Odyssey

He said; and silence all their tongues contain'd,

In admiration, when with pleasure chain'd

Their ears had long been to him. At last brake

Alcinous silence, and in this sort spake

To th' Ithacensian, Laertes' son:

"O Ithacus! However over-run

With former suff'rings in your way for home,

Since 'twas, at last, your happy fate to come

To my high-roof'd and brass-foundation'd house,

I hope, such speed and pass auspicious

Our loves shall yield you, that you shall no more

Wander, nor suffer, homewards, as before.

You then, whoever that are ever grac'd

With all choice of authoriz'd pow'r to taste

Such wine with me as warms the sacred rage,

And is an honorary giv'n to age,

With which ye likewise hear divinely sing,

In honour's praise, the poet of the king,

I move, by way of my command, to this:

That where in an elaborate chest there lies

A present for our guest, attires of price,

And gold engrav'n with infinite device,

I wish that each of us should add beside

A tripod, and a caldron, amplified

With size, and metal of most rate, and great;

For we, in council of taxation met,

Will from our subjects gain their worth again;

Since 'tis unequal one man should sustain

A charge so weighty, being the grace of all,

Which borne by many is a weight but small."

Thus spake Alcinous, and pleas'd the rest;

When each man clos'd with home and sleep his feast.

But when the colour-giving light arose,

All to the ship did all their speeds dispose,

And wealth, that honest men makes, brought with them.

All which ev'n he that wore the diadem

Stow'd in the ship himself, beneath the seats

The rowers sat in, stooping, lest their lets

In any of their labours he might prove.

Then home he turn'd, and after him did move

The whole assembly to expected feast.

Among whom he a sacrifice addrest,

And slew an ox, to weather-wielding Jove,

Beneath whose empire all things are, and move.

The thighs then roasting, they made glorious cheer

Delighted highly; and amongst them there

The honour'd-of-the-people us'd his voice,

Divine Demodocus. Yet, through this choice

Of cheer and music, had Ulysses still

An eye directed to the Eastern hill,

To see Him rising that illustrates all;

For now into his mind a fire did fall

Of thirst for home. And as in hungry vow

To needful food a man at fixéd plow

(To whom the black ox all day long hath turn'd

The stubborn fallows up, his stomach burn'd

With empty heat and appetite to food,

His knees afflicted with his spirit-spent blood)

At length the long-expected sunset sees,

That he may sit to food, and rest his knees;

So to Ulysses set the friendly light

The sun afforded, with as wish'd a sight.

Who straight bespake that oar-affecting State,

But did in chief his speech appropriate

To him by name, that with their rule was crown'd.

"Alcinous, of all men most renown'd,

Dismiss me with as safe pass as you vow

(Your off'ring past) and may the Gods to you

In all contentment use as full a hand;

For now my landing here and stay shall stand

In all perfection with my heart's desire,

Both my so safe deduction to aspire,

And loving gifts; which may the Gods to me

As blest in use make as your acts are free,

Ev'n to the finding firm in love, and life,

With all desir'd event, my friends, and wife.

When, as myself shall live delighted there,

May you with your wives rest as happy here,

Your sons and daughters, in particular state,

With ev'ry virtue render'd consummate;

And, in your gen'ral empire, may ill never

Approach your land, but good your good quit ever."

This all applauded, and all jointly cried:

"Dismiss the stranger! He hath dignified

With fit speech his dismission." Then the king

Thus charg'd the herald: "Fill for offering

A bowl of wine; which through the whole large house

Dispose to all men, that, propitious

Our father Jove made with our pray'rs, we may

Give home our guest in full and wishéd way."

This said, Pontonous commix'd a bowl

Of such sweet wine as did delight the soul.

Which making sacred to the blessed Gods,

That hold in broad heav'n their supreme abodes,

God-like Ulysses from his chair arose,

And in the hands of th' empress did impose

The all-round cup; to whom, fair spoke, he said:

"Rejoice, O queen, and be your joys repaid

By heav'n, for me, till age and death succeed;

Both which inflict their most unwelcome need

On men and dames alike. And, first, for me,

I must from hence, to both: Live you here free,

And ever may all living blessings spring,

Your joy in children, subjects, and your king."

This said, divine Ulysses took his way;

Before whom the unalterable sway

Of king Alcinous' virtue did command

A herald's fit attendance to the strand,

And ship appointed. With him likewise went

Handmaids, by Arete's injunction sent.

One bore an out and in-weed, fair and sweet,

The other an embroider'd cabinet,

The third had bread to bear, and ruddy wine;

All which, at sea and ship arriv'd, resign

Their freight conferr'd. With fair attendants then,

The sheets and bedding of the man of men,

Within a cabin of the hollow keel,

Spread, and made soft, that sleep might sweetly seel

His restful eyes, he enter'd, and his bed

In silence took. The rowers orderéd

Themselves in sev'ral seats, and then set gone

The ship, the gable from the hollow stone

Dissolv'd and weigh'd-up, all, together, close

Then beat the sea. His lids in sweet repose

Sleep bound so fast, it scarce gave way to breath

Inexcitable, most dear, next of all to death.

And as amids a fair field four brave horse

Before a chariot stung into their course

With fervent lashes of the smarting scourge,

That all their fire blows high, and makes them urge

To utmost speed the measure of their ground;

So bore the ship aloft her fiery bound;

About whom rush'd the billows black and vast,

In which the sea-roars burst. As firm as fast

She ply'd her course yet; nor her wingéd speed

The falcon-gentle could for pace exceed;

So cut she through the waves, and bore a man

Even with the Gods in counsels, that began

And spent his former life in all misease,

Battles of men, and rude waves of the seas,

Yet now securely slept, forgetting all.

And when heav'n's brightest star, that first doth call

The early morning out, advanc'd her head,

Then near to Ithaca the billow-bred

Phræcian ship approach'd. There is a port,

That th' aged sea-God Phorcys makes his fort,

Whose earth the Ithacensian people own,

In which two rocks inaccessible are grown

Far forth into the sea, whose each strength binds

The boist'rous waves in from the high-flown winds

On both the out-parts so, that all within

The well-built ships, that once their harbour win

In his calm bosom, without anchor rest,

Safe, and unstirr'd. From forth the haven's high crest

Branch the well-brawn'd arms of an olive-tree;

Beneath which runs a cave from all sun free,

Cool, and delightsome, sacred to th' access

Of Nymphs whose surnames are the Naiadés;

In which flew humming bees, in which lay thrown

Stone cups, stone vessels, shittles all of stone,

With which the Nymphs their purple mantles wove,

In whose contexture art and wonder strove;

In which pure springs perpetually ran;

To which two entries were; the one for man,

On which the North breath'd; th' other for the Gods,

On which the South; and that bore no abodes

For earthy men, but only deathless feet

Had there free way. This port these men thought meet

To land Ulysses, being the first they knew,

Drew then their ship in, but no further drew

Than half her bulk reach'd, by such cunning hand

Her course was manag'd. Then her men took land,

And first brought forth Ulysses, bed, and all

That richly furnish'd it, he still in thrall

Of all-subduing sleep. Upon the sand

They set him softly down; and then the strand

They strew'd with all the goods he had, bestow'd

By the renown'd Phæacians, since he show'd

So much Minerva. At the olive root

They drew them then in heap, most far from foot

Of any traveller, lest, ere his eyes

Resum'd their charge, they might be others' prise.

These then turn'd home; nor was the sea's Supreme

Forgetful of his threats, for Polypheme

Bent at divine Ulysses, yet would prove

(Ere their performance) the decree of Jove.

"Father! no more the Gods shall honour me,

Since men despise me, and those men that see

The light in lineage of mine own lov'd race.

I vow'd Ulysses should, before the grace

Of his return, encounter woes enow

To make that purchase dear; yet did not vow

Simply against it, since thy brow had bent

To his reduction, in the fore-consent

Thou hadst vouchsaf'd it; yet, before my mind

Hath full pow'r on him, the Phæacians find

Their own minds' satisfaction with his pass,

So far from suff'ring what my pleasure was,

That ease and softness now is habited

In his secure breast, and his careless head

Return'd in peace of sleep to Ithaca,

The brass and gold of rich Phæacia

Rocking his temples, garments richly wov'n,

And worlds of prise, more than was ever strov'n

From all the conflicts he sustain'd at Troy,

If safe he should his full share there enjoy."

The Show'r-dissolver answer'd: "What a speech

Hath pass'd thy palate, O thou great in reach

Of wrackful empire! Far the Gods remain

From scorn of thee, for 'twere a work of pain

To prosecute with ignominies one

That sways our ablest and most ancient throne.

For men, if any so beneath in pow'r

Neglect thy high will, now, or any hour

That moves hereafter, take revenge to thee,

Soothe all thy will, and be thy pleasure free."

"Why then," said he, "thou blacker of the fumes

That dim the sun, my licens'd pow'r resumes

Act from thy speech; but I observe so much

And fear thy pleasure, that, I dare not touch

At any inclination of mine own,

Till thy consenting influence be known.

But now this curious-built Phæacian ship,

Returning from her convoy, I will strip

Of all her fleeting matter, and to stone

Transform and fix it, just when she hath gone

Her full time home, and jets before their prease

In all her trim, amids the sable seas,

That they may cease to convoy strangers still,

When they shall see so like a mighty hill

Their glory stick before their city's grace,

And my hands cast a mask before her face."

"O friend," said Jove, "it shows to me the best

Of all earth's objects, that their whole prease, drest

In all their wonder, near their town shall stand,

And stare upon a stone, so near the land,

So like a ship, and dam up all their lights,

As if a mountain interpos'd their sights."

When Neptune heard this, he for Scheria went,

Whence the Phæacians took their first descent.

Which when he reach'd, and, in her swiftest pride,

The water-treader by the city's side

Came cutting close, close he came swiftly on,

Took her in violent hand, and to a stone

Turn'd all her sylvan substance; all below

Firm'd her with roots, and left her. This strange show

When the Phæacians saw, they stupid stood,

And ask'd each other, who amids the flood

Could fix their ship so in her full speed home,

And quite transparent make her bulk become?

Thus talk'd they; but were far from knowing how

These things had issue. Which their king did show,

And said: "O friends, the ancient prophecies

My father told to me, to all our eyes

Are now in proof. He said, the time would come,

When Neptune, for our safe conducting home

All sorts of strangers, out of envy fir'd,

Would meet our fairest ship as she retir'd,

And all the goodly shape and speed we boast

Should like a mountain stand before us lost

Amids the moving waters; which we see

Perform'd in full end to our prophecy.

Hear then my counsel, and obey me then:

Renounce henceforth our convoy home of men,

Whoever shall hereafter greet our town;

And to th' offended Deity's renown

Twelve chosen oxen let us sacred make,

That he may pity us, and from us take

This shady mountain." They, in fear, obey'd,

Slew all the beeves, and to the Godhead pray'd,

The dukes and princes all ensphering round

The sacred altar; while whose tops were crown'd,

Divine Ulysses, on his country's breast

Laid bound in sleep, now rose out of his rest,

Nor (being so long remov'd) the region knew.

Besides which absence yet, Minerva threw

A cloud about him, to make strange the more

His safe arrival, lest upon his shore

He should make known his face, and utter all

That might prevent th' event that was to fall.

Which she prepar'd so well, that not his wife,

Presented to him, should perceive his life,

No citizen, no friend, till righteous fate

Upon the Wooer's wrongs were consummate.

Through which cloud all things show'd now to the king

Of foreign fashion; the enflow'réd spring

Amongst the trees there, the perpetual waves,

The rocks, that did more high their foreheads raise

To his wrapt eye than naturally they did,

And all the haven, in which a man seem'd hid

From wind and weather, when storms loudest chid.

He therefore, being risen, stood and view'd

His country-earth; which, not perceiv'd, he rued,

And, striking with his hurl'd-down hands his thighs,

He mourn'd, and said: "O me! Again where lies

My desert way? To wrongful men and rude,

And with no laws of human right endued?

Or are they human, and of holy minds?

What fits my deed with these so many kinds

Of goods late giv'n? What with myself will floods

And errors do? I would to God, these goods

Had rested with their owners, and that I

Had fall'n on kings of more regality,

To grace out my return, that lov'd indeed,

And would have giv'n me consorts of fit speed

To my distresses' ending! But, as now

All knowledge flies me where I may bestow

My labour'd purchase, here they shall not stay,

Lest what I car'd for others make their prey.

O Gods! I see the great Phæacians then

Were not all just and understanding men,

That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended,

Assuring me my country should see ended

My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts.

O Jove! Great Guardian of poor suppliants,

That others sees, and notes too, shutting in

All in thy plagues that most presume on sin,

Revenge me on them. Let me number now

The goods they gave, to give my mind to know

If they have stol'n none in their close retreat."

The goodly caldrons then, and tripods, set

In sev'ral ranks from out the heap, he told,

His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold,

And nothing lack'd; and yet this man did mourn

The but suppos'd miss of his home-return,

And creeping to the shore with much complaint;

Minerva (like a shepherd, young, and quaint,

As king sons are, a double mantle cast

Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac'd

With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart)

Appear'd to him, whose sight rejoic'd his heart,

To whom he came, and said: "O friend! Since first

I meet your sight here, be all good the worst

That can join our encounter. Fare you fair,

Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,

But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.

As to a God I offer pray'rs to thee,

And low access make to thy lovéd knee.

Say truth, that I may know, what country then,

What common people live here, and what men?

Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,

Being near the sea, to some rich continent?"

She answer'd: "Stranger, whatsoe'er you are,

Y'are either foolish, or come passing far,

That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,

For 'tis not so exceedingly ignoble,

But passing many know it; and so many,

That of all nations there abides not any,

From where the morning rises and the sun,

To where the even and night their courses run,

But know this country. Rocky 'tis, and rough,

And so for use of horse unapt enough,

Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,

Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,

And flow'ry dews. The compass is not great,

The little yet well-fill'd with wine and wheat.

It feeds a goat and ox well, being still

Water'd with floods, that ever over-fill

With heav'n's continual show'rs; and wooded so,

It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.

And therefore, Stranger, the extended name

Of this dominion makes access by fame

From this extreme part of Achaia

As far as Ilion, and 'tis Ithaca."

This joy'd him much, that so unknown a land

Turn'd to his country. Yet so wise a hand

He carried, ev'n of this joy, flown so high,

That other end he put to his reply

Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad

His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow'd

A veil on truth; for evermore did wind

About his bosom a most crafty mind,

Which thus his words show'd: "I have far at sea,

In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,

Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,

With these my fortunes; whose whole value more

I left in Crete amongst my children there,

From whence I fly for being the slaughterer

Of royal Idomen's most-lovéd son,

Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run

Profess'd men for the race. Yet him I slew,

Because he would deprive me of my due

In Trojan prise; for which I suffer'd so

(The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe

Of mind and body in the wars of men.

Nor did I gratify his father then

With any service, but, as well as he

Sway'd in command of other soldiery,

So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,

When gloomy night the cope of heav'n did dim,

And no man knew; but, we lodg'd close, he came,

And I put out to him his vital flame.

Whose slaughter having author'd with my sword,

I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard

A ship of the renown'd Phœnician state;

When pray'r, and pay at a sufficient rate,

Obtain'd my pass of men in her command;

Whom I enjoin'd to set me on the land

Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,

Where the Epeïans in great empire shine.

But force of weather check'd that course to them,

Though (loth to fail me) to their most extreme

They spent their willing pow'rs. But, forc'd from thence,

We err'd, and put in here, with much expence

Of care and labour; and in dead of night,

When no man there serv'd any appetite

So much as with the memory of food,

Though our estates exceeding needy stood.

But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep

My weary pow'rs invaded, and from ship

They fetching these my riches, with just hand

About me laid them, while upon the sand

Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they

(Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,

Left sad alone." The Goddess laugh'd, and took

His hand in hers, and with another look

(Assuming then the likeness of a dame,

Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame

Of virtuous housewif'ries) she answer'd thus:

"He should be passing-sly, and covetous

Of stealth, in men's deceits, that coted thee

In any craft, though any God should be

Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.

Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate

In over-reaches! Not secure thy state

Without these wiles, though on thy native shore

Thou sett'st safe footing, but upon thy store

Of false words still spend, that ev'n from thy birth

Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth

Is known to either. Thou of men art far,

For words and counsels, the most singular,

But I above the Gods in both may boast

My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost

The knowledge ev'n of me, the Seed of Jove,

Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove

In all thy labours their extremes, and stood

Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good

Known to the good Phæacians, and receiv'd.

And now again I greet thee, to see weav'd

Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me

The close reserving of these goods for thee,

Which the renown'd Phæacian states bestow'd

At thy deduction homewards, only mov'd

With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace

I now will amplify, and tell what case

Thy household stands in, utt'ring all those pains

That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.

Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give

To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,

But silent suffer over all again

Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men."

"Goddess," said he, "unjust men, and unwise,

That author injuries and vanities,

By vanities and wrongs should rather be

Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,

Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav'n,

That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv'n

Up to all domage those poor few that strive

To imitate it, and like the Deities live?

But where you wonder that I know you not

Through all your changes, that skill is not got

By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face

Is still distinguish'd by thy free-giv'n grace;

And therefore, truly to acknowledge thee

In thy encounters, is a mastery

In men most-knowing; for to all men thou

Tak'st sev'ral likeness. All men think they know

Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view

Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few,

Through all thy changes to discern thee right

Asks chief love to thee, and inspiréd light.

But this I surely know, that, some years past,

I have been often with thy presence grac'd,

All time the sons of Greece wag'd war at Troy;

But when Fate's full hour let our swords enjoy

Our vows in sack of Priam's lofty town,

Our ships all boarded, and when God had blown

Our fleet in sunder, I could never see

The Seed of Jove, nor once distinguish thee

Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.

But only in my proper spirit involv'd,

Err'd here and there, quite slain, till heav'n dissolv'd

Me, and my ill; which chanc'd not, till thy grace

By open speech confirm'd me, in a place

Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou

Didst give me guide, and all their city show;

And that was the renown'd Phæacian earth.

Now then, ev'n by the Author of thy birth,

Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies

My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes

Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch

At some far shore, and that thy wit is such

Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same

Most honour'd earth that bears my country's name?"

"I see," said she, "thou wilt be ever thus

In ev'ry worldly good incredulous,

And therefore have no more the pow'r to see

Frail life more plagued with infelicity

In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.

Another man, that so long miseries

Had kept from his lov'd home, and thus return'd

To see his house, wife, children, would have burn'd

In headlong lust to visit. Yet t' inquire

What states they hold, affects not thy desire,

Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be

A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee

In loving tears, that then the sight may prove

A full reward for either's mutual love.

But I would never credit in you both

Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth

Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,

I knew as well, should make returnless ends;

Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so

To stand their safeguard, since so high did go

His wrath for thy extinction of the eye

Of his lov'd son. Come then, I'll show thee why

I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground

Thy credit on my words: This haven is own'd

By th' agéd sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow

This is the olive with the ample bough,

And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave

That to the Fount-Nymphs th' Ithacensians gave,

As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run

The large and cover'd den, where thou hast done

Hundreds of off'rings to the Naiades,

Here Mount Neritus shakes his curléd tress

Of shady woods." This said, she clear'd the cloud

That first deceiv'd his eyes; and all things show'd

His country to him. Glad he stood with sight

Of his lov'd soil, and kiss'd it with delight;

And instantly to all the Nymphs he paid

(With hands held up to heav'n) these vows, and said:

"Ye Nymphs the Naiades, great Seed of Jove,

I had conceit that never more should move

Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,

And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice

Of my heart's gratitude, rejoice, till more

I pay your names in off'rings as before;

Which here I vow, if Jove's benign descent,

The mighty Pillager, with life convent

My person home, and to my sav'd decease

Of my lov'd son's sight add the sweet increase."

"Be confident," said Pallas, "nor oppress

Thy spirits with care of these performances,

But these thy fortunes let us straight repose

In this divine cave's bosom, that may close

Reserve their value; and we then may see

How best to order other acts to thee."

Thus enter'd she the light-excluding cave,

And through it sought some inmost nook to save

The gold, the great brass, and robes richly-wrought,

Giv'n to Ulysses. All which in he brought,

Laid down in heap; and she impos'd a stone

Close to the cavern's mouth. Then sat they on

The sacred olive's root, consulting how

To act th' insulting Wooers' overthrow;

When Pallas said: "Examine now the means

That best may lay hands on the impudence

Of those proud Wooers, that have now three years

Thy roof's rule sway'd, and been bold offerers

Of suit and gifts to thy renownéd wife,

Who for thy absence all her desolate life

Dissolves in tears till thy desir'd return;

Yet all her Wooers, while she thus doth mourn,

She holds in hope, and ev'ry one affords

(In fore-sent message) promise; but her words

Bear other utt'rance than her heart approves."

"O Gods," said Ithacus, "it now behoves

My fate to end me in the ill decease

That Agamemnon underwent, unless

You tell me, and in time; their close intents.

Advise then means to the reveng'd events

We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind

To stand close to me, and but such a mind

Breathe in my bosom, as when th' Ilion tow'rs

We tore in cinders. O if equal pow'rs

Thou wouldst enflame amidst my nerves as then,

I could encounter with three hundred men,

Thy only self, great Goddess, had to friend,

In those brave ardors thou wert wont t' extend!"

"I will be strongly with thee," answer'd she,

"Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me.

When both whose pow'rs combine, I hope the bloods

And brains of some of these that waste thy goods

Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then:

I first will render thee unknown to men,

And on thy solid lineaments make dry

Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply

In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe

In such a cloak as ev'ry eye shall lothe;

Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change

Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange

To all the Wooers, thy young son, and wife.

But to thy herdsman first present thy life,

That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee,

That loves thy son and wife Penelopé.

Thy search shall find him set aside his herd,

That are with taste-delighting acorns rear'd,

And drink the dark-deep water of the spring,

Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing

Raiser of herds. There stay, and, taking seat

Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat

Of home-occurrents, while I make access

To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress

Of lov'd Telemachus, who went in quest

Of thy lov'd fame, and liv'd the welcome guest

Of Menelaus." The much-knower said:

"Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred

The art to order all acts, tell in this

His error to him? Let those years of his

Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain

The woes there raging, while unworthy men

Devour his fortunes?" "Let not care extend

Thy heart for him," said she, "myself did send

His person in thy search; to set his worth,

By good fame blown, to such a distance forth.

Nor suffers he in any least degree

The grief you fear, but all variety

That Plenty can yield in her quiet'st fare,

In Menelaus' court, doth sit and share.

In whose return from home, the Wooers yet

Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set

To sea, to intercept his life before

He touch again his birth's attempted shore.

All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do,

But rather, that the earth shall overgo

Some one at least of these love-making men,

By which thy goods so much impair sustain."

Thus using certain secret words to him,

She touch'd him with her rod; and ev'ry limb

Was hid all-over with a wither'd skin;

His bright eyes blear'd; his brow-curls white and thin;

And all things did an agéd man present.

Then, for his own weeds, shirt and coat, all-rent,

Tann'd, and all-sootiéd with noisome smoke,

She put him on; and, over all, a cloke

Made of a stag's huge hide, of which was worn

The hair quite off; a scrip, all-patch'd and torn,

Hung by a cord, oft broke and knit again;

And with a staff did his old limbs sustain.

Thus having both consulted of th' event,

They parted both; and forth to Sparta went

The gray-eyed Goddess, to see all things done

That appertain'd to wise Ulysses' son.