Part 27

“O me, Eumæus,” said Laertes’ son, “Hast thou then err’d so of a little one, Like me, from friends and country? Pray thee say, And say a truth, doth vast Destruction lay Her hand upon the wide-way’d seat of men,[4] Where dwelt thy sire and rev’rend mother then, That thou art spar’d there? Or else, set alone In guard of beeves, or sheep, set th’ enemy on, Surpris’d, and shipp’d, transferr’d, and sold thee here? He that bought thee paid well, yet bought not dear.” “Since thou enquir’st of that, my guest,” said he, “Hear and be silent, and, mean space, sit free In use of these cups to thy most delights; Unspeakable in length now are the nights. Those that affect sleep yet, to sleep have leave, Those that affect to hear, their hearers give. But sleep not ere your hour; _much sleep doth grieve._ Whoever lists to sleep, away to bed, Together with the morning raise his head, Together with his fellows break his fast, And then his lord’s herd drive to their repast. We two, still in our tabernacle here Drinking and eating, will our bosoms cheer With memories and tales of our annoys. _Betwixt his sorrows ev’ry human joys,_ He most, who most hath felt and furthest err’d. And now thy will to act shall be preferr’d. There is an isle above Ortygia, If thou hast heard, they call it Syria, Where, once a day, the sun moves backward still. ’Tis not so great as good, for it doth fill The fields with oxen, fills them still with sheep, Fills roofs with wine, and makes all corn there cheap. No dearth comes ever there, nor no disease That doth with hate us wretched mortals seize, But when men’s varied nations, dwelling there In any city, enter th’ aged year, The silver-bow-bearer, the Sun, and She That bears as much renown for archery, Stoop with their painless shafts, and strike them dead, As one would sleep, and never keep the bed. In this isle stand two cities, betwixt whom All things that of the soil’s fertility come In two parts are divided. And both these My father rul’d, Ctesius Ormenides, A man like the Immortals. With these states The cross-biting Phœnicians traffick’d rates Of infinite merchandise in ships brought there, In which they then were held exempt from peer. There dwelt within my father’s house a dame, Born a Phœnician, skilful in the frame Of noble housewif’ries, right tall and fair. Her the Phœnician great-wench-net-lay’r[5] With sweet words circumvented, as she was Washing her linen. To his amorous pass He brought her first, shor’d from his ship to her; To whom he did his whole life’s love prefer, Which of these breast-exposing dames the hearts Deceives, though fashion’d of right honest parts. He ask’d her after, what she was, and whence? She, passing presently, the excellence Told of her father’s turrets, and that she Might boast herself sprung from the progeny Of the rich Sidons, and the daughter was Of the much-year-revénued Arybas; But that the Taphian pirates made her prise, As she return’d from her field-housewif’ries, Transferr’d her hither, and, at that man’s house Where now she liv’d, for value precious Sold her to th’ owner. He that stole her love Bade her again to her birth’s seat remove, To see the fair roofs of her friends again, Who still held state, and did the port maintain Herself reported. She said: ‘Be it so, So you, and all that in your ship shall row, Swear to return me in all safety hence.’ All swore. Th’ oath past, with ev’ry consequence, She bade: ‘Be silent now, and not a word Do you, or any of your friends, afford, Meeting me afterward in any way, Or at the washing-fount; lest some display Be made, and told the old man, and he then Keep me strait bound, to you and to your men The utter ruin plotting of your lives. Keep in firm thought then ev’ry word that strives For dang’rous utt’rance. Haste your ship’s full freight Of what you traffic for, and let me straight Know by some sent friend she hath all in hold, And with myself I’ll bring thence all the gold I can by all means finger; and, beside, I’ll do my best to see your freight supplied With some well-weighing burthen of mine own. For I bring-up in house a great man’s son, As crafty as myself, who will with me Run ev’ry way along, and I will be His leader, till your ship hath made him sure. He will an infinite great price procure, Transfer him to what languag’d men ye may.’ This said, she gat her home, and there made stay A whole year with us, goods of great avail Their ship enriching. Which now fit for sail, They sent a messenger t’ inform the dame; And to my father’s house a fellow came, Full of Phœnician craft, that to be sold A tablet brought, the body all of gold, The verge all-amber. This had ocular view Both by my honour’d mother and the crew Of her house-handmaids, handled, and the price Beat, ask’d, and promis’d. And while this device Lay thus upon the forge, this jeweller Made privy signs, by winks and wiles, to her That was his object; which she took, and he, His sign seeing noted, hied to ship. When she, (My hand still taking, as she us’d to do To walk abroad with her) convey’d me so Abroad with her, and in the portico Found cups, with tasted viands, which the guests That us’d to flock about my father’s feasts Had left. They gone (some to the council-court, Some to hear news amongst the talking sort) Her theft three bowls into her lap convey’d, And forth she went. Nor was my wit so stay’d To stay her, or myself. The sun went down, And shadows round about the world were flown, When we came to the haven, in which did ride The swift Phœnician ship; whose fair broad side They boarded straight, took us up; and all went Along the moist waves. Wind Saturnius sent. Six days we day and night sail’d; but when Jove Put up the seventh day, She that shafts doth love Shot dead the woman, who into the pump Like to a dop-chick div’d, and gave a thump In her sad settling. Forth they cast her then To serve the fish and sea-calves, no more men; But I was left there with a heavy heart; When wind and water drave them quit apart Their own course, and on Ithaca they fell, And there poor me did to Laertes sell. And thus these eyes the sight of this isle prov’d.” “Eumæus,” he replied, “thou much hast mov’d The mind in me with all things thou hast said, And all the suff’rance on thy bosom laid, But, truly, to thy ill hath Jove join’d good, That one whose veins are serv’d with human blood Hath bought thy service, that gives competence Of food, wine, cloth to thee; and sure th’ expence Of thy life’s date here is of good desert, Whose labours not to thee alone impart Sufficient food and housing, but to me; Where I through many a heap’d humanity Have hither err’d, where, though, like thee, not sold, Nor stay’d like thee yet, nor nought needful hold.” This mutual speech they us’d, nor had they slept Much time before the much-near morning leapt To her fair throne. And now struck sail the men That serv’d Telemachus, arriv’d just then Near his lov’d shore; where now they stoop’d the mast, Made to the port with oars, and anchor cast, Made fast the ship, and then ashore they went, Dress’d supper, fill’d wine; when (their appetites spent) Telemachus commanded they should yield The ship to th’ owner, while himself at field Would see his shepherds; when light drew to end He would his gifts see, and to town descend, And in the morning at a feast bestow Rewards for all their pains. “And whither, now,” Said Theoclymenus, “my lovéd son, Shall I address myself? Whose mansión, Of all men, in this rough-hewn isle, shall I Direct my way to? Or go readily To thy house and thy mother?” He replied: “Another time I’ll see you satisfied With my house-entertainment, but as now You should encounter none that could bestow Your fit entreaty, and (which less grace were) You could not see my mother, I not there; For she’s no frequent object, but apart Keeps from her Wooers, woo’d with her desert, Up in her chamber, at her housewif’ry But I’ll name one to whom you shall apply Direct repair, and that’s Eurymachus, Renown’d descent to wise Polybius, A man whom th’ Ithacensians look on now As on a God, since he of all that woo Is far superior man, and likest far To wed my mother, and as circular Be in that honour as Ulysses was. But heav’n-hous’d Jove knows the yet hidden pass Of her disposure, and on them he may A blacker sight bring than her nuptial day.” As this he utter’d, on his right hand flew A saker, sacred to the God of view, That in his talons truss’d and plum’d a dove; The feathers round about the ship did rove, And on Telemachus fell; whom th’ augur then Took fast by the hand, withdrew him from his men, And said: “Telemachus! This hawk is sent From God; I knew it for a sure ostent When first I saw it. Be you well assur’d, There will no Wooer be by heav’n endur’d To rule in Ithaca above your race, But your pow’rs ever fill the regal place.” “I wish to heav’n,” said he, “thy word might stand, Thou then shouldst soon acknowledge from my hand Such gifts and friendship, as would make thee, guest, Met and saluted as no less than blest.” This said, he call’d Piræus, Clytus’ son, His true associate, saying: “Thou hast done (Of all my followers to the Pylian shore) My will in chief in other things, once more Be chiefly good to me; take to thy house This lovéd stranger, and be studious T’ embrace and greet him with thy greatest fare, Till I myself come and take off thy care.” The famous-for-his-lance said: “If your stay Take time for life here, this man’s care I’ll lay On my performance, nor what fits a guest Shall any penury withhold his feast.” Thus took he ship, bade them board, and away. They boarded, sat, but did their labour stay Till he had deck’d his feet, and reached his lance. They to the city; he did straight advance Up to his styes, where swine lay for him store, By whose side did his honest swine-herd snore, Till his short cares his longest nights had ended, And nothing worse to both his lords intended.

THE END OF THE FIFTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

[1] _Εὐρύχορον Λακεδαίμονα in quâ ampli ut pulchri chori duci possunt, vel ducuntur;_ which the vulgar translations turn therefore, _latam, seu amplam._

[2] Nestor’s son to Menelaus, his ironical question continuing still Homer’s character of Menelaus.

[3] His wife betrayed him for money.

[4] Supposing him to dwell in a city.

[5] _Πολυπαίπαλος, admodum vafer, Der. ex παλεύω, pertraho in retia, et παι̑ς, puella._

THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

The Prince at field, he sends to town Eumæus, to make truly known His safe return. By Pallas’ will, Telemachus is giv’n the skill To know his father. Those that lay In ambush, to prevent the way Of young Ulyssides for home, Retire, with anger overcome.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

_Πι̑._ To his most dear Ulysses shows. The wise-son here His father knows.