Part 42

Cyllenian Hermes, with his golden rod, The Wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout Forth to th’ Infernals; who came murmuring out. And as amidst the desolate retreat Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings, But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise About the cavern; so these, grumbling, rose And flock’d together. Down before them goes None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways, And straight to those straits; where the ocean stays His lofty current in calm deeps, they flew, Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew, And to the close of Phœbus’ orient gates, The nation then of dreams, and then the states Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead Had habitable situatión. And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son, Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus, And Ajax, the supremely strenuous Of all the Greek host next Pelëion; All which assembled about Maia’s son. And to them, after, came the mournful ghost Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost In false Ægisthus’ court. Achilles then Beholding there that mighty king of men, Deplor’d his plight, and said: “O Atreus’ son! Of all heroës, all opinion Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so. And is the issue this, that first in woe Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down? _None borne past others’ Fates can pass his own._ I wish to heav’n that in the height of all Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall, That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end! But now a wretched death did Fate extend To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.” “O Thetis’ son,” said he, “the vital flame Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields, The style of Blessed to thy virtue yields. About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy Were sacrific’d to slaughter. Thy just joy Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot In such a death as great Apollo shot At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate. All day we fought about thee; nor at all Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet. But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet, Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease, Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase. Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas That started up thy mother from the waves; And all the márine Godheads left their caves, Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair. The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense, Had taken ship and fled for ever thence, If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d Their rushing off; his counsels having sway’d In all times former with such cause their courses; Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces, For all they saw was Thetis come from sea, With others of the wat’ry progeny, To see and mourn for her deceaséd son. Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won; And round about thee stood th’ old sea-God’s Seeds Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine, By varied turns their heav’nly voices venting, All in deep passion for thy death consenting. And then of all our army not an eye You could have seen undrown’d in misery, The moving Muse so rul’d in ev’ry mind. Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d To celebration of thy mournéd end; Both men and Gods did in thy moan contend. The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep We slew past number. Then the precious spoil, Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil And pleasant honey we embalm’d, and then Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the Gods did rain. In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame; To which a number of heroical name, As prest to sacrifice their vital right To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d. Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d In infinite tumult. But when all the night The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite Thy body was with the enamour’d fire: We came in early morn, and an entire Collection made of ev’ry ivory bone; Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fit unctión, A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave, By Bacchus giv’n her and did form receive From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d Mix’d with the bones of Menœtiades And brave Antilochus; who, in decease Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear. About thee then a matchless sepulchre The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d, For height and conspicuity, the eyes Of living men and their posterities. Thy mother then obtain’d the Gods’ consent To institute an honour’d game, that spent The best approvement of our Grecian fames. In whose praise I must say that many games About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize With miracles to me from all before. In which thy silver-footed mother bore The institution’s name, but thy deserts, Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts. And thus, through all the worst effects of Fate, Achilles’ fame ev’n Death shall propagate. While anyone shall lend the light an eye Divine Æacides shall never die. But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d As rights to me? When, having quite achiev’d An end with safety, and with conquest, too, Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do Of all our enemies there, at home a friend And wife have giv’n me inglorious end?” While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy Brought-near Ulysses’ noble victory To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends The Wooers’ suffer’d, and show’d those his friends; Whom now amaze invaded with the view And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon, Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown To great Atrides; who first spake, and said: “Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid On your alive parts that hath made you make This land of darkness the retreat you take, So all together, all being like in years, Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers A city honours, men to make a part More strong for any object? Hath your smart Been felt from Neptune, being at sea—his wrath The winds and waves exciting to your scathe? Or have offensive men impos’d this fate— Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate? Or for your city fighting and your wives, Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives? Inform me truly. I was once your guest, When I and Menelaus had profest First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore On Ithaca, with purpose to implore Ulysses’ aid, that city-racing man, In wreak of the adult’rous Phrygian. Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date We spent at sea, in hope to instigate In our arrival old Laertes’ son, Whom, hardly yet, to our design we won.” The soul made answer: “Worthiest king of men, I well remember ev’ry passage then You now reduce to thought, and will relate The truth in whole form of our timeless fate: “We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king, Who (though her second marriage were a thing Of most hate to her) she would yet deny At no part our affections, nor comply With any in performance, but decreed, In her delays, the cruel Fates we feed. Her craft was this: She undertook to weave A funeral garment destin’d to receive The corse of old Laertes; being a task Of infinite labour, and which time would ask. In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay With this attraction: ‘Youths, that come in way Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board My choice for present nuptials, and sustain, Lest what is past me of this web be vain, Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need The old Laertes; who, possessing much, Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch My honour highly with each vulgar dame.’ Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame All-day she labour’d, her day’s work not small, But ev’ry night-time she unwrought it all. Three years continuing this imperfect task; But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask In no more covert, since her trusted maid Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d. With which surpriz’d, she could no more protract Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact To what remain’d, wash’d-up, and set thereon A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon The whole work show’d together. And when now Of mere necessity her honour’d vow She must make good to us, ill-fortune brought Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought Of his arrival, but far-off at field Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest, Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profest. At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand, And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land, When yet not home he went, but laid his way Up to his herdsman where his father lay; And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore The swine-herd and his King, the swain before, Telemachus in other ways bestow’d His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d. The swain the King led after, who came on Raggéd and wretched, and still lean’d upon A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home, Where (on the sudden and so wretched come) Nor we nor much our elders once did dream Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme Of words and blows to him; all which he bore With that old patience he had learn’d before. But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own, His son and he fetch’d all their armour down, Fast-lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use, He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce His bow to us to draw; of which no one Could stir the string; himself yet set upon The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease, Shot through the steels, and then began to seize Our armless bosoms; striking first the breast Of king Antinous, and then the rest In heaps turn’d over; hopeful of his end Because some God, he knew, stood firm his friend. Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood. And thus our souls came here; our bodies laid Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d To any friend to take us home and give Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.” Atrides’ ghost gave answer: “O bless’d son Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won With mighty virtue thy unmatchéd wife. How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life, Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid! For which her virtues shall extend applause, Beyond the circles frail mortality draws; The deathless in this vale of death comprising Her praise in numbers into infinites rising. The daughter Tyndarus begat begot No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot That knit her spouse and her with murd’rous swords. For which posterities shall put hateful words To notes of her that all her sex defam’d, And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.” To this effect these these digressions made In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade. Ulysses and his son, now past the town, Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown By old Laertes’ labour, when, with cares For his lost son, he left all court affairs, And took to this rude upland; which with toil He made a sweet and habitable soil; Where stood a house to him; about which ran, In turnings thick and labyrinthian, Poor hovels, where his necessary men That did those works (of pleasure to him then) Might sit, and eat, and sleep. In his own house An old Sicilian dame liv’d, studious To serve his sour age with her cheerful pains. Then said Ulysses to his son and swains: “Go you to town, and for your dinner kill The best swine ye can choose; myself will still Stay with my father, and assay his eye If my acknowledg’d truth it can descry, Or that my long time’s travel doth so change My sight to him that I appear as strange.” Thus gave he arms to them, and home they hied. Ulysses to the fruitful field applied His present place; nor found he Dolius there, His sons, or any servant, anywhere In all that spacious ground; all gone from thence Were dragging bushes to repair a fence, Old Dolius leading all. Ulysses found His father far above in that fair ground, Employ’d in proining of a plant; his weeds All torn and tatter’d, fit for homely deeds, But not for him. Upon his legs he wore Patch’d boots to guard him from the bramble’s gore; His hands had thorn-proof hedging mittens on; His head a goat-skin casque; through all which shone His heart giv’n over to abjectest moan. Him when Ulysses saw consum’d with age, And all the ensigns on him that the rage Of grief presented, he brake out in tears; And, taking stand then where a tree of pears Shot high his forehead over him, his mind Had much contention, if to yield to kind, Make straight way to his father, kiss, embrace, Tell his return, and put on all the face And fashion of his instant-told return; Or stay th’ impulsion, and the long day burn Of his quite loss giv’n in his father’s fear A little longer, trying first his cheer With some free dalliance, th’ earnest being so near. This course his choice preferr’d, and forth he went. His father then his aged shoulders bent Beneath what years had stoop’d, about a tree Busily digging: “O, old man,” said he, “You want no skill to dress and deck your ground, For all your plants doth order’d distance bound. No apple, pear, or olive, fig; or vine, Nor any plat or quarter you confine To grass or flow’rs stands empty of your care, Which shows exact in each peculiar; And yet (which let not move you) you bestow No care upon yourself, though to this show Of outward irksomeness to what you are You labour with an inward froward care, Which is your age, that should wear all without More neat and cherishing. I make no doubt That any sloth you use procures your lord To let an old man go so much abhorr’d In all his weeds; nor shines there in your look A fashion and a goodliness so took With abject qualities to merit this Nasty entreaty. Your resemblance is A very king’s, and shines through this retreat. You look like one that having wash’d and eat Should sleep securely, lying sweet and neat. _It is the ground of age, when cares abuse it, To know life’s end, and, as ’tis sweet, so use it._ “But utter truth, and tell what lord is he That rates your labour and your liberty? Whose orchard is it that you husband thus? Or quit me this doubt, for if Ithacus This kingdom claims for his, the man I found At first arrival here is hardly sound Of brain or civil, not enduring stay To tell nor hear me my inquiry out Of that my friend, if still he bore about His life and being, or were div’d to death, And in the house of him that harboureth The souls of men. For once he liv’d my guest; My land and house retaining interest In his abode there; where there sojourn’d none As guest from any foreign region Of more price with me. He deriv’d his race From Ithaca, and said his father was Laertes, surnam’d Arcesiades, I had him home, and all the offices Perform’d to him that fitted any friend, Whose proof I did to wealthy gifts extend: Seven talents gold; a bowl all-silver, set With pots of flowers; twelve robes that had no pleat! Twelve cloaks, or mantles, of delicious dye; Twelve inner weeds; twelve suits of tapestry. I gave him likewise women skill’d in use Of loom and needle, freeing him to choose Four the most fair.” His father, weeping, said: “Stranger! The earth to which you are convey’d Is Ithaca; by such rude men possess’d, Unjust and insolent, as first address’d To your encounter; but the gifts you gave Were giv’n, alas! to the ungrateful grave. If with his people, where you now arrive, Your fate had been to find your friend alive, You should have found like guest-rites from his hand, Like gifts, and kind pass to your wishéd land. But how long since receiv’d you for your guest Your friend, my son, who was th’ unhappiest Of all men breathing, if he were at all? O born when Fates and ill-aspects let fall A cruel influence for him! Far away From friends and country destin’d to allay. The sea-bred appetites, or, left ashore, To be by fowls and upland monsters tore, His life’s kind authors nor his wealthy wife Bemoaning, as behov’d, his parted life, Nor closing, as in honour’s course it lies To all men dead, in bed his dying eyes. But give me knowledge of your name and race. What city bred you? Where the anchoring-place Your ship now rides-at lies that shor’d you here And where your men? Or, if a passenger In other keels you came, who (giving land To your adventures here, some other strand To fetch in further course) have left to us Your welcome presence?” His reply was thus: “I am of Alybandé, where I hold My name’s chief house, to much renown extoll’d. My father Aphidantes, fam’d to spring From Polypemon, the Molossian king. My name Eperitus. My taking land On this fair Isle was rul’d by the command Of God or fortune, quite against consent Of my free purpose, that in course was bent For th’ isle Sicania. My ship is held Far from the city, near an ample field. And for Ulysses, since his pass from me ’Tis now five years. Unbless’d by destiny, That all this time hath had the fate to err! Though, at his parting, good birds did augur His putting-off, and on his right hand flew, Which to his passage my affection drew, His spirit joyful; and my hope was now To guest with him, and see his hand bestow Rites of our friendship.” This a cloud of grief Cast over all the forces of his life. With both his hands the burning dust he swept Up from the earth, which on his head he heapt, And fetch’d a sigh as in it life were broke. Which grieved his son, and gave so smart a stroke Upon his nostrils with the inward stripe, That up the vein rose there; and weeping ripe He was to see his sire feel such woe For his dissembled joy; which now let go, He sprung from earth, embrac’d and kiss’d his sire, And said: “O father! He of whom y’ enquire Am I myself, that, from you twenty years, Is now return’d. But do not break in tears, For now we must not forms of kind maintain, But haste and guard the substance. I have slain All my wife’s Wooers, so revenging now Their wrong so long time suffer’d. Take not you The comfort of my coming then to heart At this glad instant, but, in prov’d desert Of your grave judgment, give moan glad suspense, And on the sudden put this consequence In act as absolute, as all time went To ripening of your resolute assent.” All this haste made not his staid faith so free To trust his words; who said: “If you are he, Approve it by some sign.” “This scar then see,” Replied Ulysses, “giv’n me by the boar Slain in Parnassus, I being sent before By your’s and by my honour’d mother’s will, To see your sire Autolycus fulfill The gifts he vow’d at giving of my name. I’ll tell you, too, the trees, in goodly frame Of this fair orchard, that I ask’d of you Being yet a child, and follow’d for your show And name of ev’ry tree. You gave me then Of fig-trees forty, apple-bearers ten, Pear-trees thirteen, and fifty ranks of vine; Each one of which a season did confine For his best eating. Not a grape did grow That grew not there, and had his heavy brow When Jove’s fair daughters, the all ripening Hours, Gave timely date to it.” This charg’d the pow’rs Both of his knees and heart with such impression Of sudden comfort, that it gave possession Of all to Trance, the signs were all so true, And did the love that gave them so renew. He cast his arms about his son and sunk, The circle slipping to his feet; so shrunk Were all his age’s forces with the fire Of his young love rekindled. The old sire The son took up quite lifeless. But his breath Again respiring, and his soul from death His body’s pow’r recov’ring, out he cried, And said: “O Jupiter! I now have tried That still there live in heav’n rememb’ring Gods Of men that serve them; though the periods They set on their appearances are long In best men’s suff’rings, yet as sure as strong They are in comforts, be their strange delays Extended never so from days to days. Yet see the short joys or the soon-mix’d fears Of helps withheld by them so many years! For if the Wooers now have paid the pain Due to their impious pleasures, now again Extreme fear takes me, lest we straight shall see The Ithacensians here in mutiny, Their messengers dispatch’d to win to friend The Cephallenian cities.” “Do not spend Your thoughts on these cares,” said his suff’ring son, “But be of comfort, and see that course run That best may shun the worst. Our house is near, Telemachus and both his herdsmen there To dress our supper with their utmost haste; And thither haste we.” This said, forth they past, Came home, and found Telemachus at feast With both his swains; while who had done, all drest With baths and balms and royally array’d The old king was by his Sicilian maid. By whose side Pallas stood, his crook’d-age straight’ning, His flesh more plumping, and his looks enlight’ning. Who issuing then to view, his son admir’d The Gods’ aspects into his form inspir’d, And said: “O father, certainly some God By your addression in this state hath stood, More great, more rev’rend, rend’ring you by far At all your parts than of yourself you are!” “I would to Jove,” said he, “the Sun, and She That bears Jove’s shield, the state had stood with me That help’d me take-in the well-builded tow’rs Of strong Nericus (the Cephalian pow’rs To that fair city leading) two days past, While with the Wooers thy conflict did last, And I had then been in the Wooers’ wreak! I should have help’d thee so to render weak Their stubborn knees, that in thy joy’s desert Thy breast had been too little for thy heart.” This said, and supper order’d by their men, They sat to it; old Dolius ent’ring then, And with him, tried with labour, his sons came, Call’d by their mother, the Sicilian dame That brought them up and dress’d their father’s fare, As whose age grew, with it increas’d her care To see him serv’d as fitted. When thus set These men beheld Ulysses there at meat, They knew him, and astonish’d in the place Stood at his presence; who, with words of grace, Call’d to old Dolius, saying: “Come and eat, And banish all astonishment. Your meat Hath long been ready, and ourselves made stay, Expecting ever when your wishéd way Would reach amongst us.” This brought fiercely on Old Dolius from his stand; who ran upon, With both his arms abroad, the King, and kiss’d Of both his rapt up hands the either wrist, Thus welcoming his presence: “O my love, Your presence here, for which all wishes strove, No one expected. Ev’n the Gods have gone In guide before you to your mansión. Welcome, and all joys to your heart contend. Knows yet Penelope? Or shall we send Some one to tell her this?” “She knows,” said he, “What need these troubles, father, touch at thee?” Then came the sons of Dolius, and again Went over with their father’s entertain, Welcom’d, shook hands, and then to feast sat down. About which while they sat, about the town Fame flew, and shriek’d about the cruel death And fate the Wooers had sustain’d beneath Ulysses’ roofs. All heard; together all From hence and thence met in Ulysses’ hall, Short-breath’d and noiseful, bore out all the dead To instant burial, while their deaths were spread To other neighbour cities where they liv’d, From whence in swiftest fisher-boats arriv’d Men to transfer them home. In mean space here The heavy nobles all in council were; Where, met in much heap, up to all arose Extremely-griev’d Eupitheus so to lose His son Antinous, who, first of all, By great Ulysses’ hand had slaught’rous fall. Whose father, weeping for him, said: “O friends, This man hath author’d works of dismal ends, Long since conveying in his guide to Troy Good men, and many that did ships employ, All which are lost, and all their soldiers dead; And now the best men Cephallenia bred His hand hath slaughter’d. Go we then (before His ’scape to Pylos, or the Elians’ shore, Where rule the Epeans) ’gainst his horrid hand; For we shall grieve, and infamy will brand Our fames for ever, if we see our sons And brothers end in these confusions, Revenge left uninflicted. Nor will I Enjoy one day’s life more, but grieve and die With instant onset. Nor should you survive To keep a base and beastly name alive. Haste, then, lest flight prevent us.” This with tears His griefs advis’d, and made all sufferers In his affliction. But by this was come Up to the council from Ulysses’ home— When sleep had left them, which the slaughters there And their self-dangers from their eyes in fear Had two nights intercepted—those two men That just Ulysses sav’d out of the slain, Which Medon and the sacred singer were. These stood amidst the council; and the fear The slaughter had impress’d in either’s look Stuck still so ghastly, that amaze it strook Through ev’ry there beholder. To whose ears One thus enforc’d, in his fright, cause of theirs: “Attend me, Ithacensians! This stern fact Done by Ulysses was not put in act Without the Gods’ assistance. These self eyes Saw one of the immortal Deities Close by Ulysses, Mentor’s form put on At ev’ry part. And this sure Deity shone Now near Ulysses, setting on his bold And slaught’rous spirit, now the points controll’d Of all the Wooers’ weapons, round about The arm’d house whisking, in continual rout Their party putting, till in heaps they fell.” This news new fears did through their spirits impell, When Halitherses (honour’d Mastor’s son, Who of them all saw only what was done Present and future) the much-knowing man And aged heroë this plain course ran Amongst their counsels: “Give me likewise ear, And let me tell ye, friends, that these ills bear On your malignant spleens their sad effects, Who not what I persuaded gave respects, Nor what the people’s pastor, Mentor, said,— That you should see your issues’ follies stay’d In those foul courses, by their petulant life The goods devouring, scandalling the wife Of no mean person, who, they still would say, Could never more see his returning-day. Which yet appearing now, now give it trust, And yield to my free counsels: Do not thrust Your own safe persons on the acts your sons So dearly bought, lest their confusions On your lov’d heads your like addictions draw.” This stood so far from force of any law To curb their loose attempts, that much the more They rush’d to wreak, and made rude tumult roar. The greater part of all the court arose; Good counsel could not ill designs dispose. Eupitheus was persuader of the course, Which, cómplete-arm’d, they put in present force; The rest sat still in council. These men met Before the broad town, in a place they set All girt in arms; Eupitheus choosing chief To all their follies, who put grief to grief, And in his slaughter’d son’s revenge did burn. But Fate gave never feet to his return, Ordaining there his death. Then Pallas spake To Jove, her Father, with intent to make His will high arbiter of th’ act design’d, And ask’d of him what his unsearchéd mind Held undiscover’d? If with arms, and ill, And grave encounter he, would first fulfill His sacred purpose, or both parts combine In peaceful friendship? He ask’d: “Why incline These doubts thy counsels? Hast not thou decreed That Ithacus should come and give his deed The glory of revenge on these and theirs? Perform thy will; the frame of these affairs Have this fit issue: When Ulysses’ hand Hath reach’d full wreak, his then renown’d command Shall reign for ever, faithful truces strook ’Twixt him and all; for ev’ry man shall brook His sons’ and brothers’ slaughters; by our mean To send Oblivion in, expunging clean The character of enmity in them all, As in best leagues before. _Peace, festival, And riches in abundance, be the state That crowns the close of wise Ulysses’ Fate.”_ This spurr’d the free, who from heav’n’s continent To th’ Ithacensian isle made straight descent. Where, dinner past, Ulysses said: “Some one Look out to see their nearness.” Dolius’ son Made present speed abroad, and saw them nigh, Ran back, and told, bade arm; and instantly Were all in arms. Ulysses’ part was four, And six more sons of Dolius; all his pow’r Two only more, which were his aged sire And like-year’d Dolius, whose lives’-slak’d fire All-white had left their heads, yet, driv’n by need, Made soldiers both of necessary deed. And now, all-girt in arms, the ports set wide, They sallied forth, Ulysses being their guide; And to them in the instant Pallas came, In form and voice like Mentor, who a flame Inspir’d of comfort in Ulysses’ heart With her seen presence. To his son, apart, He thus then spake: “Now, son, your eyes shall see, Expos’d in slaught’rous fight, the enemy, Against whom who shall best serve will be seen. Disgrace not then your race, that yet hath been For force and fortitude the foremost tried Of all earth’s offsprings.” His true son replied: “Yourself shall see, lov’d father, if you please, That my deservings shall in nought digress From best fame of our race’s foremost merit.” The old king sprung for joy to hear his spirit, And said: “O lov’d Immortals, what a day Do your clear bounties to my life display! I joy, past measure, to behold my son And nephew close in such contention Of virtues martial.” Pallas, standing near, Said: “O my friend! Of all supremely dear, Seed of Arcesius, pray to Jove and Her That rules in arms, his daughter, and a dart, Spritefully brandish’d, hurl at th’ adverse part.” This said, he pray’d; and she a mighty force Inspir’d within him, who gave instant course To his brave-brandish’d lance, which struck the brass That cheek’d Eupitheus’ casque, and thrust his pass Quite through his head; who fell, and sounded falling, His arms the sound again from earth recalling. Ulysses and his son rush’d on before, And with their both-way-headed darts did gore Their enemies’ breasts so thick, that all had gone The way of slaughter, had not Pallas thrown Her voice betwixt them, charging all to stay And spare expense of blood. Her voice did fray The blood so from their faces that it left A greenish paleness; all their hands it reft Of all their weapons, falling thence to earth; And to the common mother of their birth, The city, all fled, in desire to save The lives yet left them. Then Ulysses gave A horrid shout, and like Jove’s eagle flew In fiery pursuit, till Saturnius threw His smoking lightning ’twixt them, that had fall Before Minerva, who then out did call Thus to Ulysses: “Born of Jove! Abstain From further bloodshed. Jove’s hand in the slain Hath equall’d in their pains their prides to thee. Abstain, then, lest you move the Deity.” Again then, ’twixt both parts the Seed of Jove, Athenian Pallas, of all future love A league compos’d, and for her form took choice Of Mentor’s likeness both in limb and voice.