Part 41

THE END OF THE TWENTY-SECOND BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses to his wife is known. A brief sum of his travels shown. Himself, his son, and servants go T’ approve the Wooers’ overthrow.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

_Ψι̑._ For all annoys Sustain’d before, The true wife’s joys Now made the more.

The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes Up where the Queen was cast in such repose, Affected with a fervent joy to tell What all this time she did with pain conceal. Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet Were borne above the ground with wings to greet The long-griev’d Queen with news her King was come; And, near her, said: “Wake, leave this withdrawn room, That now your eyes may see at length, though late, The man return’d, which, all the heavy date Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see. Ulysses is come home, and hath set free His court of all your Wooers, slaught’ring all For wasting so his goods with festival, His house so vexing, and for violence done So all ways varied to his only son.” She answer’d her: “The Gods have made thee mad, Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had. The Gods can blind with follies wisest eyes, And make men foolish so to make them wise. For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore An understanding spirit heretofore. Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when Moan Hath turn’d my mind, with tears into her own? Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them, That now had bound me in his sweet extreme, T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres: I have not slept so much this twenty years, Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion. Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid Of all my train besides a part had play’d So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies, I had return’d her to her housewif’ries With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames. But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.” She answer’d her: “I nothing wrong your ear, But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here, And, with the Wooers’ slaughter, his own hand, In chief exploit, hath to his own command Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he, That all those Wooers wrought such injury. Telemachus had knowledge long ago That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end To that great work to which they did contend.” This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places; She sprung for joy from blames into embraces Of her grave nurse, wip’d ev’ry tear away From her fair cheeks, and then began to say What nurse said over thus: “O nurse, can this Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his Alone destroy so many? They would still Troop all together. How could he then kill Such numbers so united?” “How,” said she, “I have not seen nor heard; but certainly The deed is done. We sat within in fear, The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear The sighs and groans of ev’ry man he slew, But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me, And bade me then come forth, and then I see Ulysses standing in the midst of all Your slaughter’d Wooers, heap’d up, like a wall, One on another round about his side. It would have done you good to have descried Your conqu’ring lord all-smear’d with blood and gore So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before The fore-court gates lie, one on another pil’d. And now your victor all the hall, defil’d With stench of hot death, is perfuming round, And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.

“Thus, all the death remov’d, and ev’ry room Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length, Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d A happy end to. He that long hath err’d Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son, Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d, His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.” She answer’d: “Do not you now laugh and boast As you had done some great act, seeing most Into his being; for you know he won— Ev’n through his poor and vile condition— A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d By all the house, but most of all by me, And by my son that was the progeny Of both our loves. And yet it is not he, For all the likely proofs ye plead to me,— Some God hath slain the Wooers in disdain Of the abhorréd pride he saw so reign In those base works they did. No man alive, Or good or bad, whoever did arrive At their abodes once, ever could obtain Regard of them; and therefore their so vain And vile deserts have found as vile an end. But, for Ulysses, never will extend His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.” “How strange a Queen are you,” said she, “that gives No truth your credit, that your husband, set Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet No faith of you, but that he still is far From any home of his! Your wit’s at war With all credulity ever! And yet now, I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you: I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar That still remains a mark too ocular To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then Had run and told you, but his hand was fain To close my lips from th’ acclamation My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won My still retention, till he gave me leave And charge to tell you this. Now then receive My life for gage of his return; which take In any cruel fashion, if I make All this not clear to you.” “Lov’d nurse,” said she, “Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated Gods Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods ’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come, Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom They had their slaughter.” This said, down they went; When, on the Queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent, If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand Aloof, and question more; or his hugg’d hand And lovéd head she should at first assay With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat Against her husband, in the opposite heat The fire then cast upon the other wall. Himself set by the column of the hall, His looks cast downwards, and expected still When her incredulous and curious will To shun ridiculous error, and the shame To kiss a husband that was not the same, Would down, and win enough faith from his sight. She silent sat, and her perplexéd plight Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear His person had put on transform’d him so That yet his stamp would hardly current go. Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus: “Mother, ungentle mother! tyrannous! In this too-curious modesty you show. Why sit you from my father, nor bestow A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt As may perplex you? Found man ever out One other such a wife that could forbear Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart. _No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.”_ “Son,” said she, “amaze contains my mind, Nor can I speak and use the common kind Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be My true Ulysses now return’d, there are Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far To give me argument he is my lord; And my assurance of him may afford My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes With more decorum than objéct their guise To public notice.” The much-suff’rer brake In laughter out, and to his son said: “Take Your mother from the prease, that she may make Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give More cause to the acknowledgments that drive Their show thus off. But now, because I go So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know So loath’d a creature for her lovéd lord. Let us consult, then, how we may accord The town to our late action. Some one slain Hath made the all-left slaughterer of him fain To fly his friends and country; but our swords Have slain a city’s most supportful lords, The chief peers of the kingdom, therefore see You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.” “See you to that, good father,” said the son, “Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won From all men living. None will strive with you, But with unquestion’d girlands grace your brow, To whom our whole alacrities we vow In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave Your onsets needy of supplies to give All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.” “Then this,” said he, “to me seems capital Of all choice courses: Bathe we first, and then Attire we freshly; all our maids and men Enjoining likewise to their best attire. The sacred singer then let touch his lyre, And go before us all in graceful dance, That all without, to whose ears shall advance Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by, Or firm inhabitants, solemnity Of frolic nuptials may imagine here. And this perform we, lest the massacre Of all our Wooers be divulg’d about The ample city, ere ourselves get out And greet my father in his grove of trees, Where, after, we will prove what policies Olympius shall suggest to overcome Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.” This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire Both men and women did. Then took his lyre The holy singer, and set thirst on fire With songs and faultless dances; all the court Rung with the footings that the numerous sport From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames; Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames: “This sure the day is when the much-woo’d Queen Is richly wed. O wretch! That hath not been So constant as to keep her ample house Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.” Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing. And now Eurynomé had bath’d the King, Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d The Goddess Pallas, deck’d his head and face With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace Of stature to him, a much plumper plight Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show As if the flow’ry hyacinth did grow In all his pride there, in the gen’ral trim Of ev’ry lock and ev’ry curious limb. Look how a skilful artizan, well-seen In all arts metalline, as having been Taught by Minerva and the God of fire, Doth gold with silver mix so that entire They keep their self-distinction, and yet so That to the silver from the gold doth flow A much more artificial lustre than his own, And thereby to the gold itself is grown A greater glory than if wrought alone, Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion; So did Minerva her’s and his combine, He more in her, she more in him, did shine. Like an Immortal from the bath he rose, And to his wife did all his grace dispose, Encount’ring this her strangeness: “Cruel dame Of all that breathe, the Gods past steel and flame Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one Of all dames else that bears so overgrown A mind with abstinence, as twenty years To miss her husband drown’d in woes and tears, And at his coming keep aloof, and fare As of his so long absence and his care No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed, That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead To all reflection!” To him thus replied The wise Penelope: “Man half-deified, ’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight With bravest men, nor poorest use to sleight. Your mean appearance made not me retire, Nor this your rich show makes me now admire, Nor moves at all; for what is all to me If not my husband? All his certainty I knew at parting; but, so long apart, The outward likeness holds no full desert For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see addrest A soft bed for him, and the single rest Himself affects so. Let it be the bed That stands within our bridal chamber-sted, Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence, And see it furnish’d with magnificence.” This said she to assay him, and did stir Ev’n his establish’d patience; and to her Whom thus he answer’d: “Woman! your words prove My patience strangely. Who is it can move My bed out of his place? It shall oppress Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless Ev’n God himself come, that can eas’ly grace Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place; For man he lives not that (as not most skill’d, So not most young) shall easily make it yield, If, building on the strength in which he flows, He adds both levers too and iron crows: For in the fixture of the bed is shown A master-piece, a wonder; and ’twas done By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought: There was an olive-tree that had his grought Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud, Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d, His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye It show’d a column for solidity. To this had I a comprehension To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone, Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d, Put glued doors to it, that op’d art enough, Then from the olive ev’ry broad-leav’d bough I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree; and then Went over it both with my axe and plane, Both govern’d by my line, And then I hew’d My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d Work of no common hand. All this begun, I could not leave till to perfection My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d The holes, as fitted, and did last afford The varied ornament, which show’d no want Of silver, gold, and polish’d elephant. An ox-hide dyed in purple then I threw Above the cords. And thus to curious view I hope I have objected honest sign To prove I author nought that is not mine. But if my bed stand unremov’d or no, O woman, passeth human wit to know.” This sunk her knees and heart, to hear so true The signs she urg’d; and first did tears ensue Her rapt assurance; then she ran and spread Her arms about his neck, kiss’d oft his head, And thus the curious stay she made excus’d: “Ulysses! Be not angry that I us’d Such strange delays to this, since heretofore Your suff’ring wisdom hath the garland wore From all that breathe; and ’tis the Gods that, thus With mutual miss so long afflicting us, Have caus’d my coyness; to our youths envied That wish’d society that should have tied Our youths and years together; and since now Judgment and Duty should our age allow As full joys therein as in youth and blood, See all young anger and reproof withstood For not at first sight giving up my arms, My heart still trembling lest the false alarms That words oft strike-up should ridiculize me. Had Argive Helen known credulity Would bring such plagues with it, and her again, As authoress of them all, with that foul stain To her and to her country, she had stay’d Her love and mixture from a stranger’s bed; But God impell’d her to a shameless deed, Because she had not in herself decreed, Before th’ attempt, that such acts still were shent As simply in themselves as in th’ event By which not only she herself sustains, But we, for her fault, have paid mutual pains. Yet now, since these signs of our certain bed You have discover’d, and distinguishéd From all earth’s others, no one man but you Yet ever getting of it th’ only show, Nor one of all dames but myself and she My father gave, old Actor’s progeny, Who ever guarded to ourselves the door Of that thick-shaded chamber, I no more Will cross your clear persuasion, though till now I stood too doubtful and austere to you,” These words of hers, so justifying her stay, Did more desire of joyful moan convey To his glad mind than if at instant sight She had allow’d him all his wishes’ right. He wept for joy, t’ enjoy a wife so fit For his grave mind, that knew his depth of wit, And held chaste virtue at a price so high, And as sad men at sea when shore is nigh, Which long their hearts have wish’d, their ship quite lost By Neptune’s rigour, and they vex’d and tost ’Twixt winds and black waves, swimming for their lives, A few escap’d, and that few that survives, All drench’d in foam and brine, crawl up to land, With joy as much as they did worlds command; So dear to this wife was her husband’s sight, Who still embrac’d his neck, and had, till light Display’d her silver ensign, if the Dame, That bears the blue sky intermix’d with flame In her fair eyes, had not infix’d her thought On other joys, for loves so hardly brought To long’d-for meeting; who th’ extended night Withheld in long date, nor would let the light Her wing-hoov’d horse join—Lampus, Phaeton— Those ever-colts that bring the morning on To worldly men, but, in her golden chair, Down to the ocean by her silver hair Bound her aspirings. Then Ulysses said: “O wife! Nor yet are my contentions stay’d. A most unmeasur’d labour long and hard Asks more performance; to it being prepar’d By grave Tiresiás, when down to hell I made dark passage, that his skill might tell My men’s return and mine. But come, and now Enjoy the sweet rest that our Fates allow.” “The place of rest is ready,” she replied, “Your will at full serve, since the Deified Have brought you where your right is to command. But since you know, God making understand Your searching mind, inform me what must be Your last set labour; since ’twill fall to me, I hope, to hear it after, tell me now. _The greatest pleasure is before to know.”_ “Unhappy!” said Ulysses; “To what end Importune you this labour? It will lend Nor you nor me delight, but you shall know I was commanded yet more to bestow My years in travel, many cities more By sea to visit; and when first for shore I left my shipping, I was will’d to take A naval oar in hand, and with it make My passage forth till such strange men I met As knew no sea, nor ever salt did eat With any victuals, who the purple beaks Of ships did never see, nor that which breaks The waves in curls, which is a fan-like oar, And serves as wings with which a ship doth soar. To let me know, then, when I was arriv’d On that strange earth where such a people liv’d, He gave me this for an unfailing sign: When any one that took that oar of mine, Borne on my shoulder, for a corn-cleanse fan, I met ashore, and show’d to be a man Of that land’s labour, there had I command To fix mine oar, and offer on that strand T’ imperial Neptune, whom I must implore, A lamb, a bull, and sow-ascending boar; And then turn home, where all the other Gods That in the broad heav’n made secure abodes I must solicit—all my curious heed Giv’n to the sev’ral rites they have decreed— With holy hecatombs; and then, at home, A gentle death should seize me that would come From out the sea, and take me to his rest In full ripe age, about me living blest My loving people; to which, he presag’d, The sequel of my fortunes were engag’d.” “If then,” said she, “the Gods will please t’ impose A happier being to your fortune’s close Than went before, your hope gives comfort strength That life shall lend you better days at length.” While this discourse spent mutual speech, the bed Eurynomé and nurse had made, and spread With richest furniture, while torches spent Their parcel-gilt thereon. To bed then went The aged nurse; and, where their sov’reigns were, Eurynomé, the chambermaid, did bear A torch, and went before them to their rest; To which she left them and for her’s addrest. The King and Queen then now, as newly-wed, Resum’d the old laws of th’ embracing bed. Telemachus and both his herdsmen then Dissolv’d the dances both to maids and men; Who in their shady roofs took timely sleep. The bride and bridegroom having ceas’d to keep Observéd love-joys, from their fit delight They turn’d to talk. The Queen then did recite What she had suffer’d by the hateful rout Of harmful Wooers, who had eat her out So many oxen and so many sheep, How many tun of wine their drinking deep Had quite exhausted. Great Ulysses then Whatever slaughters he had made of men, Whatever sorrows he himself sustain’d, Repeated amply; and her ears remain’d With all delight attentive to their end, Nor would one wink sleep till he told her all, Beginning where he gave the Cicons fall; From thence his pass to the Lotophagi; The Cyclop’s acts, the putting out his eye, And wreak of all the soldiers he had eat, No least ruth shown to all they could entreat; His way to Æolus; his prompt receit And kind dismission; his enforc’d retreat By sudden tempest to the fishy main, And quite distraction from his course again; His landing at the Læstrigonian port, Where ships and men in miserable sort Met all their spoils, his ship and he alone Got off from the abhorr’d confusión; His pass to Circe, her deceits and arts; His thence descension to th’ Infernal parts; His life’s course of the Theban prophet learn’d, Where all the slaughter’d Grecians he discern’d, And lovéd mother; his astonish’d ear With what the Siren’s voices made him hear; His ’scape from th’ erring rocks, which Scylla was, And rough Charybdis, with the dang’rous pass Of all that touch’d there; his Sicilian Offence giv’n to the Sun; his ev’ry man Destroy’d by thunder vollied out of heav’n, That split his ship; his own endeavours driv’n To shift for succours on th’ Ogygian shore, Where Nymph Calypso such affection bore To him in his arrival, that with feast She kept him in her caves, and would have blest His welcome life with an immortal state Would he have stay’d and liv’d her nuptial mate, All which she never could persuade him to; His pass to the Phæacians spent in woe; Their hearty welcome of him, as he were A God descended from the starry sphere; Their kind dismission of him home with gold, Brass, garments, all things his occasions would. This last word us’d, sleep seiz’d his weary eye That salves all care to all mortality. In mean space Pallas entertain’d intent That when Ulysses thought enough time spent In love-joys with his wife, to raise the day, And make his grave occasions call away. The morning rose and he, when thus he said: “O Queen, now satiate with afflictions laid On both our bosoms,—you oppresséd here With cares for my return, I ev’rywhere By Jove and all the other Deities tost Ev’n till all hope of my return was lost,— And both arriv’d at this sweet haven, our bed, Be your care us’d to see administ’red My house-possessions left. Those sheep, that were Consum’d in surfeits by your Wooers here, I’ll forage to supply with some; and more The suff’ring Grecians shall be made restore, Ev’n till our stalls receive their wonted fill.

“And now, to comfort my good father’s ill Long suffer’d for me, to the many-tree’d And ample vineyard grounds it is decreed In my next care that I must haste and see His long’d-for presence. In the mean time, be Your wisdom us’d, that since, the sun ascended, The fame will soon be through the town extended Of those I here have slain, yourself, got close Up to your chamber, see you there repose, Cheer’d with your women, and nor look afford Without your court, nor any man a word.” This said, he arm’d; to arms both son and swain His pow’r commanding, who did entertain His charge with spirit, op’d the gates and out, He leading all. And now was hurl’d about Aurora’s ruddy fire; through all whose light Minerva led them through the town from sight.

THE END OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

By Mercury the Wooers’ souls Are usher’d to th’ infernal pools. Ulysses with Laertes met, The people are in uproar set Against them, for the Wooers’ ends; Whom Pallas stays and renders friends.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

_Ω._ The uproar’s fire, The people’s fall: The grandsire, sire, And son, to all.