Odyssey

But he the rough way took from forth the port,

Through woods and hill-tops, seeking the resort

Where Pallas said divine Eumæus liv'd;

Who of the fortunes, that were first achiev'd

By God-like Ithacus in household rights,

Had more true care than all his prosylites.

He found him sitting in his cottage door,

Where he had rais'd to ev'ry airy blore

A front of great height, and in such a place

That round ye might behold, of circular grace

A walk so wound about it; which the swain

(In absence of his far-gone sovereign)

Had built himself, without his queen's supply,

Or old Laertes', to see safely lie

His houséd herd. The inner part he wrought

Of stones, that thither his own labours brought,

Which with an hedge of thorn he fenc'd about,

And compass'd all the hedge with pales cleft out

Of sable oak, that here and there he fix'd

Frequent and thick. Within his yard he mix'd

Twelve styes to lodge his herd; and ev'ry stye

Had room and use for fifty swine to lie;

But those were females all. The male swine slept

Without doors ever; nor was their herd kept

Fair like the females, since they suffer'd still

Great diminution, he being forc'd to kill

And send the fattest to the dainty feasts

Affected by th' ungodly wooing guests.

Their number therefore but three hundred were

And sixty. By them mastiffs, as austere

As savage beasts, lay ever, their fierce strain

Bred by the herdsman, a mere prince of men,

Their number four. Himself was then applied

In cutting forth a fair-hued ox's hide,

To fit his feet with shoes. His servants held

Guard of his swine: three, here and there, at field,

The fourth he sent to city with a sow,

Which must of force be offer'd to the vow

The Wooers made to all satiety,

To serve which still they did those off'rings ply.

The fate-born-dogs-to-bark took sudden view

Of Odyssëus, and upon him flew

With open mouth. He, cunning to appall

A fierce dog's fury, from his hand let fall

His staff to earth, and sat him careless down.

And yet to him had one foul wrong been shown

Where most his right lay, had not instantly

The herdsman let his hide fall, and his cry

(With frequent stones flung at the dogs) repell'd

This way and that their eager course they held;

When through the entry past, he thus did mourn:

"O father! How soon had you near been torn

By these rude dogs, whose hurt had branded me

With much neglect of you! But Deity

Hath giv'n so many other sighs and cares

To my attendant state, that well unwares

You might be hurt for me, for here I lie

Grieving and mourning for the Majesty

That, God-like, wonted to be ruling here,

Since now I fat his swine for others' cheer,

Where he, perhaps, errs hungry up and down,

In countries, nations, cities, all unknown;

If any where he lives yet, and doth see

The sun's sweet beams. But, father, follow me,

That, cheer'd with wine and food, you may disclose

From whence you truly are, and all the woes

Your age is subject to." This said, he led

Into his cottage, and of osiers spread

A thicken'd hurdle, on whose top he strow'd

A wild-goat's shaggy skin, and then bestow'd

His own couch on it, that was soft and great.

Ulysses joy'd to see him so entreat

His uncouth presence, saying: "Jove requite,

And all th' immortal Gods, with that delight

Thou most desir'st, thy kind receipt of me,

friend to human hospitality!"

Eumæus answer'd: "Guest! If one much worse

Arriv'd here than thyself, it were a curse

To my poor means, to let a stranger taste

Contempt for fit food. Poor men, and unplac'd

In free seats of their own, are all from Jove

Commended to our entertaining love.

But poor is th' entertainment I can give,

Yet free and loving. Of such men as live

The lives of servants, and are still in fear

Where young lords govern, this is all the cheer

They can afford a stranger. There was one

That us'd to manage this now desert throne,

To whom the Gods deny return, that show'd

His curious favour to me, and bestow'd

Possessions on me, a most-wishéd wife,

A house, and portion, and a servant's life,

Fit for the gift a gracious king should give;

Who still took pains himself, and God made thrive

His personal endeavour, and to me

His work the more increas'd, in which you see

I now am conversant. And therefore much

His hand had help'd me, had Heav'n's will been such,

He might have here grown old. But he is gone,

And would to God the whole successión

Of Helen might go with him, since for her

So many men died, whose fate did confer

My liege to Troy, in Agamemnon's grace,

To spoil her people, and her turrets race!"

This said, his coat to him he straight did gird,

And to his styes went that contain'd his herd;

From whence he took out two, slew both, and cut

Both fairly up; a fire enflam'd, and put

To spit the joints; which roasted well, he set

With spit and all to him, that he might eat

From thence his food in all the singeing heat,

Yet dredg'd it first with flour; then fill'd his cup

With good sweet wine; sat then, and cheer'd him up

"Eat now, my guest, such lean swine as are meat

For us poor swains; the fat the Wooers eat,

In whose minds no shame, no remorse, doth move,

Though well they know the bless'd Gods do not love

Ungodly actions, but respect the right,

And in the works of pious men delight.

But these are worse than impious, for those

That vow t' injustice, and profess them foes

To other nations, enter on their land,

And Jupiter (to show his punishing hand

Upon th' invaded, for their penance then)

Gives favour to their foes, though wicked men,

To make their prey on them; who, having freight

Their ships with spoil enough, weigh anchor straight,

And each man to his house; (and yet ev'n these,

Doth pow'rful fear of God's just vengeance seize

Ev'n for that prize in which they so rejoice)

But these men, knowing (having heard the voice

Of God by some means) that sad death hath reft

The ruler here, will never suffer left

Their unjust wooing of his wife, nor take

Her often answer, and their own roofs make

Their fit retreats, but (since uncheck'd they may)

They therefore will make still his goods their prey,

Without all spare or end. There is no day,

Nor night, sent out from God, that ever they

Profane with one beast's blood, or only two,

But more make spoil of; and the wrongs they do

In meat's excess to wine as well extend,

Which as excessively their riots spend,

Yet still leave store, for sure his means were great,

And no heroë, that hath choicest seat

Upon the fruitful neighbour-continent,

Or in this isle itself, so opulent

Was as Ulysses; no, nor twenty such,

Put altogether, did possess so much.

Whose herds and flocks I'll tell to ev'ry head:

Upon the continent he daily fed

Twelve herds of oxen, no less flocks of sheep,

As many herds of swine, stalls large and steep,

And equal sorts of goats, which tenants there,

And his own shepherds, kept. Then fed he here

Eleven fair stalls of goats, whose food hath yield

In the extreme part of a neighbour-field.

Each stall his herdsman hath, an honest swain,

Yet ev'ry one must ev'ry day sustain

The load of one beast (the most-fat, and best

Of all the stall-fed) to the Wooers' feast.

And I, for my part, of the swine I keep

(With four more herdsmen) ev'ry day help steep

The Wooers' appetites in blood of one,

The most select our choice can fall upon."

To this Ulysses gave good ear, and fed,

And drunk his wine, and vex'd, and ravishéd

His food for mere vexation. Seeds of ill

His stomach sow'd, to hear his goods go still

To glut of Wooers. But his dinner done,

And stomach fed to satisfactión,

He drunk a full bowl, all of only wine,

And gave it to the guardian of his swine,

Who took it, and rejoic'd; to whom he said:

"O friend, who is it that, so rich, hath paid

Price for thy service, whose commended pow'r,

Thou sayst, to grace the Grecian conquerour,

At Ilion perish'd? Tell me. It may fall

I knew some such. The great God knows, and all

The other deathless Godheads, if I can,

Far having travell'd, tell of such a man."

Eumæus answer'd: "Father, never one,

Of all the strangers that have touch'd upon

This coast, with his life's news could ever yet

Of queen, or lov'd son, any credit get.

These travellers, for clothes, or for a meal,

At all adventures, any lie will tell.

Nor do they trade for truth. Not any man

That saw the people Ithacensian,

Of all their sort, and had the queen's supplies,

Did ever tell her any news, but lies.

She graciously receives them yet, inquires

Of all she can, and all in tears expires.

It is th' accustom'd law, that women keep,

Their husbands elsewhere dead, at home to weep.

But do thou quickly, father, forge a tale,

Some coat, or cloak, to keep thee warm withal,

Perhaps some one may yield thee; but for him,

Vultures and dogs have torn from ev'ry limb

His porous skin, and forth his soul is fled,

His corse at sea to fishes forfeited,

Or on the shore lies hid in heaps of sand,

And there hath he his ebb, his native strand

With friends' tears flowing. But to me past all

Were tears created, for I never shall

Find so humane a royal master more,

Whatever sea I seek, whatever shore.

Nay, to my father, or my mother's love

Should I return, by whom I breathe and move,

Could I so much joy offer; nor these eyes

(Though my desires sustain extremities

For their sad absence) would so fain be blest

With sight of their lives, in my native nest,

As with Ulysses dead; in whose last rest,

O friend, my soul shall love him. He's not here

Nor do I name him like a flatterer,

But as one thankful for his love and care

To me a poor man; in the rich so rare.

And be he past all shores where sun can shine,

I will invoke him as a soul divine."

"O friend," said he, "to say, and to believe,

He cannot live, doth too much licence give

To incredulity; for, not to speak

At needy randon, but my breath to break

In sacred oath, Ulysses shall return.

And when his sight recomforts those that mourn

In his own roofs, then give me cloak, and coat,

And garments worthy of a man of note.

Before which, though need urg'd me never so,

I'll not receive a thread, but naked go.

No less I hate him than the gates of hell,

That poorness can force an untruth to tell.

Let Jove then (Heav'n's chief God) just witness bear,

And this thy hospitable table here,

Together with unblam'd Ulysses' house,

In which I find receipt so gracious,

What I affirm'd of him shall all be true.

This instant year thine eyes ev'n here shall view

Thy lord Ulysses. Nay, ere this month's end,

Return'd full-home, he shall revenge extend

To ev'ry one, whose ever deed hath done

Wrong to his wife and his illustrious son."

"O father," he replied, "I'll neither give

Thy news reward, nor doth Ulysses live.

But come, enough of this, let's drink and eat,

And never more his memory repeat.

It grieves my heart to be remember'd thus

By anyone of one so glorious.

But stand your oath in your assertion strong,

And let Ulysses come, for whom I long,

For whom his wife, for whom his agéd sire,

For whom his son consumes his god-like fire,

Whose chance I now must mourn, and ever shall.

Whom when the Gods had brought to be as tall

As any upright plant, and I had said,

He would amongst a court of men have sway'd

In counsels, and for form have been admir'd

Ev'n with his father, some God misinspir'd,

Or man took from him his own equal mind,

And pass'd him for the Pylian shore to find

His long-lost father. In return from whence,

The Wooers' pride way-lays his innocence,

That of divine Arcesius all the race

May fade to Ithaca, and not the grace

Of any name left to it. But leave we

His state, however, if surpris'd he be,

Or if he scape. And may Saturnius' hand

Protect him safely to his native land.

Do thou then, father, show your griefs, and cause

Of your arrival here; nor break the laws

That truth prescribes you, but relate your name,

And of what race you are, your father's fame,

And native city's; ship and men unfold,

That to this isle convey'd you, since I hold

Your here arrival was not all by shore,

Nor that your feet your agéd person bore."

He answer'd him: "I'll tell all strictly true,

If time, and food, and wine enough, accrue

Within your roof to us, that freely we

May sit and banquet. Let your business be

Discharg'd by others; for, when all is done,

I cannot easily, while the year doth run

His circle round, run over all the woes,

Beneath which, by the course the Gods dispose,

My sad age labours. First, I'll tell you then,

From ample Crete I fetch my native strain;

My father wealthy, whose house many a life

Brought forth and bred besides by his true wife,

But me a bond-maid bore, his concubine.

Yet tender'd was I as his lawful line

By him of whose race I my life profess.

Castor his name, surnam'd Hylacides.

A man, in fore-times, by the Cretan state,

For goods, good children, and his fortunate

Success in all acts, of no mean esteem.

But death-conferring Fates have banish'd him

To Pluto's kingdom. After whom, his sons

By lots divided his possessions,

And gave me passing little; yet bestow'd

A house on me, to which my virtues woo'd

A wife from rich men's roofs; nor was borne low,

Nor last in fight, though all nerves fail me now.

But I suppose, that you, by thus much seen,

Know by the stubble what the corn hath been.

For, past all doubt, affliction past all mean

Hath brought my age on; but, in seasons past,

Both Mars and Pallas have with boldness grac'd,

And fortitude, my fortunes, when I chus'd

Choice men for ambush, prest to have produc'd

Ill to mine enemies; my too vent'rous spirit

Set never death before mine eyes, for merit,

But, far the first advanc'd still, still I strook

Dead with my lance whoever overtook

My speed of foot. Such was I then for war.

But rustic actions ever fled me far,

And household thrift, which breeds a famous race.

In oar-driv'n ships did I my pleasures place,

In battles, light darts, arrows. Sad things all,

And into others' thoughts with horror fall.

But what God put into my mind, to me

I still esteem'd as my felicity.

As men of sev'ral metals are address'd,

So sev'ral forms are in their souls impress'd.

Before the sons of Greece set foot in Troy,

Nine times, in chief, I did command enjoy

Of men and ships against our foreign foe,

And all I fitly wish'd succeeded so.

Yet, after this, I much exploit achiev'd,

When straight my house in all possessions thriv'd.

Yet, after that, I great and rev'rend grew

Amongst the Cretans, till the Thund'rer drew

Our forces out in his foe-Troy decrees;

A hateful service that dissolv'd the knees

Of many a soldier. And to this was I,

And famous Idomen, enjoin'd t' apply

Our ships and pow'rs, Nor was there to be heard

One reason for denial, so preferr'd

Was the unreasonable people's rumour.

Nine years we therefore fed the martial humour,

And in the tenth, de-peopling Priam's town,

We sail'd for home. But God had quickly blown

Our fleet in pieces; and to wretched me

The counsellor Jove did much mishap decree,

For, only one month, I had leave t' enjoy

My wife and children, and my goods t' employ.

But, after this, my mind for Ægypt stood,

When nine fair ships I rigg'd forth for the flood,

Mann'd them with noble soldiers, all things fit

For such a voyage soon were won to it.

Yet six days after stay'd my friends in feast,

While I in banquets to the Gods addrest

Much sacred matter for their sacrifice.

The seventh, we boarded; and the Northern skies

Lent us a frank and passing prosp'rous gale,

'Fore which we bore us free and easy sail

As we had back'd a full and frolic tide;

Nor felt one ship misfortune for her pride,

But safe we sat, our sailors and the wind

Consenting in our convoy. When heav'n shin'd

In sacred radiance of the fifth fair day,

To sweetly-water'd Egypt reach'd our way,

And there we anchor'd; where I charg'd my men

To stay aboard, and watch. Dismissing then

Some scouts to get the hill-tops, and discover,

They (to their own intemperance giv'n over).

Straight fell to forage the rich fields, and thence

Enforce both wives and infants, with th' expence

Of both their bloods. When straight the rumour flew

Up to the city. Which heard, up they drew

By day's First break, and all the field was fill'd

With foot and horse, whose arms did all things gild.

And then the lightning-loving Deity cast

A foul flight on my soldiers; nor stood fast

One man of all. About whom mischief stood,

And with his stern steel drew in streams the blood

The greater part fed in their dissolute veins;

The rest were sav'd, and made enthralléd swains

To all the basest usages there bred.

And then, ev'n Jove himself supplied my head

With saving counsel; though I wish'd to die,

And there in Egypt with their slaughters lie,

So much grief seiz'd me, but Jove made me yield,

Dishelm my head, take from my neck my shield,

Hurl from my hand my lance, and to the troop

Of horse the king led instantly made up,

Embrace, and kiss his knees; whom pity won

To give me safety, and (to make me shun

The people's outrage, that made in amain,

All jointly fir'd with thirst to see me slain)

He took me to his chariot, weeping, home,

Himself with fear of Jove's wrath overcome,

Who yielding souls receives, and takes most ill

All such as well may save yet love to kill.

Seven years I sojourn'd here, and treasure gat

In good abundance of th' Ægyptian state,

For all would give; but when th' eighth year began,

A knowing fellow (that would gnaw a man

Like to a vermin, with his hellish brain,

And many an honest soul ev'n quick had slain,

Whose name was Phœnix) close accosted me,

And with insinuations, such as he

Practis'd on others, my consent he gain'd

To go into Phœnicia, where remain'd

His house, and living. And with him I liv'd

A cómplete year; but when were all arriv'd

The months and days, and that the year again

Was turning round, and ev'ry season's reign

Renew'd upon us, we for Libya went,

When, still inventing crafts to circumvent,

He made pretext, that I should only go

And help convey his freight; but thought not so,

For his intent was to have sold me there,

And made good gain for finding me a year.

Yet him I follow'd, though suspecting this,

For, being aboard his ship, I must be his

Of strong necessity. She ran the flood

(Driven with a northern gale, right free, and good)

Amids the full stream, full on Crete. But then

Jove plotted death to him and all his men,

For (put off quite from Crete, and so far gone

That shore was lost, and we set eye on none,

But all show'd heav'n and sea) above our keel

Jove pointed right a cloud as black as hell,

Beneath which all the sea hid, and from whence

Jove thunder'd as his hand would never thence,

And thick into our ship he threw his flash;

That 'gainst a rock, or flat, her keel did dash

With headlong rapture. Of the sulphur all

Her bulk did savour; and her men let fall

Amids the surges, on which all lay tost,

Like sea-gulls, round about her sides, and lost.

And so God took all home-return from them.

But Jove himself, though plung'd in that extreme,

Recover'd me by thrusting on my hand

The ship's long mast. And, that my life might stand

A little more up, I embrac'd it round;

And on the rude winds, that did ruins sound,

Nine days we hover'd. In the tenth black night

A huge sea cast me on Thesprotia's height,

Where the heroë Phidon, that was chief

Of all the Thesprots, gave my wrack relief,

Without the price of that redemptión

That Phœnix fish'd for. Where the king's lov'd son

Came to me, took me by the hand, and led

Into his court my poor life, surfeited

With cold and labour; and because my wrack

Chanc'd on his father's shore, he let not lack

My plight or coat, or cloak, or anything

Might cherish heat in me. And here the king

Said, he receiv'd Ulysses as his guest,

Observ'd him friend-like, and his course addrest

Home to his country, showing there to me

Ulysses' goods, a very treasury

Of brass, and gold, and steel of curious frame.

And to the tenth succession of his name

He laid up wealth enough, to serve beside

In that king's house, so hugely amplified

His treasure was. But from his court the king

Affirm'd him shipp'd for the Dodonean spring,

To hear, from out the high-hair'd oak of Jove,

Counsel from him for means to his remove

To his lov'd country, whence so many a year

He had been absent; if he should appear

Disguis'd, or manifest; and further swore

In his mid court, at sacrifice, before

These very eyes, that he had ready there

Both ship and soldiers, to attend and bear

Him to his country. But, before, it chanc'd

That a Thesprotian ship was to be launch'd

For the much-corn-renown'd Dulichian land,

In which the king gave to his men command

To take, and bring me under tender hand

To king Acastus. But, in ill design

Of my poor life, did their desires combine,

So far forth, as might ever keep me under

In fortune's hands, and tear my state in sunder.

And when the water-treader far away

Had left the land, then plotted they the day

Of my long servitude, and took from me

Both coat and cloak, and all things that might be

Grace in my habit, and in place put on

These tatter'd rags, which now you see upon

My wretched bosom. When heav'n's light took sea,

They fetch'd the field-works of fair Ithaca,

And in the arm'd ship, with a well-wreath'd cord,

They straitly bound me, and did all disboard

To shore to supper, in contentious rout.

Yet straight the Gods themselves took from about

My pressed limbs the bands, with equal ease,

And I, my head in rags wrapp'd, took the seas,

Descending by the smooth stern, using then

My hands for oars, and made from these bad men

Long way in little time. At last, I fetch'd

A goodly grove of oaks, whose shore I reach'd,

And cast me prostrate on it. When they knew

My thus-made 'scape, about the shores they flew,

But, soon not finding, held it not their best

To seek me further, but return'd to rest

Aboard their vessel. Me the Gods lodg'd close,

Conducting me into the safe repose

A good man's stable yielded. And thus Fate

This poor hour added to my living date."

"O wretch of guests," said he, "thy tale hath stirr'd

My mind to much ruth, both how thou hast err'd,

And suffer'd, hearing in such good parts shown.

But, what thy chang'd relation would make known

About Ulysses, I hold neither true,

Nor will believe. And what need'st thou pursue

A lie so rashly, since he sure is so

As I conceive, for which my skill shall go?

The safe return my king lacks cannot be,

He is so envied of each Deity,

So clear, so cruelly. For not in Troy

They gave him end, nor let his corpse enjoy

The hands of friends (which well they might have done,

He manag'd arms to such perfection,

And should have had his sepulchre, and all,

And all the Greeks to grace his funeral,

And this had giv'n a glory to his son

Through all times future) but his head is run

Unseen, unhonour'd, into Harpies' maws.

For my part, I'll not meddle with the cause,

I live a separate life amongst my swine,

Come at no town for any need of mine,

Unless the circularly-witted queen

(When any far-come guest is to be seen

That brings her news) commands me bring a brawn,

About which (all things being in question drawn,

That touch the king) they sit, and some are sad

For his long absence, some again are glad

To waste his goods unwreak'd, all talking still.

But, as for me, I nourish'd little will

T' inquire or question of him, since the man

That feign'd himself the fled Ætolian,

For slaught'ring one, through many regions stray'd,

In my stall, as his diversory, stay'd.

Where well entreating him, he told me then,

Amongst the Cretans, with king Idomen,

He saw Ulysses at his ship's repair,

That had been brush'd with the enragéd air;

And that in summer, or in autumn, sure,

With all his brave friends and rich furniture,

He would be here; and nothing so, nor so.

But thou, an old man, taught with so much woe

As thou hast suffer'd, to be season'd true,

And brought by his fate, do not here pursue

His gratulations with thy cunning lies,

Thou canst not soak so through my faculties

For I did never either honour thee

Or give thee love, to bring these tales to me,

But in my fear of hospitable Jove

Thou didst to this pass my affections move."

"You stand exceeding much incredulous,"

Replied Ulysses, "to have witness'd thus

My word and oath, yet yield no trust at all.

But make me now a covenant here, and call

The dreadful Gods to witness, that take seat

In large Olympus: If your king's retreat

Prove made, ev'n hither, you shall furnish me

With cloak, and coat, and make my passage free

For lov'd Dulichius; if, as fits my vow,

Your king return not, let your servants throw

My old limbs headlong from some rock most high,

That other poor men may take fear to lie."

The herdsman, that had gifts in him divine,

Replied: "O guest, how shall this fame of mine

And honest virtue, amongst men, remain

Now, and hereafter, without worthy stain,

If I, that led thee to my hovel here,

And made thee fitting hospitable cheer,

Should after kill thee, and thy lovéd mind

Force from thy bones? Or how should stand inclin'd

With any faith my will t' importune Jove,

In any pray'r hereafter for his love?

Come, now 'tis supper's hour, and instant haste

My men will make home, when our sweet repast

We'll taste together." This discourse they held

In mutual kind, when from a neighbour-field

His swine and swine-herds came, who in their cotes

Inclos'd their herds for sleep, which mighty throats

Laid out in ent'ring. Then the God-like swain

His men enjoin'd thus: "Bring me to be slain

A chief swine female, for my stranger guest,

When altogether we will take our feast,

Refreshing now our spirits, that all day take

Pains in our swine's good, who may therefore make

For our pains with them all amends with one,

Since others eat our labours, and take none."

This said, his sharp steel hew'd down wood, and they

A passing fat swine hal'd out of the sty,

Of five years old, which to the fire they put.

When first Eumæus from the front did cut

The sacred hair, and cast it in the fire,

Then pray'd to heav'n; for still before desire

Was serv'd with food, in their so rude abodes,

Not the poor swine-herd would forget the Gods,

Good souls they bore, how bad soever were

The habits that their bodies' parts did bear.

When all the deathless Deities besought,

That wise Ulysses might be safely brought

Home to his house; then with a log of oak

Left lying by, high lifting it, a stroke

He gave so deadly it made life expire.

Then cut the rest her throat, and all in fire

They hid and sing'd her, cut her up; and then,

The master took the office from the men,

Who on the altar did the parts impose

That serv'd for sacrifice; beginning close

About the belly, thorough which he went.

And (all the chief fat gath'ring) gave it vent

(Part dredg'd with flour) into the sacred flame;

Then cut they up the joints, and roasted them,

Drew all from spit, and serv'd in dishes all.

Then rose Eumæus (who was general

In skill to guide each act his fit event)

And, all in seven parts cut, the first part went

To service of the Nymphs and Mercury,

To whose names he did rites of piety

In vows particular; and all the rest

He shar'd to ev'ry one, but his lov'd guest

He grac'd with all the chine, and of that king,

To have his heart cheer'd, set up ev'ry string.

Which he observing said: "I would to Jove,

Eumæus, thou liv'dst in his worthy love

As great as mine, that giv'st to such a guest

As my poor self of all thy goods the best."

Eumæus answer'd: "Eat, unhappy wretch,

And to what here is at thy pleasure reach.

This I have, this thou want'st; thus God will give,

Thus take away, in us, and all that live.

To his will's equal centre all things fall,

His mind he must have, for he can do all."

Thus having eat, and to his wine descended,

Before he serv'd his own thirst, he commended

The first use of it in fit sacrifice

(As of his meat) to all the Deities,

And to the city-racer's hand applied

The second cup, whose place was next his side.

Mesauliús did distribute the meat,

(To which charge was Eumæus solely set,

In absence of Ulysses, by the queen

And old Laertes) and this man had been

Bought by Eumæus, with his faculties,

Employ'd then in the Taphian merchandise.

But now, to food appos'd, and order'd thus,

All fell. Desire suffic'd, Mesauliús

Did take away. For bed then next they were,

All thoroughly satisfied with cómplete cheer.

The night then came, ill, and no taper shin'd;

Jove rain'd her whole date; th' ever-wat'ry wind

Zephyr blew loud; and Laertiades

(Approving kind Eumæus' carefulness

For his whole good) made far about assay,

To get some cast-off cassock (lest he lay

That rough night cold) of him, or anyone

Of those his servants; when he thus begun:

"Hear me, Eumæus, and my other friends,

I'll use a speech that to my glory tends,

Since I have drunk wine past my usual guise.

Strong wine commands the fool and moves the wise,

Moves and impels him too to sing and dance,

And break in pleasant laughters, and, perchance,

Prefer a speech too that were better in.

But when my spirits once to speak begin,

I shall not then dissemble. Would to heav'n,

I were as young, and had my forces driv'n

As close together, as when once our pow'rs

We led to ambush under th' Ilion tow'rs!

Where Ithacus and Menelaus were

The two commanders, when it pleas'd them there

To take myself for third, when to the town

And lofty walls we led, we couch'd close down,

All arm'd, amids the osiers and the reeds,

Which oftentimes th' o'er-flowing river feeds.

The cold night came, and th' icy northern gale

Blew bleak upon us, after which did fall

A snow so cold, it cut as in it beat

A frozen water, which was all concrete

About our shields like crystal. All made feign

Above our arms to clothe, and clothe again.

And so we made good shift, our shields beside

Clapp'd close upon our clothes, to rest and hide

From all discovery. But I, poor fool,

Left my weeds with my men, because so cool

I thought it could not prove; which thought my pride

A little strengthen'd, being loth to hide

A goodly glitt'ring garment I had on;

And so I follow'd with my shield alone,

And that brave weed. But when the night near ended

Her course on earth, and that the stars descended,

I jogg'd Ulysses, who lay passing near,

And spake to him, that had a nimble ear,

Assuring him, that long I could not lie

Amongst the living, for the fervency

Of that sharp night would kill me, since as then

My evil angel made me with my men

Leave all weeds but a fine one. But I know

'Tis vain to talk; here wants all remedy now.

This said, he bore that understanding part

In his prompt spirit that still show'd his art

In fight and counsel, saying (in a word,

And that low whisper'd) peace, lest you afford

Some Greek note of your softness. No word more,

But made as if his stern austerity bore

My plight no pity; yet, as still he lay

His head reposing on his hand, gave way

To this invention: 'Hear me friends, a dream

(That was of some celestial light a beam)

Stood in my sleep before me, prompting me

With this fit notice: 'We are far,' said he,

'From out our fleet. Let one go then, and try

If Agamemnon will afford supply

To what we now are strong.' This stirr'd a speed

In Thoas to th' affair; whose purple weed

He left for haste; which then I took, and lay

In quiet after, till the dawn of day.

This shift Ulysses made for one in need,

And would to heav'n, that youth such spirit did feed

Now in my nerves, and that my joints were knit

With such a strength as made me then held fit

To lead men with Ulysses! I should then

Seem worth a weed that fits a herdsman's men,

For two respects, to gain a thankful friend,

And to a good man's need a good extend."

"O father," said Eumæus "thou hast shown

Good cause for us to give thee good renown,

Not using any word that was not freed

From all least ill. Thou, therefore, shalt not need

Or coat, or other thing, that aptly may

Beseem a wretched suppliant for defray

Of this night's need. But, when her golden throne

The morn ascends, you must resume your own,

For here you must not dream of many weeds,

Or any change at all. We serve our needs

As you do yours; one back, one coat. But when

Ulysses' lovéd son returns, he then

Shall give you coat and cassock, and bestow

Your person where your heart and soul is now,"

This said, he rose, made near the fire his bed,

Which all with goats' and sheep skins he bespread.

All which Ulysses with himself did line,

With whom; besides, he chang'd a gaberdine,

Thick lin'd, and soft, which still he made his shift

When he would dress him 'gainst the horrid drift

Of tempest, when deep winter's season blows.

Nor pleas'd it him to lie there with his sows,

But while Ulysses slept there, and close by

The other younkers, he abroad would lie,

And therefore arm'd him. Which set cheerful fare

Before Ulysses' heart, to see such care

Of his goods taken, how far off soever

His fate his person and his wealth should sever.

First then, a sharp-edg'd sword he girt about

His well-spread shoulders, and (to shelter out

The sharp West wind that blew) he put him on

A thick-lin'd jacket, and yet cast upon

All that the large hide of a goat well-fed.

A lance then took he, with a keen steel head,

To be his keep-off both 'gainst men and dogs.

And thus went he to rest with his male hogs,

That still abroad lay underneath a rock,

Shield to the North wind's ever-eager shock.