing him to choose
Four the most fair.” His father, weeping, said:
“Stranger! The earth to which you are convey’d
Is Ithaca; by such rude men possess’d,
Unjust and insolent, as first address’d
To your encounter; but the gifts you gave
Were giv’n, alas! to the ungrateful grave.
If with his people, where you now arrive,
Your fate had been to find your friend alive,
You should have found like guest-rites from his hand,
Like gifts, and kind pass to your wishéd land.
But how long since receiv’d you for your guest
Your friend, my son, who was th’ unhappiest
Of all men breathing, if he were at all?
O born when Fates and ill-aspects let fall
A cruel influence for him! Far away
From friends and country destin’d to allay.
The sea-bred appetites, or, left ashore,
To be by fowls and upland monsters tore,
His life’s kind authors nor his wealthy wife
Bemoaning, as behov’d, his parted life,
Nor closing, as in honour’s course it lies
To all men dead, in bed his dying eyes.
But give me knowledge of your name and race.
What city bred you? Where the anchoring-place
Your ship now rides-at lies that shor’d you here
And where your men? Or, if a passenger
In other keels you came, who (giving land
To your adventures here, some other strand
To fetch in further course) have left to us
Your welcome presence?” His reply was thus:
“I am of Alybandé, where I hold
My name’s chief house, to much renown extoll’d.
My father Aphidantes, fam’d to spring
From Polypemon, the Molossian king.
My name Eperitus. My taking land
On this fair Isle was rul’d by the command
Of God or fortune, quite against consent
Of my free purpose, that in course was bent
For th’ isle Sicania. My ship is held
Far from the city, near an ample field.
And for Ulysses, since his pass from me
’Tis now five years. Unbless’d by destiny,
That all this time hath had the fate to err!
Though, at his parting, good birds did augur
His putting-off, and on his right hand flew,
Which to his passage my affection drew,
His spirit joyful; and my hope was now
To guest with him, and see his hand bestow
Rites of our friendship.” This a cloud of grief
Cast over all the forces of his life.
With both his hands the burning dust he swept
Up from the earth, which on his head he heapt,
And fetch’d a sigh as in it life were broke.
Which grieved his son, and gave so smart a stroke
Upon his nostrils with the inward stripe,
That up the vein rose there; and weeping ripe
He was to see his sire feel such woe
For his dissembled joy; which now let go,
He sprung from earth, embrac’d and kiss’d his sire,
And said: “O father! He of whom y’ enquire
Am I myself, that, from you twenty years,
Is now return’d. But do not break in tears,
For now we must not forms of kind maintain,
But haste and guard the substance. I have slain
All my wife’s Wooers, so revenging now
Their wrong so long time suffer’d. Take not you
The comfort of my coming then to heart
At this glad instant, but, in prov’d desert
Of your grave judgment, give moan glad suspense,
And on the sudden put this consequence
In act as absolute, as all time went
To ripening of your resolute assent.”
All this haste made not his staid faith so free
To trust his words; who said: “If you are he,
Approve it by some sign.” “This scar then see,”
Replied Ulysses, “giv’n me by the boar
Slain in Parnassus, I being sent before
By your’s and by my honour’d mother’s will,
To see your sire Autolycus fulfill
The gifts he vow’d at giving of my name.
I’ll tell you, too, the trees, in goodly frame
Of this fair orchard, that I ask’d of you
Being yet a child, and follow’d for your show
And name of ev’ry tree. You gave me then
Of fig-trees forty, apple-bearers ten,
Pear-trees thirteen, and fifty ranks of vine;
Each one of which a season did confine
For his best eating. Not a grape did grow
That grew not there, and had his heavy brow
When Jove’s fair daughters, the all ripening Hours,
Gave timely date to it.” This charg’d the pow’rs
Both of his knees and heart with such impression
Of sudden comfort, that it gave possession
Of all to Trance, the signs were all so true,
And did the love that gave them so renew.
He cast his arms about his son and sunk,
The circle slipping to his feet; so shrunk
Were all his age’s forces with the fire
Of his young love rekindled. The old sire
The son took up quite lifeless. But his breath
Again respiring, and his soul from death
His body’s pow’r recov’ring, out he cried,
And said: “O Jupiter! I now have tried
That still there live in heav’n rememb’ring Gods
Of men that serve them; though the periods
They set on their appearances are long
In best men’s suff’rings, yet as sure as strong
They are in comforts, be their strange delays
Extended never so from days to days.
Yet see the short joys or the soon-mix’d fears
Of helps withheld by them so many years!
For if the Wooers now have paid the pain
Due to their impious pleasures, now again
Extreme fear takes me, lest we straight shall see
The Ithacensians here in mutiny,
Their messengers dispatch’d to win to friend
The Cephallenian cities.” “Do not spend
Your thoughts on these cares,” said his suff’ring son,
“But be of comfort, and see that course run
That best may shun the worst. Our house is near,
Telemachus and both his herdsmen there
To dress our supper with their utmost haste;
And thither haste we.” This said, forth they past,
Came home, and found Telemachus at feast
With both his swains; while who had done, all drest
With baths and balms and royally array’d
The old king was by his Sicilian maid.
By whose side Pallas stood, his crook’d-age straight’ning,
His flesh more plumping, and his looks enlight’ning.
Who issuing then to view, his son admir’d
The Gods’ aspects into his form inspir’d,
And said: “O father, certainly some God
By your addression in this state hath stood,
More great, more rev’rend, rend’ring you by far
At all your parts than of yourself you are!”
“I would to Jove,” said he, “the Sun, and She
That bears Jove’s shield, the state had stood with me
That help’d me take-in the well-builded tow’rs
Of strong Nericus (the Cephalian pow’rs
To that fair city leading) two days past,
While with the Wooers thy conflict did last,
And I had then been in the Wooers’ wreak!
I should have help’d thee so to render weak
Their stubborn knees, that in thy joy’s desert
Thy breast had been too little for thy heart.”
This said, and supper order’d by their men,
They sat to it; old Dolius ent’ring then,
And with him, tried with labour, his sons came,
Call’d by their mother, the Sicilian dame
That brought them up and dress’d their father’s fare,
As whose age grew, with it increas’d her care
To see him serv’d as fitted. When thus set
These men beheld Ulysses there at meat,
They knew him, and astonish’d in the place
Stood at his presence; who, with words of grace,
Call’d to old Dolius, saying: “Come and eat,
And banish all astonishment. Your meat
Hath long been ready, and ourselves made stay,
Expecting ever when your wishéd way
Would reach amongst us.” This brought fiercely on
Old Dolius from his stand; who ran upon,
With both his arms abroad, the King, and kiss’d
Of both his rapt up hands the either wrist,
Thus welcoming his presence: “O my love,
Your presence here, for which all wishes strove,
No one expected. Ev’n the Gods have gone
In guide before you to your mansión.
Welcome, and all joys to your heart contend.
Knows yet Penelope? Or shall we send
Some one to tell her this?” “She knows,” said he,
“What need these troubles, father, touch at thee?”
Then came the sons of Dolius, and again
Went over with their father’s entertain,
Welcom’d, shook hands, and then to feast sat down.
About which while they sat, about the town
Fame flew, and shriek’d about the cruel death
And fate the Wooers had sustain’d beneath
Ulysses’ roofs. All heard; together all
From hence and thence met in Ulysses’ hall,
Short-breath’d and noiseful, bore out all the dead
To instant burial, while their deaths were spread
To other neighbour cities where they liv’d,
From whence in swiftest fisher-boats arriv’d
Men to transfer them home. In mean space here
The heavy nobles all in council were;
Where, met in much heap, up to all arose
Extremely-griev’d Eupitheus so to lose
His son Antinous, who, first of all,
By great Ulysses’ hand had slaught’rous fall.
Whose father, weeping for him, said: “O friends,
This man hath author’d works of dismal ends,
Long since conveying in his guide to Troy
Good men, and many that did ships employ,
All which are lost, and all their soldiers dead;
And now the best men Cephallenia bred
His hand hath slaughter’d. Go we then (before
His ’scape to Pylos, or the Elians’ shore,
Where rule the Epeans) ’gainst his horrid hand;
For we shall grieve, and infamy will brand
Our fames for ever, if we see our sons
And brothers end in these confusions,
Revenge left uninflicted. Nor will I
Enjoy one day’s life more, but grieve and die
With instant onset. Nor should you survive
To keep a base and beastly name alive.
Haste, then, lest flight prevent us.” This with tears
His griefs advis’d, and made all sufferers
In his affliction. But by this was come
Up to the council from Ulysses’ home—
When sleep had left them, which the slaughters there
And their self-dangers from their eyes in fear
Had two nights intercepted—those two men
That just Ulysses sav’d out of the slain,
Which Medon and the sacred singer were.
These stood amidst the council; and the fear
The slaughter had impress’d in either’s look
Stuck still so ghastly, that amaze it strook
Through ev’ry there beholder. To whose ears
One thus enforc’d, in his fright, cause of theirs:
“Attend me, Ithacensians! This stern fact
Done by Ulysses was not put in act
Without the Gods’ assistance. These self eyes
Saw one of the immortal Deities
Close by Ulysses, Mentor’s form put on
At ev’ry part. And this sure Deity shone
Now near Ulysses, setting on his bold
And slaught’rous spirit, now the points controll’d
Of all the Wooers’ weapons, round about
The arm’d house whisking, in continual rout
Their party putting, till in heaps they fell.”
This news new fears did through their spirits impell,
When Halitherses (honour’d Mastor’s son,
Who of them all saw only what was done
Present and future) the much-knowing man
And aged heroë this plain course ran
Amongst their counsels: “Give me likewise ear,
And let me tell ye, friends, that these ills bear
On your malignant spleens their sad effects,
Who not what I persuaded gave respects,
Nor what the people’s pastor, Mentor, said,—
That you should see your issues’ follies stay’d
In those foul courses, by their petulant life
The goods devouring, scandalling the wife
Of no mean person, who, they still would say,
Could never more see his returning-day.
Which yet appearing now, now give it trust,
And yield to my free counsels: Do not thrust
Your own safe persons on the acts your sons
So dearly bought, lest their confusions
On your lov’d heads your like addictions draw.”
This stood so far from force of any law
To curb their loose attempts, that much the more
They rush’d to wreak, and made rude tumult roar.
The greater part of all the court arose;
Good counsel could not ill designs dispose.
Eupitheus was persuader of the course,
Which, cómplete-arm’d, they put in present force;
The rest sat still in council. These men met
Before the broad town, in a place they set
All girt in arms; Eupitheus choosing chief
To all their follies, who put grief to grief,
And in his slaughter’d son’s revenge did burn.
But Fate gave never feet to his return,
Ordaining there his death. Then Pallas spake
To Jove, her Father, with intent to make
His will high arbiter of th’ act design’d,
And ask’d of him what his unsearchéd mind
Held undiscover’d? If with arms, and ill,
And grave encounter he, would first fulfill
His sacred purpose, or both parts combine
In peaceful friendship? He ask’d: “Why incline
These doubts thy counsels? Hast not thou decreed
That Ithacus should come and give his deed
The glory of revenge on these and theirs?
Perform thy will; the frame of these affairs
Have this fit issue: When Ulysses’ hand
Hath reach’d full wreak, his then renown’d command
Shall reign for ever, faithful truces strook
’Twixt him and all; for ev’ry man shall brook
His sons’ and brothers’ slaughters; by our mean
To send Oblivion in, expunging clean
The character of enmity in them all,
As in best leagues before. _Peace, festival,
And riches in abundance, be the state
That crowns the close of wise Ulysses’ Fate.”_
This spurr’d the free, who from heav’n’s continent
To th’ Ithacensian isle made straight descent.
Where, dinner past, Ulysses said: “Some one
Look out to see their nearness.” Dolius’ son
Made present speed abroad, and saw them nigh,
Ran back, and told, bade arm; and instantly
Were all in arms. Ulysses’ part was four,
And six more sons of Dolius; all his pow’r
Two only more, which were his aged sire
And like-year’d Dolius, whose lives’-slak’d fire
All-white had left their heads, yet, driv’n by need,
Made soldiers both of necessary deed.
And now, all-girt in arms, the ports set wide,
They sallied forth, Ulysses being their guide;
And to them in the instant Pallas came,
In form and voice like Mentor, who a flame
Inspir’d of comfort in Ulysses’ heart
With her seen presence. To his son, apart,
He thus then spake: “Now, son, your eyes shall see,
Expos’d in slaught’rous fight, the enemy,
Against whom who shall best serve will be seen.
Disgrace not then your race, that yet hath been
For force and fortitude the foremost tried
Of all earth’s offsprings.” His true son replied:
“Yourself shall see, lov’d father, if you please,
That my deservings shall in nought digress
From best fame of our race’s foremost merit.”
The old king sprung for joy to hear his spirit,
And said: “O lov’d Immortals, what a day
Do your clear bounties to my life display!
I joy, past measure, to behold my son
And nephew close in such contention
Of virtues martial.” Pallas, standing near,
Said: “O my friend! Of all supremely dear,
Seed of Arcesius, pray to Jove and Her
That rules in arms, his daughter, and a dart,
Spritefully brandish’d, hurl at th’ adverse part.”
This said, he pray’d; and she a mighty force
Inspir’d within him, who gave instant course
To his brave-brandish’d lance, which struck the brass
That cheek’d Eupitheus’ casque, and thrust his pass
Quite through his head; who fell, and sounded falling,
His arms the sound again from earth recalling.
Ulysses and his son rush’d on before,
And with their both-way-headed darts did gore
Their enemies’ breasts so thick, that all had gone
The way of slaughter, had not Pallas thrown
Her voice betwixt them, charging all to stay
And spare expense of blood. Her voice did fray
The blood so from their faces that it left
A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft
Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth;
And to the common mother of their birth,
The city, all fled, in desire to save
The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave
A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew
In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw
His smoking lightning ’twixt them, that had fall
Before Minerva, who then out did call
Thus to Ulysses: “Born of Jove! Abstain
From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain
Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee.
Abstain, then, lest you move the Deity.”
Again then, ’twixt both parts the Seed of Jove,
Athenian Pallas, of all future love
A league compos’d, and for her form took choice
Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.