Part 25

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.[1] 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[2] 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[3] 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;[4] 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[5] 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,[6] 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[7] (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.