Odyssey

Yet did divine Ulysses keep his roof,

And with Minerva plotted still the proof

Of all the Wooers' deaths; when thus his son

He taught with these fore-counsels: "We must run

A close course with these arms, and lay them by,

And to the Wooers make so fair a sky

As it would never thunder. Let me then,

That you may well retain, repeat again

What in Eumæus' cottage I advis'd:

If when they see no leisure exercis'd,

In fetching down your arms, and ask what use

Your mind will give them, say, 'tis their abuse

With smoke and rust that makes you take them down,

This not being like the armory well-known

To be the leavings of Laertes' son

Consorting the design for Ilion;

Your eyes may see how much they are infected,

As all fires' vapours ever since reflected

On those sole arms. Besides, a graver thought

Jove graves within you, lest, their spirits wrought

Above their pitch with wine, they might contend

At some high banquet, and to wounds transcend,

Their feast inverting; which, perhaps, may be

Their nuptial feast with wise Penelopé.

The ready weapon, when the blood is up,

Doubles the uproar heighten'd by the cup.

Wrath's means for act, curb all the ways ye can,

As loadstones draw the steel, so steel draws man.

Retain these words; nor what is good think, thus

Receiv'd at second hand, superfluous."

The son, obeying, did Euryclea call,

And bade her shut in th' utter porches all

The other women, till himself brought down

His father's arms, which all were overgrown

By his neglect with rust, his father gone,

And he too-childish to spend thoughts upon

Those manly implements; but he would now

Reform those young neglects, and th' arms bestow

Past reach of smoke. The loving nurse replied:

"I wish, O son, your pow'rs would once provide

For wisdom's habit, see your household were

In thrifty manage, and tend all things there.

But if these arms must down, and ev'ry maid

Be shut in utter rooms, who else should aid

Your work with light?" He answer'd: "This my guest.

There shall no one in my house taste my feast,

Or join in my nave, that shall idly live,

However far hence he his home derive."

He said, and his words stood. The doors she shut

Of that so well-fill'd house. And th' other put

Their thoughts in act; best shields, helms, sharpen'd lances,

Brought down; and Pallas before both advances

A golden cresset, that did cast a light

As if the Day sat in the throne of Night.

When, half-amaz'd, the prince said: "O my father,

Mine eyes my soul's pow'rs all in wonder gather,

For though the walls, and goodly wind-beams here,

All all these pillars, that their heads so rear,

And all of fir, they seem yet all of fire.

Some God is surely with us." His wise sire

Bade peace, and keep the counsels of the Gods,

Nor ask a word: "These Pow'rs, that use abodes

Above the stars, have pow'r from thence to shine

Through night and all shades to earth's inmost mine.

Go thou for sleep, and leave me here to wake

The women, and the Queen whose heart doth ache

To make inquiry for myself of me."

He went to sleep where lights did endlessly

Burn in his night-rooms; where he feasted rest,

Till day's fair weed did all the world invest.

Thus was divine Ulysses left alone

With Pallas, plotting foul confusion

To all the Wooers. Forth then came the Queen;

Phœbe, with golden Cytherea seen,

Her port presented. Whom they set a chair

Aside the fire, the fashion circular,

The substance silver and rich elephant;

Whose fabric did the cunning finger vaunt

Of great Icmalius, who besides had done

A footstool for her that did suit her throne,

On which they cast an ample skin, to be

The cushion for her other royalty.

And there she sat; about whom came her maids,

Who brought upon a table store of breads,

And bowls that with the Wooers' wine were crown'd.

The embers then they cast upon the ground

From out the lamps, and other fuel added,

That still with cheerful flame the sad house gladded.

Melantha seeing still Ulysses there,

Thus she held out her spleen: "Still, stranger, here?

Thus late in night? To see what ladies do?

Avaunt you, wretch, hence, go without doors, go;

And quickly, too, lest ye be singed away

With burning firebrands." He, thus seeing their fray

Continued by her with such spleen, replied:

"Minion! What makes your angry blood thus chide

My presence still? Is it because you see

I shine not in your wanton bravery,

But wear these rags? It fits the needy fate

That makes me beg thus of the common state.

Such poor souls, and such beggars, yet are men;

And ev'n my mean means means had to maintain

A wealthy house, and kept a manly press,

Was counted blessed, and the poor access

Of any beggar did not scorn, but feed,

With often hand, and any man of need

Reliev'd as fitted; kept my servants, too,

Not few, but did with those additions go

That call choice men The Honest, who are styl'd

The rich, the great. But what such great ones build

Jove oft pulls down, as thus he ruin'd me;

His will was such, which is his equity.

And therefore, woman, bear you fitting hand

On your behaviour, lest your spirit thus mann'd,

And cherish'd with your beauties, when they wane,

Comes down, your pride now being then your bane;

And in the mean space shun the present danger,

Lest your bold fashion breed your sov'reign's anger,

Or lest Ulysses come, of whom ev'n yet

Hope finds some life in Fate. Or, be his seat

Amongst the merely ruin'd, yet his son,

Whose life's heat Phœbus saves, is such a one

As can discover who doth well deserve

Of any woman here his years now serve."

The Queen gave ear, and thus suppress'd the flame:

"Thou quite without a brow, past female shame,

I hear thy monstrous boldness, which thy head

Shall pay me pains for. Thou hast heard it said,

And from myself too, and ev'ry part

Thy knowledge serves thee, that, to ease my heart

So punish'd in thy witness, my desire

Dwelt on this stranger, that I might inquire

My lost friend's being. But 'tis ever tried,

Both man and God are still forgot with pride.

Eurynomé, bring here this guest a seat,

And cushion on it, that we two may treat

Of the affair in question. Set it near,

That I may softly speak, yet he well hear."

She did this little freely; and he sat

Close by the Queen, who ask'd him, Whence, and what

He was himself? And what th' inhabited place

Where liv'd his parents? Whence he fetch'd his race?

"O woman," he replied, "with whom no man,

That moves in earth's unbounded circle, can

Maintain contention for true honour giv'n,

Whose fame hath reach'd the fairly-flowing heav'n,

Who, like a never-ill-deserving king,

That is well-spoke of, first, for worshipping,

And striving to resemble God in empire;

Whose equal hand impartially doth temper

Greatness and Goodness; to whom therefore bears

The black earth store of all grain, trees confers

Cracking with burthen, long-liv'd herds creates,

All which the sea with her sorts emulates;

And all this feeds beneath his pow'rful hand

Men, valiant, many, making strong his land

With happy lives led; nothing else the cause

Of all these blessings, but well-order'd laws;

Like such a king are you, in love, in fame,

And all the bliss that deifies a dame.

And therefore do not mix this with a moan

So wretched as is now in question;

Ask not my race nor country, lest you fill

My heart yet fuller with repeated ill;

For I must follow it with many tears,

Though 'tis not seemly to sit wounding ears

In public roofs with our particular life.

Time's worst expense is still-repeated grief.

I should be irksome to your ladies here,

And you yourself would say you urg'd your ear

To what offends it, my still-broken eyne

Supposing wounded with your too-much wine."

"Stranger," said she, "you fear your own excess

With giving me too great a nobleness.

The Gods my person, beauty, virtue too,

Long since subverted, when the Ilion woe

The Greek design attempted; in which went

My praise and honour. In his government

Had I deserv'd your utmost grace, but now

Sinister Deity makes dishonour woo,

In show of grace, my ruin. All the peers

Sylvan Zacynthus, and Dulichius, spheres,

Samos and Ithaca, strange strifes have shown

To win me, spending on me all mine own;

Will wed me, in my spite; and these are those

That take from me all virtue to dispose

Or guest or suppliant, or take any course

Amongst my heralds, that should all disburse,

To order anything. Though I need none

To give me grief at home, abroad errs one

That my veins shrink for, whom these holding gone,

Their nuptials hasten, and find me as slow.

Good spirits prompted me to make a show

Of undertaking a most curious task,

That an unmeasur'd space of time would ask;

Which they enduring long would often say,

When ends thy work? I soon had my delay,

And pray'd their stay; for though my lord were dead,

His father's life yet matter ministred

That must employ me; which, to tell them true,

Was that great work I nam'd. For now near drew

Laertes' death, and on my hand did lie

His funeral-robe, whose end, being now so nigh,

I must not leave, and lose so much begun,

The rather lest the Greek dames might be won

To tax mine honour, if a man so great

Should greet his grave without his winding sheet.

Pride made them credulous, and I went on;

When whatsoever all the day had done

I made the night help to undo again,

Though oil and watch it cost, and equal pain.

Three years my wit secur'd me undiscern'd,

Yet, when the fourth came, by my maids discern'd,

False careless wenches, how they were deluded;

When, by my light discern'd, they all intruded,

Used threat'ning words, and made me give it end;

And then could I to no more length extend

My linger'd nuptials; not a counsel more

Was to be stood upon; my parents bore

Continual hand on me to make me wed;

My son grew angry that so ruinéd

His goods were by them. He is now a man

Wise in a great degree, and one that can

Himself give order to his household fare;

And Jove give equal glory to his care.

But thus you must not pass me; I must know,

It may be for more end, from whence doth grow

Your race and you; for I suppose you none

Sprung of old oak, or justled out of stone."

He answer'd: "O Ulysses' rev'rend wife!

Yet hold you purpose to inquire my life?

I'll tell you, though it much afflict me more

Than all the sorrows I have felt before.

As worthily it may, since so long time

As I have wander'd from my native clime,

Through human cities, and in suff'rance still,

To rip all wounds up, though of all their ill

I touch but part, must actuate all their pain.

But, ask you still, I'll tell, though still sustain.

In middle of the sable sea there lies

An isle call'd Crete, a ravisher of eyes,

Fruitful, and mann'd with many an infinite store;

Where ninety cities crown the famous shore,

Mix'd with all-languag'd men. There Greeks survive,

There the great-minded Eteocretans live,

There the Dorensians never out of war,

The Cydons there, and there the singular

Pelasgian people. There doth Cnossus stand,

That mighty city, where had most command

Great Jove's disciple, Minos, who nine years

Conferr'd with Jove, both great familiars

In mutual counsels. And this Minos' son,

The mighty-minded king Deucalion,

Was sire to me and royal Idomen,

Who with Atrides went to Ilion then,

My elder brother and the better man,

My name Aethon. At that time began

My knowledge of Ulysses, whom my home

Receiv'd with guest-rites. He was thither come

By force of weather, from the Malean coast

But new got off, where he the navy lost,

Then under sail for Troy, and wind-bound lay

Long in Amnisus; hardly got away

From horrid storms, that made him anchor there,

In havens that sacred to Lucina were,

Dreadful and dang'rous, in whose bosom crept

Lucina's cavern. But in my roof slept

Ulysses, shor'd in Crete; who first inquir'd

For royal Idomen, and much desir'd

To taste his guest-rites, since to him had been

A welcome guest my brother Idomen.

The tenth or 'leventh light on Ulysses shin'd

In stay at Crete, attending then the wind

For threaten'd Ilion. All which time my house

With love and entertainments curious

Embrac'd his person, though a number more

My hospitable roofs receiv'd before,

His men I likewise call'd, and from the store

Allow'd them meal and heat-exciting wine,

And oxen for their slaughter, to confine

In my free hand the utmost of their need.

Twelve days the Greeks stay'd, ere they got them freed,

A gale so bitter blew out of the north,

That none could stand on earth, being tumbled forth

By some stern God. But on the thirteenth day

The tempest ceas'd, and then went Greeks their way."

Thus many tales Ulysses told his wife,

At most but painting, yet most like the life;

Of which her heart such sense took through her ears,

It made her weep as she would turn to tears.

And as from off the mountains melts the snow,

Which Zephyr's breath conceal'd, but was made flow

By hollow Eurus, which so fast pours down,

That with their torrent floods have overflown;

So down her fair cheeks her kind tears did glide,

Her miss'd lord mourning set so near her side.

Ulysses much was mov'd to see her mourn,

Whose eyes yet stood as dry as iron or horn

In his untroubled lids, which in his craft

Of bridling passion he from issue saft.

When she had giv'n her moan so many tears,

That now 'twas satiate, her yet loving fears

Ask'd thus much further: "You have thus far tried

My love's credulity, but if gratified

With so long stay he was with you, you can

Describe what weed he wore, what kind of man

Both he himself was, and what followers

Observ'd him there." "Alas," said he, "the years

Have grown so many since—this making now

Their twentieth revolution—that my show

Of these slight notes will set my memory sore,

But, to my now remembrance, this he wore:

A double purple robe, drawn close before

With golden buttons, plaited thick, and bore

A facing where a hundred colours shin'd.

About the skirts a hound a freckled hind

In full course hunted; on the fore skirts, yet,

He pinch'd and pull'd her down, when with her feet,

And all her force, she struggled hard for flight.

Which had such life in gold, that to the sight

It seem'd the hind itself for ev'ry hue,

The hound and all so answering the view,

That all admir'd all. I observ'd beside

His inner weed, so rarely beautified

That dumb amaze it bred, and was as thin

As any dry and tender onion skin;

As soft 'twas, too, and glister'd like the sun.

The women were to loving wonder won

By him and by his weeds. But, by the way,

You must excuse me, that I cannot say

He brought this suit from home, or had it there

Sent for some present, or, perhaps, elsewhere

Receiv'd it for his guest-gift; for your lord

Had friends not few, the fleet did not afford

Many that had not fewer. I bestow'd

A well-edg'd sword on him, a robe that flow'd

In folds and fulness, and did reach his feet,

Of richest purple; brought him to his fleet

With all my honour; and besides, to add

To all this sifted circumstance, he had

A herald there, in height a little more

Put from the earth, that thicker shoulders wore,

A swarth complexion and a curléd head,

His name Eurybates; and much in stead

He stood your king, employ'd in most command,

Since most of all his mind could understand."

When all these signs she knew for chiefly true,

Desire of moan upon her beauties grew,

And yet, ev'n that desire suffic'd, she said:

"Till this, my guest, a wretched state array'd

Your ill-us'd person, but from this hour forth

You shall be honour'd, and find all the worth

That fits a friend. Those weeds these hands bestow'd

From out my wardrobe; those gold buttons sew'd

Before for closure and for ornament.

But never more must his return present

The person that gave those adornments state;

And therefore, under an abhorréd fate,

Was he induc'd to feed the common fame,

To visit vile Troy, ay too vile to name."

"No more yet mourn," said he, "nor thus see pin'd

Your lovely person. Weeping wastes the mind.

And yet I blame you not; for any dame

That weds one young, and brings to him his name,

Whatever man he is, will mourn his loss.

Much more respectful then must show your woes

That weep thus for Ulysses, who, Fame says,

Was equal with the Gods in all his ways.

But where no cause is there must be no moan,

And therefore hear me, my relation

Shall lay the clear truth naked to your view:

I heard amongst the Thesprots for most true,

That lord Ulysses liv'd, and stood just now

On his return for home; that wealth did flow

In his possession, which he made not known,

But begg'd amongst the people, since alone

He quite was left, for all his men were lost

In getting off from the Trinacrian coast;

Jove and the Sun was wroth with them for rape

Made of his oxen, and no man let 'scape

The rugged deeps of Neptune; only he,

The ship's keel only keeping, was by sea

Cast on the fair Phæacian continent,

Where men survive that are the Gods' descent,

And like a God receiv'd him, gave him heaps

Of wealthy gifts, and would conduct his steps

Themselves safe home; which he might long ago

His pleasure make, but profit would not so.

He gather'd going, and had mighty store

Of gold in safeguard; so beyond the shore

That common sails kept, his high flood of wit

Bore glorious top, and all the world for it

Hath far exceeded. All this Phædon told,

That doth the sceptre of Thesprotia hold,

Who swore to me, in household sacrifice,

The ship was launch'd, and men to man the prise,

That soon should set him on his country earth,

Show'd me the goods, enough to serve the birth

That in the tenth age of his seed should spring,

Yet in his court contain'd. But then the king,

Your husband, for Dodona was in way,

That from th' Oraculous Oak he might display

Jove's will what course for home would best prevail,

To come in pomp, or bear a secret sail.

But me the king dispatch'd in course before,

A ship then bound for the Dulichian shore.

So thus you see his safety whom you mourn;

Who now is passing near, and his return

No more will punish with delays, but see

His friends and country. All which truth to thee

I'll seal with sacred oath. Be witness, Jove,

Thou first and best of all the thron'd above!

And thou house of the great Laertes' heir,

To whose high roofs I tender my repair,

That what I tell the Queen event shall crown!

This year Ulysses shall possess his own,

Nay ere the next month ends shall here arrive,

Nay, ere it enters, here abide alive!"

"O may this prove," said she; "gifts, friendship, then

Should make your name the most renown'd of men.

But 'tis of me receiv'd, and must so sort,

That nor my lord shall ever see his court,

Nor you gain your deduction thence, for now

The alter'd house doth no such man allow

As was Ulysses, if he ever were,

To entertain a rev'rend passenger,

And give him fair dismission. But, maids, see

Ye bathe his feet, and then with tapestry,

Best sheets and blankets, make his bed, and lay

Soft waistcoats by him, that, lodg'd warm, he may

Ev'n till the golden-seated morning's ray

Enjoy good rest; and then, with her first light,

Bathe, and give alms, that cherish'd appetite

He may apply within our hall, and sit

Safe by Telemachus. Or, if th' unfit

And harmful mind of any be so base

To grieve his age again, let none give grace

Of doing any deed he shall command,

How wroth soever, to his barbarous hand.

For how shall you, guest, know me for a dame

That pass so far, nay, turn and wind the fame

Of other dames for wisdom, and the frame

Of household usage, if your poor thin weeds

I let draw on you want, and worser deeds,

That may, perhaps, cause here your latest day?

The life of man is short and flies away.

And if the ruler's self of households be

Ungentle, studying inhumanity,

The rest prove worse, but he bears all the blame;

All men will, living, vow against his name

Mischiefs and miseries, and, dead, supply

With bitter epitaphs his memory.

But if himself be noble—noble things

Doing and knowing—all his underlings

Will imitate his noblesse, and all guests

Give it, in many, many interests."

"But, worthiest Queen," said he, "where you command

Baths and rich beds for me, I scorn to stand

On such state now nor ever thought it yet,

Since first I left the snowy hills of Crete.

When once I fell a-shipboard those thoughts fled;

I love to take now, as long since, my bed.

Though I began the use with sleepless nights,

I many a darkness with right homely rites

Have spent ere this hour, and desir'd the morn

Would come, and make sleep to the world a scorn.

Nor run these dainty baths in my rude head;

Nor any handmaid, to your service bred,

Shall touch my ill-kept feet, unless there live

Some poor old drudge here, that hath learn'd to give

Old men good usage, and no work will fly,

As having suffer'd ill as much as I.

But if there live one such in your command,

I will not shame to give my foot her hand."

She gave this answer: "O my lovéd guest,

There never enter'd these kind roofs for rest

Stranger or friend that so much wisdom laid

In gage for guest-rites, as your lips have paid.

There lives an old maid in my charge that knows

The good you speak of by her many woes;

That nourish'd and brought up, with curious care,

Th' unhappy man; your old familiar,

Ev'n since his mother let him view the light,

And oft hath felt in her weak arms his weight;

And she, though now much weaker, shall apply

Her maiden service to your modesty.

Euryclea, rise, and wash the feet of one

That is of one age with your sov'reign gone,

Such hands, such feet hath, though of alter'd grace.

Much grief in men will bring on change apace."

She, from her aged slumber wak'd, did clear

Her heavy eyes, and instantly, to hear

Her sov'reign's name, had work enough to dry

Her cheeks from tears, and to his memory

These moans did offer: "O my son," said she,

"I never can take grief enough for thee,

Whom Goodness hurts, and whom ev'n Jove's high spleen,

Since thou art Jove-like, hates the most of men.

For none hath offer'd him so many thighs,

Nor such whole hecatombs of sacrifice,

Fat and selected, as thy zeal hath done;

For all, but praying that thy noble son,

Thy happy age might see at state of man.

And yet hath Jove with mists Cimmerian

Put out the light of his returning day.

And as yourself, O father, in your way

Took these fair roofs for hospitable rites,

Yet find, for them, our dogged women's spites;

So he, in like course, being driven to proof,

Long time ere this, what such a royal roof

Would yield his mis'ries, found such usage there.

And you, now flying the foul language here,

And many a filthy fact of our fair dames,

Fly me like them, and put on causeless shames

To let me cleanse your feet. For not the cause

The Queen's command yields is the pow'r that draws

My will to wash your feet, but what I do

Proceeds from her charge and your rev'rence too;

Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth

Of your distresses, and past show of truth;

Your strangeness claiming little interest

In my affections. And yet many a guest

Of poor condition hath been harbour'd here,

But never any did so right appear

Like king Ulysses as yourself, for state

Both of your stature, voice, and very gait."

"So all have said," said he, "that ever yet

Had the proportions of our figures met

In their observance; so right your eye

Proves in your soul your judging faculty."

Thus took she up a caldron brightly scour'd,

To cleanse his feet in; and into it pour'd

Store of cold wave, which on the fire she set;

And therein bath'd, being temperately heat,

Her sov'reign's feet. Who turn'd him from the light,

Since suddenly he doubted her conceit,

So rightly touching at his state before,

A scar now seeing on his foot, that bore

An old note, to discern him, might descry

The absolute truth; which, witness'd by her eye,

Was straight approv'd. He first receiv'd this sore

As in Parnassus' tops a white-tooth'd boar

He stood in chase withal, who struck him there,

At such time as he liv'd a sojourner

With his grandsire, Autolycus; who th' art

Of theft and swearing (not out of the heart,

But by equivocation) first adorn'd

Your witty man withal, and was suborn'd

By Jove's descent, ingenious Mercury,

Who did bestow it, since so many a thigh

Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow'd

In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow'd

Was ever with him. And this man impos'd

Ulysses' name, the light being first disclos'd

To his first sight then, when his grandsire came

To see the then preferrer of his fame,

His lovéd daughter. The first supper done,

Euryclea put in his lap her son,

And pray'd him to bethink and give his name,

Since that desire did all desires inflame.

"Daughter and son-in-law," said he, "let then

The name that I shall give him stand with men.

Since I arriv'd here at the hour of pain,

In which mine own kind entrails did sustain

Moan for my daughter's yet unended throes,

And when so many men's and women's woes,

In joint compassion met of human birth,

Brought forth t' attend the many-feeding earth,

Let Odyssëus be his name, as one

Expos'd to just constraint of all men's moan.

When here at home he is arriv'd at state

Of man's first youth he shall initiate

His practis'd feet in travel made abroad,

And to Parnassus, where mine own abode

And chief means lie, address his way, where I

Will give him from my open'd treasury

What shall return him well, and fit the fame

Of one that had the honour of his name."

For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace

Of hands and words in him and all his race.

Amphithea, his mother's mother, too,

Applied her to his love, withal, to do

In grandame's welcomes, both his fair eyes kist,

And brows; and then commanded to assist

Were all her sons by their respected sire

In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire

Their minds with his command; who home straight led

A five-years-old male ox, fell'd, slew, and flay'd,

Gather'd about him, cut him up with art,

Spitted, and roasted, and his ev'ry part

Divided orderly. So all the day

They spent in feast; no one man went his way

Without his fit fill. When the sun was set,

And darkness rose, they slept, till day's fire het

Th' enlighten'd earth; and then on hunting went

Both hounds and all Autolycus' descent.

In whose guide did divine Ulysses go,

Climb'd steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow

All sylvan offsprings round. And Soon they reach'd

The concaves, whence air's sounding vapours fetch'd

Their loud descent. As soon as any sun

Had from the ocean, where his waters run

In silent deepness, rais'd his golden head,

The early huntsmen all the hill had spread,

Their hounds before them on the searching trail,

They near, and ever eager to assail:

Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance,

Of whose first flight he long'd to prove the chance.

Then found they lodg'd a boar of bulk extreme,

In such a queach as never any beam

The sun shot pierc'd, nor any pass let find

The moist impressions of the fiercest wind,

Nor any storm the sternest winter drives,

Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves

In mighty thickness; and through all this flew

The hounds' loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw,

And all together, rous'd the boar, that rush'd

Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push'd

From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes

Stood close, and dar'd all. On which horrid prise

Ulysses first charg'd; whom above the knee

The savage struck, and rac'd it crookedly

Along the skin, yet never reach'd the bone.

Ulysses' lance yet through him quite was thrown,

At his right shoulder ent'ring, at his left

The bright head passage to his keenness cleft,

And show'd his point gilt with the gushing gore.

Down in the dust fell the extended boar,

And forth his life flew. To Ulysses round

His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound,

With all art bound it up, and with a charm

Stay'd straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm

Receiv'd full cure, with gifts, and all event

Of joy and love to his lov'd home they sent

Their honour'd nephew; whose return his sire

And rev'rend mother took with joys entire,

Enquir'd all passages, all which he gave

In good relation, nor of all would save

His wound from utt'rance; by whose scar he came

To be discover'd by this aged dame.

Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well,

Down from her lap into the caldron fell

His weighty foot, that made the brass resound,

Turn'd all aside, and on th' embrewéd ground

Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together

Her breast invaded; and of weeping weather

Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within

Her part expressive; till at length his chin

She took and spake to him: "O son," said she,

"Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be;

Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king

I had gone over with the warméd spring."

Then look'd she for the Queen to tell her all;

And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall

In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt,

Minerva that distraction struck throughout

Her mind's rapt forces that she might not tell.

Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well,

With one hand took her chin, and made all show

Of favour to her, with the other drew

Her offer'd parting closer, ask'd her why

She, whose kind breast had nurs'd so tenderly

His infant life, would now his age destroy,

Though twenty years had held him from the joy

Of his lov'd country? But, since only she,

God putting her in mind, now knew 'twas he,

He charg'd her silence, and to let no ear

In all the court more know his being there,

Lest, if God gave into his wreakful hand

Th' insulting Wooers' lives, he did not stand

On any partial respect with her,

Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer

Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel

His punishing finger, give her equal steel.

"What words," said she, "fly your retentive pow'rs?

You know you lock your counsels in your tow'rs

In my firm bosom, and that I am far

From those loose frailties. Like an iron bar,

Or bolt of solid'st stone, I will contain;

And tell you this besides; that if you gain,

By God's good aid, the Wooers' lives in yours,

What dames are here their shameless paramours;

And have done most dishonour to your worth,

My information well shall paint you forth."

"It shall not need," said he, "myself will soon,

While thus I mask here, set on ev'ry one

My sure observance of the worst and best.

Be thou then silent, and leave God the rest."

This said, the old dame for more water went,

The rest was all upon the pavement spent

By known Ulysses' foot. More brought, and he

Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she

His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm,

And with his piec'd rags hiding close his harm.

The Queen came near, and said: "Yet, guest, afford

Your further patience, till but in a word

I'll tell my woes to you; for well I know

That Rest's sweet hour her soft foot orders now,

When all poor men, how much soever griev'd,

Would gladly get their woe-watch'd pow'rs reliev'd.

But God hath giv'n my grief a heart so great

It will not down with rest, and so I set

My judgment up to make it my delight.

All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right

I owe my charge both in my work and maids;

And when the night brings rest to others' aids

I toss my bed; Distress, with twenty points,

Slaught'ring the pow'rs that to my turning joints

Convey the vital heat. And as all night

Pandareus' daughter, poor Edone, sings,

Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs,

When she for Itylus, her lovéd son,

By Zethus' issue in his madness done

To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan,

And draws the ears to her of ev'ry one;

So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind,

And here and there gives my discourse the wind,

Uncertain whether I shall with my son

Abide still here, the safe possession

And guard of all goods, rev'rence to the bed

Of my lov'd lord, and to my far-off spread

Fame with the people, putting still in use,

Or follow any best Greek I can chuse

To his fit house, with treasure infinite,

Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight

And want of judgment kept my son in guide,

He was not willing with my being a bride,

Nor with my parting from his court; but now,

Arriv'd at man's state, he would have me vow

My love to some one of my Wooers here,

And leave his court; offended that their cheer

Should so consume his free possessions.

To settle then a choice in these my moans,

Hear and expound a dream that did engrave

My sleeping fancy: Twenty geese I have,

All which, me thought, mine eye saw tasting wheat

In water steep'd, and joy'd to see them eat;

When straight a crook-beak'd eagle from a hill

Stoop'd, and truss'd all their necks, and all did kill;

When, all left scatter'd on the pavement there,

She took her wing up to the Gods' fair sphere.

I, ev'n amid my dream, did weep and mourn

To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn,

Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came

About my mournings many a Grecian dame,

To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme

The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam

That cross'd my chamber fell, and us'd to me

A human voice, that sounded horribly,

And said: 'Be confident, Icarius' seed,

This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed.

The geese the Wooers are, the eagle, I,

Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply

Thy husband's being, and am come to give

The Wooers' death, that on my treasure live.'

With this sleep left me, and my waking way

I took, to try if any violent prey

Were made of those my fowls, which well enough

I, as before, found feeding at their trough

Their yoted wheat." "O woman," he replied,

"Thy dream can no interpretation bide

But what the eagle made, who was your lord,

And said himself would sure effect afford

To what he told you; that confusion

To all the Wooers should appear, and none

Escape the fate and death he had decreed."

She answer'd him: "O guest, these dreams exceed

The art of man t' interpret; and appear

Without all choice or form; nor ever were

Perform'd to all at all parts. But there are

To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare,

Two two-leav'd gates, the one of ivory,

The other horn. Those dreams, that fantasy

Takes from the polish'd ivory port, delude

The dreamer ever, and no truth include;

Those, that the glitt'ring horn-gate lets abroad,

Do evermore some certain truth abode.

But this my dream I hold of no such sort

To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port

It had access from, it did highly please

My son and me. And this my thoughts profess:

That day that lights me from Ulysses' court

Shall both my infamy and curse consort.

I, therefore, purpose to propose them now,

In strong contention, Ulysses' bow;

Which he that eas'ly draws, and from his draft

Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft,

All set up in a row, and from them all

His stand-far-off kept firm) my fortunes shall

Dispose, and take me to his house from hence,

Where I was wed a maid, in confluence

Of feast and riches; such a court here then

As I shall ever in my dreams retain."

"Do not," said he, "defer the gameful prize,

But set to task their importunities

With something else than nuptials; for your lord

Will to his court and kingdom be restor'd

Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow."

"O guest," replied Penelope, "would you

Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears

Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres!

But none can live without the death of sleep,

Th' Immortals in our mortal memories keep

Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so,

As by the fate and portion of our woe,

Our times spent here, to let us nightly try

That while we live, as much live as we die.

In which use I will to my bed ascend,

Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end

Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy

For vile, lewd, never-to-be-naméd, Troy,

Yet there I'll prove for sleep, which take you here,

Or on the earth, if that your custom were,

Or have a bed, dispos'd for warmer rest."

Thus left she with her ladies her old guest,

Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed,

Whose sight did ever duly make her shed

Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep,

Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep.