Part 30

But when air’s rosy birth, the morn, arose, Telemachus did for the town dispose His early steps; and took to his command His fair long lance, well-sorting with his hand, Thus parting with Eumæus: “Now, my friend, I must to town, lest too far I extend My mother’s moan for me, who, till her eyes Mine own eyes witness, varies tears and cries Through all extremes. Do then this charge of mine, And guide to town this hapless guest of thine, To beg elsewhere his further festival. Give they that please, I cannot give to all, Mine own wants take up for myself my pain. If it incense him, he the worst shall gain. The lovely truth I love, and must be plain.” “Alas, friend,” said his father, “nor do I Desire at all your further charity. ‘Tis better beg in cities than in fields, And take the worst a beggar’s fortune yields. Nor am I apt to stay in swine-styes more, However; ever the great chief before The poor ranks must to ev’ry step obey. But go; your man in my command shall sway, Anon yet too, by favour, when your fires Have comforted the cold heat age expires, And when the sun’s flame hath besides corrected The early air abroad, not being protected By these my bare weeds from the morning’s frost, Which (if so much ground is to be engrost By my poor feet as you report) may give Too violent charge to th’ heat by which I live.” This said, his son went on with spritely pace, And to the Wooers studied little grace. Arriv’d at home, he gave his jav’lin stay Against a lofty pillar, and bold way Made further in. When having so far gone That he transcended the fair porch of stone, The first by far that gave his entry eye Was nurse Euryclea; who th’ embrodery Of stools there set was giving cushions fair; Who ran upon him, and her rapt repair Shed tears for joy. About him gather’d round The other maids; his head and shoulders crown’d With kisses and embraces. From above The Queen herself came, like the Queen of Love, Or bright Diana; cast about her son Her kind embraces, with effusión Of loving tears; kiss’d both his lovely eyes, His cheeks, and forehead; and gave all supplies With this entreaty; “Welcome, sweetest light! I never had conceit to set quick sight On thee thus soon, when thy lov’d father’s fame As far as Pylos did thy spirit inflame, In that search ventur’d all-unknown to me. O say, by what pow’r cam’st thou now to be Mine eyes’ dear object?” He return’d reply: “Move me not now, when you my ’scape descry From imminent death, to think me fresh entrapt; The fear’d wound rubbing, felt before I ’scapt. Double not needless passion on a heart Whose joy so green is, and so apt t’ invert; But pure weeds putting on, ascend and take Your women with you, that ye all may make Vows of full hecatombs in sacred fire To all the Godheads, if their only Sire Vouchsafe revenge of guest-rites wrong’d, which he Is to protect as being their Deity. My way shall be directed to the hall Of common concourse, that I thence may call A stranger, who from off the Pylian shore Came friendly with me; whom I sent before With all my soldiers, but in chief did charge Piræus with him, wishing him t’ enlarge His love to him at home, in best affair, And utmost honours, till mine own repair.” Her son thus spoken, his words could not bear The wings too easily through her either ear, But putting pure weeds on, made vows entire Of perfect hecatombs in sacred fire To all the Deities, if their only Sire Vouchsaf’d revenge of guest-rites wrong’d, which he Was to protect as being their Deity. Her son left house, in his fair hand his lance, His dogs attending; and, on ev’ry glance His looks cast from them, Pallas put a grace That made him seem of the celestial race. Whom, come to concourse, ev’ry man admir’d, About him throng’d the Wooers, and desir’d All good to him in tongues, but in their hearts Most deep ills threaten’d to his most deserts. Of whose huge rout once free, he cast glad eye On some that, long before his infancy, Were with his father great and gracious, Grave Halitherses, Mentor, Antiphus: To whom he went, took seat by them, and they Inquir’d of all things since his parting day. To them Piræus came, and brought his guest Along the city thither, whom not least The prince respected, nor was long before He rose and met him. The first word yet bore Piræus from them both; whose haste besought The prince to send his women to see brought The gifts from his house that Atrides gave, Which his own roofs, he thought, would better save. The wise prince answer’d: “I can scarce conceive The way to these works. If the Wooers reave By privy stratagem my life at home, I rather wish Piræus may become The master of them, than the best of these. But, if I sow in their fields of excess Slaughter and ruin, then thy trust employ, And to me joying bring thou those with joy.” This said, he brought home his grief-practis’d guest; Where both put off, both oil’d, and did invest Themselves in rich robes, wash’d, and sate, and eat. His mother, in a fair chair taking seat Directly opposite, her loom applied; Who, when her son and guest had satisfied Their appetites with feast, said: “O my son, You know that ever since your sire was won To go in Agamemnon’s guide to Troy, Attempting sleep, I never did enjoy One night’s good rest, but made my quiet bed A sea blown-up with sighs, with tears still shed Embrew’d and troubled; yet, though all your miss In your late voyage hath been made for this, That you might know th’ abode your father made. You shun to tell me what success you had. Now then, before the insolent access The Wooers straight will force on us, express What you have heard.” “I will,” said he, “and true. We came to Pylos, where the studious due That any father could afford his son, (But new-arriv’d from some course he had run To an extreme length, in some voyage vow’d), Nestor, the pastor of the people, show’d To me arriv’d, in turrets thrust-up high, Where not his brave sons were more lov’d than I. Yet of th’ unconquer’d ever-sufferer; Ulysses, never he could set his ear, Alive or dead, from any earthy man. But to the great Lacedæmonian, Atrides, famous for his lance, he sent, With horse and chariots, me, to learn th’ event From his relation; where I had the view Of Argive Helen, whose strong beauties drew, By wills of Gods, so many Grecian states, And Trojans, under such laborious fates. Where Menelaus ask’d me, what affair To Lacedæmon render’d my repair. I told him all the truth, who made reply: ‘O deed of most abhorr’d indecency! A sort of impotents attempt his bed Whose strength of mind hath cities levelléd! As to a lion’s den, when any hind Hath brought her young calves, to their rest inclin’d, When he is ranging hills, and herby dales, To make of feeders there his festivals, But, turning to his luster, calves and dam He shows abhorr’d death, in his anger’s flame; So, should Ulysses find this rabble hous’d In his free turrets, courting his espous’d, Foul death would fall them. O, I would to Jove, Phœbus, and Pallas, that, when he shall prove The broad report of his exhausted store True with his eyes, his nerves and sinews wore That vigour then that in the Lesbian tow’rs, Provok’d to wrastle with the iron pow’rs Philomelides vaunted, he approv’d; When down he hurl’d his challenger, and mov’d Huge shouts from all the Achives then in view. If, once come home, he all those forces drew About him there to work, they all were dead, And should find bitter his attempted bed. But what you ask and sue for, I, as far As I have heard the true-spoke mariner, Will tell directly, nor delude your ear: He told me that an island did ensphere, In much discomfort, great Laertes’ son; And that the Nymph Calypso, overrun With his affection, kept him in her caves, Where men, nor ship, of pow’r to brook the waves, Were near his convoy to his country’s shore, And where herself importun’d evermore His quiet stay; which not obtain’d, by force She kept his person from all else recourse.’ This told Atrides, which was all he knew. Nor stay’d I more, but from the Gods there blew A prosp’rous wind, that set me quickly here.” This put his mother quite from all her cheer. When Theoclymenus the augur said: “O woman, honour’d with Ulysses’ bed, Your son, no doubt, knows clearly nothing more, Hear me yet speak, that can the truth uncore, Nor will be curious. Jove then witness bear, And this thy hospitable table here, With this whole household of your blameless lord, That at this hour his royal feet are shor’d On his lov’d country-earth, and that ev’n here Coming, or creeping, he will see the cheer These Wooers make, and in his soul’s field sow Seeds that shall thrive to all their overthrow. This, set a ship-board, I knew sorted thus, And cried it out to your Telemachus.” Penelopé replied: “Would this would prove, You well should witness a most friendly love, And gifts such of me, as encount’ring Fame Should greet you with a blesséd mortal’s name.” This mutual speech past, all the Wooers were Hurling the stone, and tossing of the spear, Before the palace, in the pavéd court, Where otherwhiles their petulant resort Sat plotting injuries. But when the hour Of supper enter’d, and the feeding pow’r Brought sheep from field, that fill’d up ev’ry way With those that us’d to furnish that purvey, Medon, the herald (who of all the rest Pleas’d most the Wooers, and at ev’ry feast Was ever near) said: “You whose kind consort Make the fair branches of the tree our court, Grace it within now, and your suppers take. You that for health, and fair contention’s sake, Will please your minds, know, bodies must have meat; _Play’s worse than idleness in times to eat.”_ This said, all left, came in, cast by, on thrones And chairs, their garments. Their provisións Were sheep, swine, goats, the chiefly-great and fat, Besides an ox that from the herd they gat. And now the king and herdsman, from the field, In good way were to town; ’twixt whom was held Some walking conference, which thus begun The good Eumæus: “Guest, your will was won, Because the prince commanded, to make way Up to the city, though I wish’d your stay, And to have made you guardian of my stall; But I, in care and fear of what might fall In after-anger of the prince, forbore. _The checks of princes touch their subjects sore._ But make we haste, the day is nearly ended, And cold airs still are in the even extended.” “I know’t,” said he, “consider all; your charge Is giv’n to one that understands at large. Haste then. Hereafter, you shall lead the way; Afford your staff too, if it fit your stay, That I may use it; since you say our pass Is less friend to a weak foot than it was.” Thus cast he on his neck his nasty scrip, All-patch’d and torn; a cord, that would not slip For knots and bracks about the mouth of it, Made serve the turn; and then his swain did fit His forc’d state with a staff. Then plied they hard Their way to town, their cottage left in guard To swains and dogs. And now Eumæus led The king along, his garments to a thread All-bare and burn’d, and he himself hard bore Upon his staff, at all parts like a poor And sad old beggar. But when now they got The rough highway, their voyage wanted not Much of the city, where a fount they reach’d, From whence the town their choicest water fetch’d, That ever overflow’d, and curious art Was shown about it; in which three had part Whose names Neritus and Polyctor were, And famous Ithacus. It had a sphere Of poplar, that ran round about the wall; And into it a lofty rock let fall Continual supply of cool clear stream. On whose top, to the Nymphs that were supreme In those parts’ loves, a stately altar rose, Where ev’ry traveller did still impose Devoted sacrifice. At this fount found These silly travellers a man renown’d For guard of goats, which now he had in guide, Whose huge-stor’d herd two herdsmen kept beside, For all herds it excell’d, and bred a feed For Wooers only. He was Dolius’ seed, And call’d Melanthius. Who casting eye On these two there, he chid them terribly, And so past mean, that ev’n the wretched fate Now on Ulysses he did irritate. His fume to this effect he did pursue: “Why so,’tis now at all parts passing true, That ill leads ill, good evermore doth train With like his like. Why, thou unenvied swain, Whither dost thou lead this same victless leaguer, This bane of banquets, this most nasty beggar, Whose sight doth make one sad, it so abhors? Who, with his standing in so many doors, Hath broke his back; and all his beggary tends To beg base crusts, but to no manly ends, As asking swords, or with activity To get a caldron. Wouldst thou give him me, To farm my stable, or to sweep my yard, And bring browse to my kids, and that preferr’d He should be at my keeping for his pains To drink as much whey as his thirsty veins Would still be swilling (whey made all his fees) His monstrous belly would oppress his knees. But he hath learn’d to lead base life about, And will not work, but crouch among the rout For broken meat to cram his bursten gut. Yet this I’ll say, and he will find it put In sure effect, that if he enters where Ulysses’ roofs cast shade, the stools will there About his ears fly, all the house will throw, And rub his ragged sides with cuffs enow.” Past these reviles, his manless rudeness spurn’d Divine Ulysses; who at no part turn’d His face from him, but had his spirit fed With these two thoughts, if he should strike him dead With his bestowéd staff, or at his feet Make his direct head and the pavement meet. But he bore all, and entertain’d a breast That in the strife of all extremes did rest. Eumæus, frowning on him, chid him yet, And, lifting up his hands to heav’n, he set This bitter curse at him: “O you that bear Fair name to be the race of Jupiter, Nymphs of these fountains! If Ulysses ever Burn’d thighs to you, that, hid in fat, did never Fail your acceptance, of or lamb or kid, Grant this grace to me: Let the man thus hid Shine through his dark fate, make some God his guide, That, to thee, goatherd, this same palate’s pride,[1] Thou driv’st afore thee, he may come and make The scatt’rings of the earth, and overtake Thy wrongs, with forcing thee to ever err About the city, hunted by his fear. And in the mean space by some slothful swains Let lousy sickness gnaw thy cattle’s veins.” “O Gods!” replied Melanthius, “what a curse Hath this dog bark’d out, and can yet do worse! This man shall I have giv’n into my hands, When in a well-built ship to far-off lands I shall transport him, that, should I want here, My sale of him may find me victuals there. And, for Ulysses, would to heav’n his joy The silver-bearing-bow God would destroy, This day, within his house, as sure as he The day of his return shall never see.” This said, he left them going silent on; But he out-went them, and took straight upon The palace-royal, which he enter’d straight, Sat with the Wooers, and his trencher’s freight The carvers gave him of the flesh there vented, But bread the rev’rend butleress presented. He took against Eurymachus his place, Who most of all the Wooers gave him grace. And now Ulysses and his swain got near, When round about them visited their ear The hollow harp’s delicious-stricken string, To which did Phemius, near the Wooers, sing. Then by the hand Ulysses took his swain, And said: “Eumæus, one may here see plain, In many a grace, that Laertiades Built here these turrets, and,’mongst others these, His whole court arm’d with such a goodly wall, The cornice, and the cope, majestical, His double gates, and turrets, built too strong For force or virtue ever to expugn. I know the feasters in it now abound, Their cates cast such a savour; and the sound The harp gives argues an accomplish’d feast. _The Gods made music banquet’s dearest guest.”_ “These things,” said he, “your skill may tell with ease, Since you are grac’d with greater knowledges. But now consult we how these works shall sort, If you will first approach this praiséd court, And see these Wooers, I remaining here; Or I shall enter, and yourself forbear? But be not you too tedious in your stay, Lest thrust ye be and buffeted away. _Brain hath no fence for blows;_ look to ’t I pray.” “You speak to one that comprehends,” said he, “Go you before, and here adventure me. I have of old been us’d to cuffs and blows; My mind is harden’d, having borne the throes Of many a sour event in waves and wars, Where knocks and buffets are no foreigners. And this same harmful belly by no mean The greatest abstinent can ever wean. _Men suffer much bane by the belly’s rage;_ For whose sake ships in all their equipage Are arm’d, and set out to th’ untamed seas, Their bulks full-fraught with ills to enemies.” Such speech they chang’d; when in the yard there lay A dog, call’d Argus, which, before his way Assum’d for Ilion, Ulysses bred, Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead, As being too young, but, growing to his grace, Young men made choice of him for ev’ry chace, Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts. But his king gone, and he, now past his parts, Lay all abjectly on the stable’s store, Before the oxstall, and mules’ stable door, To keep the clothes cast from the peasants’ hands, While they laid compass on Ulysses’ lands, The dog, with ticks (unlook’d-to) overgrown. But by this dog no sooner seen but known Was wise Ulysses, who new-enter’d there, Up went his dog’s laid ears, and, coming near, Up he himself rose, fawn’d, and wagg’d his stern, Couch’d close his ears, and lay so; nor discern[2] Could evermore his dear-lov’d lord again. Ulysses saw it, nor had pow’r t’ abstain From shedding tears; which (far-off seeing his swain) He dried from his sight clean; to whom he thus His grief dissembled: “’Tis miraculous, That such a dog as this should have his lair On such a dunghill, for his form is fair. And yet, I know not, if there were in him Good pace, or parts, for all his goodly limb; Or he liv’d empty of those inward things, As are those trencher-beagles tending kings, Whom for their pleasure’s, or their glory’s, sake, Or fashion, they into their favour take.” “This dog,” said he, “was servant to one dead A huge time since. But if he bore his head, For form and quality, of such a height, As when Ulysses, bound for th’ Ilion fight, Or quickly after, left him, your rapt eyes Would then admire to see him use his thighs In strength and swiftness. He would nothing fly, Nor anything let ’scape. If once his eye Seiz’d any wild beast, he knew straight his scent; Go where he would, away with him he went. Nor was there ever any savage stood Amongst the thickets of the deepest wood Long time before him, but he pull’d him down; As well by that true hunting to be shown In such vast coverts, as for speed of pace In any open lawn. For in deep chace He was a passing-wise and well-nos’d hound. And yet is all this good in him uncrown’d With any grace here now, nor he more fed Than any errant cur. His king is dead, Far from his country; and his servants are So negligent they lend his hound no care. _Where masters rule not, but let men alone, You never there see honest service done. That man’s half-virtue Jove takes quite away, That once is sun-burnt with the servile day.”_ This said, he enter’d the well-builded-tow’rs, Up bearing right upon the glorious Wooers, And left poor Argus dead; his lord’s first sight Since that time twenty years bereft his light. Telemachus did far the first behold Eumæus enter, and made signs he should Come up to him. He, noting, came, and took On earth his seat. And then the master-cook Serv’d in more banquet; of which, part he set Before the Wooers, part the prince did get, Who sate alone, his table plac’d aside; To which the herald did the bread divide. After Eumæus, enter’d straight the king,[3] Like to a poor and heavy aged thing, Bore hard upon his staff, and was so clad As would have made his mere beholder sad. Upon the ashen floor his limbs he spread, And ’gainst a cypress-threshold stay’d his head, The tree wrought smooth, and in a line direct Tried by the plumb and by the architect. The prince then bade the herdsman give him bread, The finest there, and see that prostrated At-all-parts plight of his giv’n all the cheer His hands could turn to: “Take,” said he, “and bear These cates to him, and bid him beg of all These Wooers here, and to their festival Bear up with all the impudence he can; _Bashful behaviour fits no needy man.”_ He heard, and did his will. “Hold guest,” said he, “Telemachus commends these cates to thee, Bids thee bear up, and all these Wooers implore. _Wit must make impudent whom Fate makes poor.”_ “O Jove,” said he, “do my poor pray’rs the grace To make him blessed’st of the mortal race, And ev’ry thought now in his gen’rous heart To deeds that further my desires convert.” Thus took he in with both his hands his store, And in the uncouth scrip, that lay before His ill-shod feet, repos’d it; whence he fed All time the music to the feasters play’d. Both jointly ending, then began the Wooers To put in old act their tumultuous pow’rs; When Pallas standing close did prompt her friend, To prove how far the bounties would extend Of those proud Wooers; so, to let him try Who most, who least, had learn’d humanity. However, no thought touch’d Minerva’s mind, That anyone should ’scape his wreak design’d. He handsomely became all, crept about To ev’ry Wooer, held a forc’d hand out, And all his work did in so like a way, As he had practis’d begging many a day. And though they knew all beggars could do this, Yet they admir’d it as no deed of his; Though far from thought of other, us’d expence And pity to him, who he was, and whence, Inquiring mutually. Melanthius then: “Hear me, ye Wooers of the far-fam’d queen, About this beggar. I have seen before This face of his; and know for certain more, That this swain brought him hither. What he is, Or whence he came, flies me.” Reply to this Antinous made, and mock’d Eumæus thus: “O thou renownéd herdsman, why to us Brought’st thou this beggar? Serves it not our hands; That other land-leapers, and cormorands, Profane poor knaves, lie on us, unconducted, But you must bring them? So amiss instructed Art thou in course of thrift, as not to know Thy lord’s goods wrack’d in this their overflow? Which think’st thou nothing, that thou call’st in these?” Eumæus answer’d: “Though you may be wise, You speak not wisely. Who calls in a guest That is a guest himself? None call to feast Other than men that are of public use, Prophets, or poets, whom the Gods produce, Physicians for men’s ills, or architects. Such men the boundless earth affords respects Bounded in honour, and may call them well. But poor men who calls? Who doth so excell In others’ good to do himself an ill? But all Ulysses’ servants have been still Eyesores in your way more than all that woo, And chiefly I. But what care I for you, As long as these roofs hold as thralls to none The wise Penelope and her god-like son?” “Forbear,” said he, “and leave this tongue’s bold ill. Antinous uses to be crossing still, And give sharp words; his blood that humour bears, To set men still together by the ears. But,” turning then t’ Antinous, “O,” said he, “You entertain a father’s care of me, To turn these eating guests out. ’Tis advice Of needful use for my poor faculties, But God doth not allow this; there must be Some care of poor men in humanity. What you yourselves take, give; I not envy, But give command that hospitality Be giv’n all strangers. Nor shall my pow’rs fear, If this mood in me reach my mother’s ear; Much less the servants’, that are here to see Ulysses’ house kept in his old degree. But you bear no such mind, your wits more cast To fill yourself than let another taste.” Antinous answer’d him: “Brave-spoken man! Whose mind’s free fire see check’d no virtue can. If all we Wooers here would give as much As my mind serves, his[4] largess should be such As would for three months serve his far-off way From troubling your house with more cause of stay.” This said, he took a stool up, that did rest, Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast, And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all, And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival. And so Ulysses for the present was, And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass Bent to the door to eat. Yet could not leave Antinous so, but said: “Do you too give, Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me As you not worst were of the company, But best, and so much that you seem the king, And therefore you should give some better thing Than bread, like others. I will spread your praise Through all the wide world, that have in my days Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways Of other men ev’n to the title Blest; And often have I giv’n an erring guest (How mean soever) to the utmost gain Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men, And had all other comings in, with which Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich. Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so; To which, his mean was this: He made me go Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates, where, in port, I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore, And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore Up to the mountains, who, intemperate, And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate, Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence, And unwean’d children, with the foul expence Both of their fames and bloods. The cry then flew Straight to the city; and the great fields grew With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms; When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms) An ill flight cast amongst my men; not one Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood Their ill fate thick about them; some in blood, And some in bondage; toils led by constraint Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent To Cyprus with a stranger-prince they met, Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command. And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.” “And what God sent,” said he, “this suff’ring bane To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane My board so boldly, lest I show thee here Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there. You are a saucy set-fac’d vagabond. About with all you go, and they, beyond Discretion, give thee, since they find not here The least proportion set down to their cheer. But ev’ry fountain hath his under-floods. _It is no bounty to give others’ goods.”_ “O Gods,” replied Ulysses, “I see now, You bear no soul in this your goodly show. Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat; Since, sitting where another’s board is spread, That flows with feast, not to the broken bread Will your allowance reach.” “Nay then,” said he, And look’d austerely, “if so saucy be Your suffer’d language, I suppose, that clear You shall not ’scape without some broken cheer.” Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit The king’s right shoulder, ’twixt his neck and it. He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart Nor stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close He bound in silence, shook his head, and went Out to the entry, where he then gave vent To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat, And talk’d still to the Wooers: “Hear me yet, Ye Wooers of the Queen. It never grieves A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves, Or other main possessions, a man fights; But for his harmful belly this man smites, Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe. And if the poor have Gods, and Furies too, Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath, He shall be worn upon the dart of death.” “Harsh guest,” said he, “sit silent at your meat, Or seek your desp’rate plight some safer seat, Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years, And rend your rotten rags about your ears.” This made the rest as highly hate his folly, As he had violated something holy. When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began: “Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man On such an errant wretch. O ill dispos’d! Perhaps some sacred Godhead goes enclos’d Ev’n in his abject outside; for the Gods Have often visited these rich abodes Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs (Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs, Observing, as they pass still, who they be That piety love, and who impiety.” This all men said, but he held sayings cheap. And all this time Telemachus did heap Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart, To see his father stricken; yet let part No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought As deep as those ills that were after wrought. The Queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke, Said to her maid (as to her Wooer she spoke), “I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun, Would strike thy heart so.” Her wish, thus begun, Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursued Her execration, and did thus conclude: “So may our vows call down from heav’n his end, And let no one life of the rest extend His life till morning.” “O Eurynomé,” Replied the Queen, “may all Gods speak in thee, For all the Wooers we should rate as foes, Since all their weals they place in others’ woes! But this Antinous we past all should hate, As one resembling black and cruel Fate. A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need, Ask’d all, and ev’ry one gave in his deed, Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants, Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts, And with a cruel blow, his force let fly, ‘Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.” These minds, above, she and her maids did show, While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below. In which time she Eumæus call’d, and said: “Go, good Eumæus, and see soon convey’d The stranger to me; bid him come and take My salutations for his welcome’s sake, And my desire serve, if he hath not heard Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall He hath by him been met and spoke withal?” “O Queen,” said he, “I wish to heav’n your ear Were quit of this unrev’rend noise you hear From these rude Wooers, when I bring the guest; Such words your ear would let into your breast As would delight it to your very heart. Three nights and days I did my roof impart To his fruition (for he came to me The first of all men since he fled the sea) And yet he had not giv’n a perfect end To his relation of what woes did spend The spite of Fate on him, but as you see[5] A singer, breathing out of Deity Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear; So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat, Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete, Where first the memories of Minos were, A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear As his true father; and from thence came he Tir’d on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea, To cast himself in dust, and tumble here, At Wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer. But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell, A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell The still survival; who his native light Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.” “Call him,” said she, “that he himself may say This over to me. We shall soon have way Giv’n by the Wooers; they, as well at gate, As set within doors, use to recreate Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead They follow; and may well; for still they tread Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted In poor-kept houses, only something tasted Their bread and wine is by their household swains, But they themselves let loose continual reins To our expenses, making slaughter still Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill, And vainly lavishing our richest wine; All these extending past the sacred line, For here lives no man like Ulysses now To curb these reins. But should he once show His country-light his presence, he and his Would soon revenge these Wooers’ injuries.” This said, about the house, in echoes round, Her son’s strange neesings made a horrid sound;[6] At which the Queen yet laugh’d, and said: “Go call The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all My words last utter’d, what a neesing brake From my Telemachus? From whence I make, This sure conclusion: That the death and fate Of ev’ry Wooer here is near his date. Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new, These hands shall yield him.” This said, down he went, And told Ulysses, “that the Queen had sent To call him to her, that she might enquire About her husband what her sad desire Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true, Both coat, and cassock (which he needed) new Her hands would put on him; and that the bread, Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread, Should freely feed his hunger now from her, Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.” His answer was: “I will with fit speed tell The whole truth to the Queen; for passing well I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d With this rude multitude of Wooers here, The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere. Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault, Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault From my poor shoulders. Therefore, though she haste, Beseech the Queen her patience will see past The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire. ’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire In th’ ev’ning’s cold, because my weeds, you know, Are passing thin; for I made bold to show Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.” He heard, and hasted; and met instantly The Queen upon the pavement in his way, Who ask’d: “What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear Of th’ unjust Wooers? Or thus hard doth bear On any other doubt the house objects? He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects To his fear’d safety.” “He does right,” said he, “And what he fears should move the policy Of any wise one; taking care to shun The violent Wooers. He bids bide, till sun Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, Queen, ’Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen, May pass th’ encounter; you to speak more free, And he your ear gain less distractedly.” “The guest is wise,” said she, “and well doth give The right thought use. Of all the men that live, Life serves none such as these proud Wooers are, To give a good man cause to use his care.” Thus, all agreed, amongst the Wooers goes Eumæus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close, Said: “Now, my love, my charge shall take up me, (Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see In fit protection. But, in chief, regard Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard, Lest suff’rance seize you. Many a wicked thought Conceal these Wooers; whom just Jove see brought To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.” “So chance it, friend,” replied Telemachus, “Your bever taken, go. In first of day Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may. To me and to th’ Immortals be the care or whatsoever here the safeties are.” This said, he sat in his elaborate throne. Eumæus (fed to satisfaction) Went to his charge, left both the court and walls Full of secure and fatal festivals, In which the Wooers’ pleasures still would sway. And now begun the even’s near-ending day.