Part 40

The upper rags that wise Ulysses wore Cast off, he rusheth to the great hall door With bow and quiver full of shafts, which down He pour’d before his feet, and thus made known His true state to the Wooers: “This strife thus Hath harmless been decided; now for us There rests another mark, more hard to hit, And such as never man before hath smit; Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay, And try if Phœbus will give me his day.” He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust Right at Antinous; and struck him just As he was lifting up the bowl, to show That ’twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow. Death touch’d not at his thoughts at feast; for who Would think that he alone could perish so Amongst so many, and he best of all? The arrow in his throat took full his fall, And thrust his head far through the other side. Down fell his cup, down he, down all his pride; Straight from his nostrils gush’d the human gore; And, as he fell, his feet far overbore The feastful table; all the roast and bread About the house strew’d. When his high-born head The rest beheld so low, up rush’d they all, And ransack’d ev’ry corner of the hall For shields and darts; but all fled far their reach. Then fell they foul on him with terrible speech, And told him it should prove the dearest shaft That ever pass’d him; and that now was saft No shift for him, but sure and sudden death; For he had slain a man, whose like did breathe In no part of the kingdom; and that now He should no more for games strive with his bow, But vultures eat him there. These threats they spent, Yet ev’ry man believ’d that stern event Chanc’d ’gainst the author’s will. O fools, to think That all their rest had any cup to drink But what their great Antinous began! He, frowning, said: “Dogs, see in me the man Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries File with my women’s rapes; in which ye woo The wife of one that lives, and no thought show Of man’s fit fear, or God’s, your present fame, Or any fair sense of your future name; And, therefore, present and eternal death Shall end your base life.” This made fresh fears breathe Their former boldness. Ev’ry man had eye On all the means, and studied ways to fly So deep deaths imminent. But seeing none, Eurymachus began with suppliant moan To move his pity, saying: “If you be This isle’s Ulysses, we must all agree, In grant of your reproof’s integrity, The Greeks have done you many a wrong at home, At field as many. But of all the sum Lies here contract in death; for only he Impos’d the whole ill-offices that we Are now made guilty of, and not so much Sought his endeavours, or in thought did touch At any nuptials, but a greater thing Employ’d his forces; for to be our king Was his chief object; his sole plot it was To kill your son, which Jove’s hand would not pass, But set it to his own most merited end. In which end your just anger, nor extend Your stern wreak further; spend your royal pow’rs In mild ruth of your people; we are yours; And whatsoever waste of wine or food Our liberties have made, we’ll make all good In restitutions. Call a court, and pass A fine of twenty oxen, gold, and brass, On ev’ry head, and raise your most rates still, Till you are pleas’d with your confesséd fill. Which if we fail to tender, all your wrath It shall be justice in our bloods to bathe.” “Eurymachus,” said he, “if you would give All that your fathers’ hoard, to make ye live, And all that ever you yourselves possess, Or shall by any industry increase, I would not cease from slaughter, till your bloods Had bought out your intemp’rance in my goods. It rests now for you that you either fight That will ’scape death, or make your way by flight. In whose best choice, my thoughts conceive, not one Shall shun the death your first hath undergone.” This quite dissolv’d their knees. Eurymachus, Enforcing all their fears, yet counsell’d thus: “O friends! This man, now he hath got the bow And quiver by him, ever will bestow His most inaccessible hands at us, And never leave, if we avoid him thus, Till he hath strewn the pavement with us all; And, therefore, join we swords, and on him fall With tables forc’d up, and borne in oppos’d Against his sharp shafts; when, being round-enclos’d By all our onsets, we shall either take His horrid person, or for safety make His rage retire from out the hall and gates; And then, if he escape, we’ll make our states Known to the city by our gen’ral cry. And thus this man shall let his last shaft fly That ever his hand vaunted.” Thus he drew His sharp-edg’d sword; and with a table flew In on Ulysses, with a terrible throat His fierce charge urging. But Ulysses smote The board, and cleft it through from end to end Borne at his breast; and made his shaft extend His sharp head to his liver, his broad breast Pierc’d at his nipple; when his hand releast Forthwith his sword, that fell and kiss’d the ground, With cups and victuals lying scatter’d round About the pavement; amongst which his brow Knock’d the imbrued earth, while in pains did flow His vital spirits, till his heels shook out His feastful life, and hurl’d a throne about That way-laid death’s convulsions in his feet; When from his tender eyes the light did fleet. Then charg’d Amphinomus with his drawn blade The glorious king, in purpose to have made His feet forsake the house; but his assay The prince prevented, and his lance gave way Quite through his shoulder, at his back; his breast The fierce pile letting forth. His ruin prest Groans from the pavement, which his forehead strook. Telemachus his long lance then forsook— Left in Amphinomus—and to his sire Made fiery pass, not staying to acquire His lance again, in doubt that, while he drew The fixéd pile, some other might renew Fierce charge upon him, and his unharm’d head Cleave with his back-drawn sword; for which he fled Close to his father, bade him arm, and he Would bring him shield and jav’lins instantly, His own head arming, more arms laying by To serve the swine-herd and the oxen-herd. _Valour well arm’d is ever most preferr’d._ “Run then,” said he, “and come before the last Of these auxiliary shafts are past, For fear, lest, left alone, they force my stand From forth the ports.” He flew, and brought to hand Eight darts, four shields, four helms. His own parts then First put in arms, he furnish’d both his men, That to their king stood close; but he, as long As he had shafts to friend, enough was strong For all the Wooers, and some one man still He made make even with earth, till all a hill Had rais’d in th’ even-floor’d hall. His last shaft spent, He set his bow against a beam, and went To arm at all parts, while the other three Kept off the Wooers, who, unarm’d, could be No great assailants. In the well-built wall A window was thrust out, at end of all The house’s entry; on whose utter side There lay a way to town, and in it wide And two-leav’d folds were forg’d, that gave fit mean For flyers-out; and, therefore, at it then Ulysses plac’d Eumæus in close guard; One only pass ope to it, which (prepar’d In this sort by Ulysses ’gainst all pass) By Agelaus’ tardy memory was In question call’d, who bade some one ascend At such a window, and bring straight to friend The city with his clamour, that this man Might quickly shoot his last. “This no one can Make safe access to,” said Melanthius, “For ’tis too near the hall’s fair doors, whence thus The man afflicts ye; for from thence there lies But one strait passage to it, that denies Access to all, if any one man stand, Being one of courage, and will countermand Our offer to it. But I know a way To bring you arms, from where the King doth lay His whole munition; and believe there is No other place to all the armories Both of himself and son.” This said, a pair Of lofty stairs he climb’d, and to th’ affair Twelve shields, twelve lances brought, as many casques With horsehair plumes; and set to bitter tasks Both son and sire. Then shrunk Ulysses’ knees, And his lov’d heart, when thus in arms he sees So many Wooers, and their shaken darts; For then the work show’d as it ask’d more parts To safe performance, and he told his son That or Melanthius or his maids had done A deed that foul war to their hands conferr’d. “O father,” he replied, “’tis I have err’d In this caus’d labour; I, and none but I, That left the door ope of your armoury. But some, it seems, hath set a sharper eye On that important place. Eumæus! Haste And shut the door, observing who hath past To this false action; any maid, or one That I suspect more, which is Dolius’ son.” While these spake thus, Melanthius went again For more fair arms; when the renownéd swain Eumæus saw, and told Ulysses straight It was the hateful man that his conceit Before suspected, who had done that ill; And, being again there, ask’d if he should kill, If his pow’r serv’d, or he should bring the swain To him, t’ inflict on him a sev’ral pain For ev’ry forfeit he had made his house. He answer’d: “I and my Telemachus Will here contain these proud ones in despite, How much soever these stol’n arms excite Their guilty courages, while you two take Possession of the chamber. The doors make Sure at your back, and then, surprising him, His feet and hands bind, wrapping ev’ry limb In pliant chains; and with a halter cast Above the wind-beam—at himself made fast— Aloft the column draw him; where alive He long may hang, and pains enough deprive His vexéd life before his death succeed.” This charge, soon heard, as soon they put to deed, Stole on his stealth, and at the further end Of all the chamber saw him busily bend His hands to more arms, when they, still at door, Watch’d his return. At last he came, and bore In one hand a fair helm, in th’ other held A broad and ancient rusty-rested shield, That old Laertes in his youth had worn, Of which the cheek-bands had with age been torn. They rush’d upon him, caught him by the hair, And dragg’d him in again; whom, crying out, They cast upon the pavement, wrapp’d about With sure and pinching cords both foot and hand, And then, in full act of their King’s command, A pliant chain bestow’d on him, and hal’d His body up the column, till he scal’d The highest wind-beam; where made firmly fast, Eumæus on his just infliction past This pleasurable cavil: “Now you may All night keep watch here, and the earliest day Discern, being hung so high, to rouse from rest Your dainty cattle to the Wooers’ feast. There, as befits a man of means so fair, Soft may you sleep, nought under you but air; And so long hang you.” Thus they left him there, Made fast the door, and with Ulysses were All arm’d in th’ instant. Then they all stood close, Their minds fire breath’d in flames against their foes, Four in th’ entry fighting all alone; When from the hall charg’d many a mighty one. But to them then Jove’s seed, Minerva, came, Resembling Mentor both in voice and frame Of manly person. Passing well apaid Ulysses was, and said: “Now, Mentor, aid ’Gainst these odd mischiefs; call to memory now My often good to thee, and that we two Of one year’s life are.” Thus he said, but thought ft was Minerva, that had ever brought To her side safety. On the other part, The Wooers threaten’d; but the chief in heart Was Agelaus, who to Mentor spake: “Mentor! Let no words of Ulysses make Thy hand a fighter on his feeble side ‘Gainst all us Wooers; for we firm abide In this persuasion, that when sire and son Our swords have slain, thy life is sure to run One fortune with them. What strange acts hast thou Conceit to form here? Thy head must bestow The wreak of theirs on us. And when thy pow’rs Are taken down by these fierce steels of ours, All thy possessions, in-doors and without, Must raise on heap with his; and all thy rout Of sons and daughters in thy turrets bleed Wreak off’rings to us; and our town stand freed Of all charge with thy wife.” Minerva’s heart Was fir’d with these braves, the approv’d desert Of her Ulysses chiding, saying: “No more Thy force nor fortitude as heretofore Will gain thee glory; when nine years at Troy White-wristed Helen’s rescue did employ Thy arms and wisdom, still and ever us’d, The bloods of thousands through the field diffus’d By thy vast valour; Priam’s broad-way’d town By thy grave parts was sack’d and overthrown; And now, amongst thy people and thy goods, Against the Wooers’ base and petulant bloods Stint’st thou thy valour? Rather mourning here Than manly fighting? Come, friend, stand we near, And note my labour, that thou may’st discern Amongst thy foes how Mentor’s nerves will earn All thy old bounties.” This she spake, but stay’d Her hand from giving each-way-often-sway’d Uncertain conquest to his certain use, But still would try what self-pow’rs would produce Both in the father and the glorious son. Then on the wind-beam that along did ron The smoky roof, transform’d, Minerva sat, Like to a swallow; sometimes cuffing at The swords and lances, rushing from her seat, And up and down the troubl’d house did beat Her wing at ev’ry motion. And as she Had rous’d Ulysses; so the enemy Damastor’s son excited, Polybus, Amphinomus, and Demoptolemus, Eurynomus, and Polyctorides; For these were men that of the wooing prease Were most egregious, and the clearly best In strength of hand of all the desp’rate rest That yet surviv’d, and now fought for their souls; Which straight swift arrows sent among the fowls. But first, Damastor’s son had more spare breath To spend on their excitements ere his death, And said: That now Ulysses would forbear His dismal hand, since Mentor’s spirit was there, And blew vain vaunts about Ulysses’ ears; In whose trust he would cease his massacres, Rest him, and put his friend’s huge boasts in proof; And so was he beneath the entry’s roof Left with Telemachus and th’ other two. “At whom,” said he, “discharge no darts, but throw All at Ulysses, rousing his faint rest; Whom if we slaughter, by our interest In Jove’s assistance, all the rest may yield Our pow’rs no care, when he strews once the field.” As he then will’d, they all at random threw Where they suppos’d he rested; and then flew Minerva after ev’ry dart, and made Some strike the threshold, some the walls invade, Some beat the doors, and all acts render’d vain Their grave steel offer’d. Which escap’d, again Came on Ulysses, saying: “O that we The Wooers’ troop with our joint archery Might so assail, that where their spirits dream On our deaths first, we first may slaughter them!” Thus the much-suff’rer said; and all let-fly, When ev’ry man struck dead his enemy. Ulysses slaughter’d Demoptolemus. Euryades by young Telemachus His death encounter’d. Good Eumæus slew Elatus. And Philœtius overthrew Pisander. All which tore the pavéd floor Up with their teeth. The rest retir’d before Their second charge to inner rooms; and then Ulysses follow’d; from the slaughter’d men Their darts first drawing. While which work was done, The Wooers threw with huge contention To kill them all; when with her swallow-wing Minerva cuff’d, and made their jav’lins ring Against the doors and thresholds, as before. Some yet did graze upon their marks. One tore The prince’s wrist, which was Amphimedon, Th’ extreme part of the skin but touch’d upon. Ctesippus over good Eumeeus’ shield His shoulder’s top did taint; which yet did yield The lance free pass, and gave his hurt the ground. Again then charg’d the Wooers, and girt round Ulysses with their lances; who turn’d head, And with his jav’lin struck Eurydamas dead. Telemachus disliv’d Amphimedon; Eumæus, Polybus; Philœtius won Ctesippus’ bosom with his dart, and said, In quittance of the jester’s part he play’d, The neat’s foot hurling at Ulysses: “Now, Great son of Polytherses, you that vow Your wit to bitter taunts, and love to wound The heart of any with a jest, so crown’d Your wit be with a laughter, never yielding To fools in folly, but your glory building On putting down in fooling, spitting forth Puff’d words at all sorts, cease to scoff at worth, And leave revenge of vile words to the Gods, Since their wits bear the sharper edge by odds; And, in the mean time, take the dart I drave, For that right hospitable foot you gave Divine Ulysses, begging but his own.” Thus spake the black-ox-herdsman; and straight down Ulysses struck another with his dart— Damastor’s son. Telemachus did part, Just in the midst, the belly of the fair Evenor’s son; his fierce pile taking air Out at his back. Flat fell he on his face, His whole brows knocking, and did mark the place. And now man-slaught’ring Pallas took in hand Her snake-fring’d shield, and on that beam took stand In her true form, where swallow-like she sat. And then, in this way of the house and that, The Wooers, wounded at the heart with fear, Fled the encounter; as in pastures where Fat herds of oxen feed, about the field (As if wild madness their instincts impell’d) The high-fed bullocks fly, whom in the spring, When days are long, gad-bees or breezes sting. Ulysses and his son the flyers chas’d, As when, with crooked beaks and seres, a cast Of hill-bred eagles, cast-off at some game, That yet their strengths keep, but, put up, in flame The eagle stoops; from which, along the field The poor fowls make wing, this and that way yield Their hard-flown pinions, then the clouds assay For ’scape or shelter, their forlorn dismay All spirit exhaling, all wings’ strength to carry Their bodies forth, and, truss’d up, to the quarry Their falconers ride-in, and rejoice to see Their hawks perform a flight so fervently; So, in their flight, Ulysses with his heir Did stoop and cuff the Wooers, that the air Broke in vast sighs, whose heads they shot and cleft, The pavement boiling with the souls they reft. Liodes, running to Ulysses, took His knees, and thus did on his name invoke; “Ulysses! Let me pray thee to my place Afford the rev’rence, and to me the grace; That never did or said, to any dame Thy court contain’d, or deed, or word to blame; But others so affected I have made I lay down their insolence; and, if the trade They kept with wickedness have made them still Despise my speech, and use their wonted ill, They have their penance by the stroke of death, Which their desert divinely warranteth. But I am priest amongst them, and shall I That nought have done worth death amongst them die? From thee this proverb then will men derive: _Good turns do never their mere deeds survive.”_ He, bending his displeaséd forehead, said: “If you be priest among them, as you plead, Yet you would marry, and with my wife too, And have descent by her. For all that woo Wish to obtain, which they should never do, Dames’ husbands living. You must therefore pray Of force, and oft in Court here, that the day Of my return for him might never shine; The death to me wish’d, therefore, shall be thine.” This said, he took a sword up that was cast From Agelaus, having struck his last, And on the priest’s mid neck he laid a stroke That struck his head off, tumbling as he spoke. Then did the poet Phemius (whose surname Was call’d Terpiades; who thither came Forc’d by the Wooers) fly death; but being near The court’s great gate, he stood, and parted there In two his counsels; either to remove And take the altar of Herceian Jove (Made sacred to him, with a world of art Engrav’n about it, where were wont t’ impart Laertes and Ulysses many a thigh Of broad-brow’d oxen to the Deity) Or venture to Ulysses, clasp his knee, And pray his ruth. The last was the decree His choice resolv’d on. ’Twixt the royal throne And that fair table that the bowl stood on With which they sacrific’d, his harp he laid Along the earth, the King’s knees hugg’d, and said: “Ulysses! Let my pray’rs obtain of thee My sacred skill’s respect, and ruth to me! It will hereafter grieve thee to have slain A poet, that doth sing to Gods and men. I of myself am taught, for God alone All sorts of song hath in my bosom sown, And I, as to a God, will sing to thee; Then do not thou deal like the priest with me. Thine own lov’d son Telemachus will say, That not to beg here, nor with willing way Was my access to thy high court addrest, To give the Wooers my song after feast, But, being many, and so much more strong, They forced me hither, and compell’d my song.” This did the prince’s sacred virtue hear, And to the King, his father, said: “Forbear To mix the guiltless with the guilty’s blood. And with him likewise let our mercies save Medon the herald, that did still behave Himself with care of my good from a child; If by Eumæus yet he be not kill’d, Or by Philœtius, nor your fury met, While all this blood about the house it swet.” This Medon heard, as lying hid beneath A throne set near, half-dead with fear of death; A new-flay’d ox-hide, as but there thrown by, His serious shroud made, he lying there to fly. But hearing this he quickly left the throne, His ox-hide cast as quickly, and as soon The prince’s knees seiz’d, saying: “O my love, I am not slain, but here alive and move. Abstain yourself, and do not see your sire Quench with my cold blood the unmeasur’d fire That flames in his strength, making spoil of me, His wrath’s right, for the Wooers’ injury.” Ulysses smil’d, and said: “Be confident This man hath sav’d and made thee different, To let thee know, and say, and others see, _Good life is much more safe than villany._ Go then, sit free without from death within. This much-renownéd singer from the sin Of these men likewise quit. Both rest you there, While I my house purge as it fits me here.” This said, they went and took their seat without At Jove’s high altar, looking round about, Expecting still their slaughter. When the King Search’d round the hall, to try life’s hidden wing Made from more death. But all laid prostrate there In blood and gore he saw. Whole shoals they were, And lay as thick as in a hollow creek Without the white sea, when the fishers break Their many-mesh’d draught-net up, there lie Fish frisking on the sands, and fain the dry Would for the wet change, but th’ all-seeing beam The sun exhales hath suck’d their lives from them; So one by other sprawl’d the Wooers there. Ulysses and his son then bid appear The nurse Euryclea, to let her hear His mind in something fit for her affair. He op’d the door, and call’d, and said: “Repair, Grave matron long since born, that art our spy To all this house’s servile housewif’ry; My father calls thee, to impart some thought That asks thy action.” His word found in nought Her slack observance, who straight op’d the door And enter’d to him; when himself before Had left the hall. But there the King she view’d Amongst the slain, with blood and gore imbrued. And as a lion skulking all in night, Far-off in pastures, and come home, all dight In jaws and breast-locks with an ox’s blood New feasted on him, his looks full of mood; So look’d Ulysses, all his hands and feet Freckled with purple. When which sight did greet The poor old woman (such works being for eyes Of no soft temper) out she brake in cries, Whose vent, though throughly open’d, he yet clos’d, Call’d her more near, and thus her plaints compos’d: “Forbear, nor shriek thus, but vent joys as loud. _It is no piety to bemoan the proud,_ Though ends befall them moving ne’er so much, These are the portions of the Gods to such. _Men’s own impieties in their instant act Sustain their plagues, which are with stay but rackt._ But these men Gods nor men had in esteem, Nor good nor bad had any sense in them, Their lives directly ill were, therefore, cause That Death in these stern forms so deeply draws. Recount, then, to me those licentious dames That lost my honour and their sex’s shames.” “I’ll tell you truly,” she replied: “There are Twice five-and-twenty women here that share All work amongst them; whom I taught to spin, And bear the just bands that they suffer’d in. Of all which only there were twelve that gave Themselves to impudence and light behave, Nor me respecting, nor herself—the Queen. And for your son he hath but lately been Of years to rule; nor would his mother bear His empire where her women’s labours were, But let me go and give her notice now Of your arrival. Sure some God doth show His hand upon her in this rest she takes, That all these uproars bears and never wakes.” “Nor wake her yet,” said he, “but cause to come Those twelve light women to this utter room.” She made all utmost haste to come and go, And bring the women he had summon’d so. Then both his swains and son he bade go call The women to their aid, and clear the hall Of those dead bodies, cleanse each board and throne With wetted sponges. Which with fitness done, He bade take all the strumpets ’twixt the wall Of his first court and that room next the hall, In which the vessels of the house were scour’d, And in their bosoms sheath their ev’ry sword, Till all their souls were fled, and they had then Felt ’twas but pain to sport with lawless men. This said, the women came all drown’d in moan, And weeping bitterly. But first was done The bearing thence the dead; all which beneath The portico they stow’d, where death on death They heap’d together. Then took all the pains Ulysses will’d. His son yet and the swains With paring-shovels wrought. The women bore Their parings forth, and all the clotter’d gore. The house then cleans’d, they brought the women out, And put them in a room so wall’d about That no means serv’d their sad estates to fly. Then said Telemachus: “These shall not die A death that lets out any wanton blood, And vents the poison that gave lust her food, The body cleansing, but a death that chokes The breath, and altogether that provokes And seems as bellows to abhorréd lust, That both on my head pour’d depraves unjust, And on my mother’s, scandalling the Court, With men debauch’d, in so abhorr’d a sort.” This said, a halser of a ship they cast About a cross-beam of the roof, which fast They made about their necks, in twelve parts cut, And hal’d them up so high they could not put Their feet to any stay. As which was done, Look how a mavis, or a pigeon, In any grove caught with a springe or net, With struggling pinions ’gainst the ground doth beat Her tender body, and that then strait bed Is sour to that swing in which she was bred; So striv’d these taken birds, till ev’ry one Her pliant halter had enforc’d upon Her stubborn neck, and then aloft was haul’d To wretched death. A little space they sprawl’d, Their feet fast moving, but were quickly still. Then fetch’d they down Melanthius, to fulfill The equal execution; which was done In portal of the hall, and thus begun: They first slit both his nostrils, cropp’d each ear, His members tugg’d off, which the dogs did tear And chop up bleeding sweet; and, while red-hot The vice-abhorring blood was, off they smote His hands and feet; and there that work had end. Then wash’d they hands and feet that blood had stain’d, And took the house again. And then the King Euryclea calling, bade her quickly bring All-ill-expelling brimstone, and some fire, That with perfumes cast he might make entire The house’s first integrity in all. And then his timely will was, she should call Her Queen and ladies; still yet charging her That all the handmaids she should first confer. She said he spake as fitted; but, before, She held it fit to change the weeds he wore, And she would others bring him, that not so His fair broad shoulders might rest clad, and show His person to his servants was to blame. “First bring me fire,” said he. She went and came With fire and sulphur straight; with which the hall And of the huge house all rooms capital He throughly sweeten’d. Then went nurse to call The handmaid servants down; and up she went To tell the news, and will’d them to present Their service to their sov’reign. Down they came Sustaining torches all, and pour’d a flame Of love about their lord, with welcomes home, With huggings of his hands, with laboursome Both heads and foreheads kisses, and embraces, And plied him so with all their loving graces That tears and sighs took up his whole desire; For now he knew their hearts to him entire.