The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1.

translated by George Chapman

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  • DEDICATION
  • CERTAIN ANCIENT GREEK EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED.
  • THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE SECOND BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE THIRD BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE SEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE EIGHTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE NINTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE TENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE ELEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.
  • THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.


  • TO THE MOST WORTHILY HONOURED, MY
    SINGULAR GOOD LORD, ROBERT,
    EARL OF SOMERSET,
    LORD CHAMBERLAIN, ETC.
    


    DEDICATION


    I HAVE adventured, right noble Earl, out of my utmost and ever-vowed service to your virtues, to entitle their merits to the patronage of HOMER'S English life, whose wished natural life the great Macedon would have protected as the spirit of his empire,
           That he to his unmeasured mighty acts
         Might add a fame as vast; and their extracts,
         In fires as bright and endless as the stars,
         His breast might breathe and thunder out his wars.
         But that great monarch's love of fame and praise
         Receives an envious cloud in our foul days;
         For since our great ones cease themselves to do
         Deeds worth their praise, they hold it folly too
         To feed their praise in others. But what can,
         Of all the gifts that are, be given to man
         More precious than Eternity and Glory,
         Singing their praises in unsilenced story?
         Which no black day, no nation, nor no age,
         No change of time or fortune, force nor rage,
         Shall ever rase? All which the monarch knew,
         Where HOMER lived entitled, would ensue:
                  Cujus de gurgite vivo
         Combibit arcanos vatum omnis turba furores,      From whose deep fount of life the thirsty rout
         Of Thespian prophets have lien sucking out
         Their sacred rages. And as th' influent stone
         Of Father Jove's great and laborious son
         Lifts high the heavy iron, and far implies
         The wide orbs that the needle rectifies,
         In virtuous guide of every sea-driven course,
         To all aspiring his one boundless force;
         So from one HOMER all the holy fire
         That ever did the hidden heat inspire
         In each true Muse came clearly sparkling down,
         And must for him compose one flaming crown.
           He, at Jove's table set, fills out to us
         Cups that repair age sad and ruinous,
         And gives it built of an eternal stand
         With his all-sinewy Odyssæan hand,
         Shifts time and fate, puts death in life's free state,
         And life doth into ages propagate.
         He doth in men the Gods' affects inflame,
         His fuel Virtue blown by Praise and Fame;
         And, with the high soul's first impression driven,
         Breaks through rude chaos, earth, the seas, and heaven.
         The nerves of all things hid in nature lie
         Naked before him; all their harmony
         Tun'd to his accents, that in beasts breathe minds.
         What fowls, what floods, what earth, what air, what winds,
         What fires ethereal, what the Gods conclude
         In all their counsels, his Muse makes indued
         With varied voices that even rocks have moved.
         And yet for all this, naked Virtue loved,
         Honours without her he as abject prizes,
         And foolish Fame, derived from thence, despises.
         When from the vulgar taking glorious bound
         Up to the mountain where the Muse is crown'd,
         He sits and laughs to see the jaded rabble
         Toil to his hard heights, t' all access unable,


    And that your Lordship may in his face take view of his mind, the first words of his Iliads is ..., wrath; the first word of his Odysseys, ..., man: contracting in either word his each work's proposition. In one predominant perturbation; in the other overruling wisdom. In one the body's fervour and fashion of outward fortitude to all possible height of heroical action; in the other the mind's inward, constant, and unconquered empire, unbroken, unaltered, with any most insolent and tyrannous infliction. To many most sovereign praises is this poem entitled; but to that grace, in chief, which sets on the crown both of poets and orators; ...: that is, Parva magnè dicere; pervulgata novè; jejuna plenè.--To speak things little greatly; things common rarely; things barren and empty fruitfully and fully. The return of a man into his country is his whole scope and object; which in itself, your Lordship may well say, is jejune and fruitless enough, affording nothing feastful, nothing magnificent. And yet even this doth the divine inspiration render vast, illustrious, and of miraculous composure. And for this, my Lord, is this poem preferred to his Iliads; for therein much magnificence, both of person and action, gives great aid to his industry; but in this are these helps exceeding sparing, or nothing; and yet is the structure so elaborate and pompous that the poor plain ground-work, considered together, may seem the naturally rich womb to it, and produce it needfully. Much wondered at, therefore, is the censure of Dionysius Longinus, (a man otherwise affirmed grave and of elegant judgment,) comparing Homer in his Iliads to the Sun rising, in his Odysseys to his descent or setting, or to the ocean robbed of his aesture, many tributary floods and rivers of excellent ornament withheld from their observance. When this his work so far exceeds the ocean, with all his court and concourse, that all his sea is only a serviceable stream to it. Nor can it be compared to any one power to be named in nature, being an entirely well-sorted and digested confluence of all; where the most solid and grave is made as nimble and fluent as the most airy and fiery, the nimble and fluent as firm and well-bounded as the most grave and solid. And, taking all together, of so tender impression, and of such command to the voice of the Muse, that they knock heaven with her breath, and discover their foundations as low as hell. Nor is this all-comprising Poesy fantastic or mere fictive; but the most material and doctrinal illations of truth, both for all manly information of manners in the young, all prescription of justice, and even Christian piety, in the most grave and high governed. To illustrate both which, in both kinds, with all height of expression, the Poet creates both a body and a soul in them. Wherein, if the body, (being the letter or history,) seems fictive, and beyond possibility to bring into act, the sense then and allegory, which is the soul, is to be sought, which intends a more eminent expressure of Virtue for her loveliness, and of Vice for her ugliness, in their several effects; going beyond the life than any art within life can possibly delineate. Why then is fiction to this end so hateful to our true ignorants? Or why should a poor chronicler of a Lord Mayor's naked truth (that peradventure will last his year) include more worth with our modern wizards than Homer for his naked Ulysses clad in eternal fiction? But this proser Dionysius, and the rest of these grave and reputatively learned--that dare undertake for their gravities the headstrong censure of all things, and challenge the understanding of these toys in their childhoods; when even these childish vanities retain deep and most necessary learning enough in them to make them children in their ages, and teach them while they live--are not in these absolute divine infusions allowed either voice or relish: for, Qui poeticas ad fores accedit, (says the divine philosopher,) he that knocks at the gates of the Muses, sine Musarum furore, is neither to be admitted entry, nor a touch at their threshholds; his opinion of entry ridiculous, and his presumption impious. Nor must Poets themselves (might I a little insist on these contempts, not tempting too far your Lordship's Ulyssean patience) presume to these doors without the truly genuine and peculiar induction. There being in poesy a twofold rapture,--or alienation of soul, as the above-said teacher terms it,--one insania, a disease of the mind, and a mere madness, by which the infected is thrust beneath all the degrees of humanity: et ex homine, brutum quodammodo redditur:--(for which poor Poesy, in this diseased and impostorous age, is so barbarously vilified;)--the other is, divinus furor, by which the sound and divinely healthful supra hominis naturam erigitur, et in Deum transit. One a perfection directly infused from God; the other an infection obliquely and degenerately proceeding from man. Of the divine fury, my Lord, your Homer hath ever been both first and last instance; being pronounced absolutely,..., "THE MOST WISE AND MOST DIVINE POET." Against whom whosoever shall open his profane mouth may worthily receive answer with this of his divine defender--Empedocles, Heraclitus, Protagoras, Epicharmus, being of HOMER'S part--... who against such an army, and the general HOMER, dares attempt the assault, but he must be reputed ridiculous? And yet against this host, and this invincible commander, shall we have every besogne and fool a leader. The common herd, I assure myself, ready to receive it on their horns. Their infected leaders,
           Such men as sideling ride the ambling Muse,
         Whose saddle is as frequent as the stews.
         Whose raptures are in every pageant seen,
         In every wassail-rhyme and dancing green;
         When he that writes by any beam of truth
         Must dive as deep as he, past shallow youth.
         Truth dwells in gulfs, whose deeps hide shades so rich
         That Night sits muffled there in clouds of pitch,
         More dark than Nature made her, and requires,
         To clear her tough mists, heaven's great fire of fires,
         To whom the sun itself is but a beam.
         For sick souls then--but rapt in foolish dream--
         To wrestle with these heaven-strong mysteries,
         What madness is it? when their light serves eyes
         That are not worldly in their least aspect,
         But truly pure, and aim at heaven direct.
         Yet these none like but what the brazen head
         Blatters abroad, no sooner born but dead.



    Holding, then, in eternal contempt, my Lord, those short-lived bubbles, eternize your virtue and judgment with the Grecian monarch; esteeming, not as the least of your new-year's presents,
           HOMER, three thousand years dead, now revived,
         Even from that dull death that in life he lived;
         When none conceited him, none understood
         That so much life in so much death as blood
         Conveys about it could mix. But when death
         Drunk up the bloody mist that human breath
         Pour'd round about him--poverty and spite
         Thick'ning the hapless vapour--then truth's light
         Glimmer'd about his poem; the pinch'd soul
         (Amidst the mysteries it did enrol)
         Brake powerfully abroad. And as we see
         The sun all hid in clouds, at length got free,
         Through some forced covert, over all the ways,
         Near and beneath him, shoots his vented rays
         Far off, and sticks them in some little glade,
         All woods, fields, rivers, left besides in shade;
         So your Apollo, from that world of light
         Closed in his poem's body, shot to sight
         Some few forced beams, which near him were not seen,
         (As in his life or country,) Fate and spleen
         Clouding their radiance; which when Death had clear'd,
         To far-off regions his free beams appear'd;
         In which all stood and wonder'd, striving which
         His birth and rapture should in right enrich.
           Twelve labours of your Thespian Hercules
         I now present your Lordship; do but please
         To lend life means till th' other twelve receive
         Equal achievement; and let Death then reave
         My life now lost in our patrician loves,
         That knock heads with the herd; in whom there moves
         One blood, one soul, both drown'd in one set height
         Of stupid envy and mere popular spite.
         Whose loves with no good did my least vein fill;
         And from their hates I fear as little ill.
         Their bounties nourish not when most they feed,
         But, where there is no merit or no need,
         Rain into rivers still, and are such showers
         As bubbles spring and overflow the flowers.
         Their worse parts and worst men their best suborns,
         Like winter cows whose milk runs to their horns.
         And as litigious clients' books of law
         Cost infinitely; taste of all the awe
         Bench'd in our kingdom's policy, piety, state;
         Earn all their deep explorings; satiate
         All sorts there thrust together by the heart
         With thirst of wisdom spent on either part;
         Horrid examples made of Life and Death
         From their fine stuff woven; yet when once the breath
         Of sentence leaves them, all their worth is drawn
         As dry as dust, and wears like cobweb lawn:
         So these men set a price upon their worth,
         That no man gives but those that trot it forth
         Through Need's foul ways, feed Humours with all cost
         Though Judgment sterves in them; rout, State engrost
         (At all tobacco benches, solemn tables,
         Where all that cross their envies are their fables)
         In their rank faction; shame and death approved
         Fit penance for their opposites; none loved
         But those that rub them; not a reason heard
         That doth not soothe and glorify their preferr'd
         Bitter opinions. When, would Truth resume
         The cause to his hands, all would fly in fume
         Before his sentence; since the innocent mind
         Just God makes good, to whom their worst is wind.
         For, that I freely all my thoughts express,
         My conscience is my thousand witnesses;
         And to this stay my constant comforts vow,
         You for the world I have, or God for you.






    CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD




           





    CERTAIN ANCIENT GREEK EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED.



    ALL stars are drunk up by the fiery sun,
    And in so much a flame lies shrunk the moon.
    HOMER'S all-lived name all names leaves in death,
    Whose splendour only Muses' bosoms breathe.
    ANOTHER.
    Heaven's fire shall first fall darken'd from his sphere,
    Grave Night the light weed of the Day shall wear,
    Fresh streams shall chase the sea, tough ploughs shall tear
    Her fishy bottoms, men in long date dead
    Shall rise and live, before Oblivion shed
    Those still-green leaves that crown great HOMER'S head.
    ANOTHER.
    The great Maeonides doth only write,
    And to him dictates the great God of Light.
    ANOTHER.
    Seven kingdoms strove in which should swell the womb
    That bore great HOMER, whom Fame freed from tomb;
    Argos, Chios, Pylos, Smyrna, Colophone,
    The learn'd Athenian, and Ulyssean throne.
    ANOTHER.
    Art thou of Chios? No. Of Salamine?
    As little. Was the Smyrnean country thine?
    Nor so. Which then? Was Cuma's? Colophone?
    Nor one nor other. Art thou, then, of none
    That Fame proclaims thee? None. Thy reason call,
    If I confess of one I anger all.


    THE FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    THE Gods in council sit, to call
    Ulysses from Calypso's thrall,
    And order their high pleasures thus:
    Grey Pallas to Telemachus
    (In Ithaca) her way addrest;
    And did her heavenly limbs invest
    In Mentas' likeness, that did reign
    King of the Taphians, in the main
    Whose rough waves near Leucadia run,
    Advising wise Ulysses' son
    To seek his father, and address
    His course to young Tantalides
    That govern'd Sparta. Thus much said,
    She shew'd she was Heaven's martial Maid,
    And vanish'd from him. Next to this,
    The Banquet of the Wooers is.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    The Deities sit;
    The Man retired;
    The Ulyssean wit
    By Pallas fired.


    THE man, O Muse, inform, that many a way
         Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;
         That wandered wondrous far, when he the town
         Of sacred Troy had sack'd and shivered down;
         The cities of a world of nations,
         With all their manners, minds, and fashions,
         He saw and knew; at sea felt many woes,
         Much care sustained, to save from overthrows
         Himself and friends in their retreat for home;
         But so their fates he could not overcome,
         Though much he thirsted it. O men unwise,
         They perish'd by their own impieties,
         That in their hunger's rapine would not shun
         The oxen of the lofty-going Sun,
         Who therefore from their eyes the day bereft
         Of safe return. These acts, in some part left,
         Tell us, as others, deified Seed of Jove.
           Now all the rest that austere death outstrove
         At Troy's long siege at home safe anchor'd are,
         Free from the malice both of sea and war;
         Only Ulysses is denied access
         To wife and home. The grace of Goddesses,
         The reverend nymph Calypso, did detain
         Him in her caves, past all the race of men
         Enflam'd to make him her lov'd lord and spouse.
         And when the Gods had destin'd that his house,
         Which Ithaca on her rough bosom bears,
         (The point of time wrought out by ambient years)
         Should be his haven, Contention still extends
         Her envy to him, even amongst his friends.
         All Gods took pity on him; only he,
         That girds earth in the cincture of the sea,
         Divine Ulysses ever did envy,
         And made the fix'd port of his birth to fly.
           But he himself solemnized a retreat
         To th' Æthiops, far dissunder'd in their seat,
         (In two parts parted, at the sun's descent,
         And underneath his golden orient,
         The first and last of men) t' enjoy their feast
         Of bulls and lambs, in hecatombs address'd;
         At which he sat, given over to delight.
           The other Gods in heaven's supremest height
         Were all in council met; to whom began
         The mighty Father both of God and man
         Discourse, inducing matter that inclined
         To wise Ulysses, calling to his mind
         Faultful Ægisthus, who to death was done
         By young Orestes, Agamemnon's son.
         His memory to the Immortals then
         Mov'd Jove thus deeply: "O how falsely men
         Accuse us Gods as authors of their ill,
         When by the bane their own bad lives instil
         They suffer all the miseries of their states,
         Past our inflictions, and beyond their fates.
         As now Ægisthus, past his fate, did wed
         The wife of Agamemnon, and (in dread
         To suffer death himself) to shun his ill,
         Incurred it by the loose bent of his will,
         In slaughtering Atrides in retreat.
         Which we foretold him would so hardly set
         To his murderous purpose, sending Mercury
         That slaughter'd Argus, our considerate spy,
         To give him this charge: 'Do not wed his wife,
         Nor murder him; for thou shalt buy his life
         With ransom of thine own, imposed on thee
         By his Orestes, when in him shall be
         Atrides' self renew'd, and but the prime
         Of youth's spring put abroad, in thirst to climb
         His haughty father's throne by his high acts.'
         These words of Hermes wrought not into facts
         Ægisthus' powers; good counsel he despised,
         And to that good his ill is sacrificed."
           Pallas, whose eyes did sparkle like the skies,
         Answer'd: "O Sire! Supreme of Deities,
         Ægisthus past his fate, and had desert
         To warrant our infliction; and convert
         May all the pains such impious men inflict
         On innocent sufferers to revenge as strict,
         Their own hearts eating. But, that Ithacus,
         Thus never meriting, should suffer thus,
         I deeply suffer. His more pious mind
         Divides him from these fortunes. Though unkind
         Is piety to him, giving him a fate
         More suffering than the most unfortunate,
         So long kept friendless in a sea-girt soil,
         Where the sea's navel is a sylvan isle,
         In which the Goddess dwells that doth derive
         Her birth from Atlas, who of all alive
         The motion and the fashion doth command
         With his wise mind, whose forces understand
         The inmost deeps and gulfs of all the seas,
         Who (for his skill of things superior) stays
         The two steep columns that prop earth and heaven.
         His daughter 'tis, who holds this homeless-driven
         Still mourning with her; evermore profuse
         Of soft and winning speeches, that abuse
         And make so languishingly, and possest
         With so remiss a mind her loved guest,
         Manage the action of his way for home.
         Where he, though in affection overcome,
         In judgment yet more longs to show his hopes,
         His country's smoke leap from her chimney tops,
         And death asks in her arms. Yet never shall
         Thy lov'd heart be converted on his thrall,
         Austere Olympius. Did not ever he,
         In ample Troy, thy altars gratify,
         And Grecians' fleet make in thy offerings swim?
         O Jove, why still then burns thy wrath to him?"
           The Cloud-assembler answer'd: "What words fly,
         Bold daughter, from thy pale of ivory?
         As if I ever could cast from my care
         Divine Ulysses, who exceeds so far
         All men in wisdom, and so oft hath given
         To all th' Immortals throned in ample heaven
         So great and sacred gifts? But his decrees,
         That holds the earth in with his nimble knees,
         Stand to Ulysses' longings so extreme,
         For taking from the God-foe Polypheme
         His only eye; a Cyclop, that excelled
         All other Cyclops, with whose burden swell'd
         The nymph Thoosa, the divine increase
         Of Phorcys' seed, a great God of the seas.
         She mix'd with Neptune in his hollow caves,
         And bore this Cyclop to that God of waves.
         For whose lost eye, th' Earth-shaker did not kill
         Erring Ulysses, but reserves him still
         In life for more death. But use we our powers,
         And round about us cast these cares of ours,
         All to discover how we may prefer
         His wished retreat, and Neptune make forbear
         His stern eye to him, since no one God can,
         In spite of all, prevail, but 'gainst a man."
           To this, this answer made the grey-eyed Maid:
         "Supreme of rulers, since so well apaid
         The blessed Gods are all then, now, in thee,
         To limit wise Ulysses' misery,
         And that you speak as you referred to me
         Prescription for the means, in this sort be
         Their sacred order: Let us now address
         With utmost speed our swift Argicides,
         To tell the nymph that bears the golden tress
         In th' isle Ogygia, that 'tis our will
         She should not stay our loved Ulysses still,
         But suffer his return; and then will I
         To Ithaca, to make his son apply
         His sire's inquest the more; infusing force
         Into his soul, to summon the concourse
         Of curl'd-head Greeks to council, and deter
         Each wooer, that hath been the slaughterer
         Of his fat sheep and crooked-headed beeves,
         From more wrong to his mother, and their leaves
         Take in such terms, as fit deserts so great.
         To Sparta then, and Pylos, where doth beat
         Bright Amathus, the flood, and epithet
         To all that kingdom, my advice shall send
         The spirit-advanced Prince, to the pious end
         Of seeking his lost father, if he may
         Receive report from Fame where rests his stay,
         And make, besides, his own sucessive worth
         Known to the world, and set in action forth."
           This said, her wing'd shoes to her feet she tied,
         Formed all of gold, and all eternified,
         That on the round earth or the sea sustain'd
         Her ravish'd substance swift as gusts of wind.
         Then took she her strong lance with steel made keen,
         Great, massy, active, that whole hosts of men,
         Though all heroes, conquers, if her ire
         Their wrongs inflame, back'd by so great a Sire.
         Down from Olympus' tops she headlong dived,
         And swift as thought in Ithaca arriv'd,
         Close at Ulysses' gates; in whose first court
         She made her stand, and, for her breast's support,
         Leaned on her iron lance; her form impress'd
         With Mentas' likeness, come, as being a guest.
         There found she those proud wooers, that were then
         Set on those ox-hides that themselves had slain,
         Before the gates, and all at dice were playing.
         To them the heralds, and the rest obeying,
         Fill'd wine and water; some, still as they play'd,
         And some, for solemn supper's state, purvey'd,
         With porous sponges, cleansing tables, serv'd
         With much rich feast; of which to all they kerv'd.
           God-like Telemachus amongst them sat,
         Griev'd much in mind; and in his heart begat
         All representment of his absent sire,
         How, come from far-off parts, his spirits would fire
         With those proud wooers' sight, with slaughter parting
         Their bold concourse, and to himself converting
         The honours they usurp'd, his own commanding.
           In this discourse, he first saw Pallas standing,
         Unbidden entry; up rose, and address'd
         His pace right to her, angry that a guest
         Should stand so long at gate; and, coming near,
         Her right hand took, took in his own her spear,
         And thus saluted: "Grace to your repair,
         Fair guest, your welcome shall be likewise fair.
         Enter, and, cheer'd with feast, disclose th' intent
         That caused your coming." This said, first he went,
         And Pallas follow'd. To a room they came,
         Steep, and of state; the javelin of the Dame
         He set against a pillar vast and high,
         Amidst a large and bright-kept armory,
         Which was, besides, with woods of lances grac'd
         Of his grave father's. In a throne he plac'd
         The man-turn'd Goddess, under which was spread
         A carpet, rich and of deviceful thread;
         A footstool staying her feet; and by her chair
         Another seat (all garnish'd wondrous fair,
         To rest or sleep on in the day) he set,
         Far from the prease of wooers, lest at meat
         The noise they still made might offend his guest,
         Disturbing him at banquet or at rest,
         Even to his combat with that pride of theirs,
         That kept no noble form in their affairs.
         And these he set far from them, much the rather
         To question freely of his absent father.
           A table fairly-polish'd then was spread,
         On which a reverend officer set bread,
         And other servitors all sorts of meat
         (Salads, and flesh, such as their haste could get)
         Serv'd with observance in. And then the sewer
         Pour'd water from a great and golden ewer,
         That from their hands t' a silver caldron ran.
         Both wash'd, and seated close, the voiceful man
         Fetch'd cups of gold, and set by them, and round
         Those cups with wine with all endeavour crown'd.
           Then rush'd in the rude wooers, themselves plac'd;
         The heralds water gave; the maids in haste
         Serv'd bread from baskets. When, of all prepar'd
         And set before them, the bold wooers shar'd,
         Their pages plying their cups past the rest.
         But lusty wooers must do more than feast;
         For now, their hungers and their thirsts allay'd,
         They call'd for songs and dances; those, they said,
         Were th' ornaments of feast. The herald straight
         A harp, carv'd full of artificial sleight,
         Thrust into Phemius', a learn'd singer's, hand,
         Who, till he much was urged, on terms did stand,
         But, after, play'd and sung with all his art.
           Telemachus to Pallas then (apart,
         His ear inclining close, that none might hear)
         In this sort said: "My guest, exceeding dear,
         Will you not sit incens'd with what I say?
         These are the cares these men take; feast and play.
         Which eas'ly they may use, because they eat,
         Free and unpunish'd, of another's meat;
         And of a man's, whose white bones wasting lie
         In some far region, with th' incessancy
         Of showers pour'd down upon them, lying ashore,
         Or in the seas wash'd naked. Who, if he wore
         Those bones with flesh and life and industry,
         And these might here in Ithaca set eye
         On him return'd, they all would wish to be
         Either past other in celerity
         Of feet and knees, and not contend t' exceed
         In golden garments. But his virtues feed
         The fate of ill death; nor is left to me
         The least hope of his life's recovery,
         No, not if any of the mortal race
         Should tell me his return; the cheerful face
         Of his return'd day never will appear.
         But tell me, and let Truth your witness bear,
         Who, and from whence you are? What city's birth?
         What parents? In what vessel set you forth?
         And with what mariners arrived you here?
         I cannot think you a foot passenger.
         Recount then to me all, to teach me well
         Fit usage for your worth. And if it fell
         In chance now first that you thus see us here,
         Or that in former passages you were
         My father's guest? For many men have been
         Guests to my father. Studious of men
         His sociable nature ever was."
         On him again the grey-eyed Maid did pass
         This kind reply: "I'll answer passing true
         All thou hast ask'd: My birth his honour drew
         From wise Anchialus. The name I bear
         Is Mentas, the commanding islander
         Of all the Taphians studious in the art
         Of navigation; having touch'd this part
         With ship and men, of purpose to maintain
         Course through the dark seas t' other-languag'd men;
         And Temesis sustains the city's name
         For which my ship is bound, made known by fame
         For rich in brass, which my occasions need,
         And therefore bring I shining steel in stead,
         Which their use wants, yet makes my vessel's freight,
         That near a plough'd field rides at anchor's weight,
         Apart this city, in the harbour call'd
         Rethrus, whose waves with Neius' woods are wall'd.
         Thy sire and I were ever mutual guests,
         At either's house still interchanging feasts.
         I glory in it. Ask, when thou shalt see
         Laertes, th' old heroe, these of me,
         From the beginning. He, men say, no more
         Visits the city, but will needs deplore
         His son's believed loss in a private field;
         One old maid only at his hands to yield
         Food to his life, as oft as labour makes
         His old limbs faint; which, though he creeps, he takes
         Along a fruitful plain, set all with vines,
         Which husbandman-like, though a king, he proins.
         But now I come to be thy father's guest;
         I hear he wanders, while these wooers feast.
         And (as th' Immortals prompt me at this hour)
         I'll tell thee, out of a prophetic power,
         (Not as profess'd a prophet, nor clear seen
         At all times what shall after chance to men)
         What I conceive, for this time, will be true:
         The Gods' inflictions keep your sire from you.
         Divine Ulysses, yet, abides not dead
         Above earth, nor beneath, nor buried
         In any seas, as you did late conceive,
         But, with the broad sea sieged, is kept alive
         Within an isle by rude and upland men,
         That in his spite his passage home detain.
         Yet long it shall not be before he tread
         His country's dear earth, though solicited,
         And held from his return, with iron chains;
         For he hath wit to forge a world of trains,
         And will, of all, be sure to make good one
         For his return, so much relied upon.
         But tell me, and be true: Art thou indeed
         So much a son, as to be said the seed
         Of Ithacus himself? Exceeding much
         Thy forehead and fair eyes at his form touch;
         For oftentimes we met, as you and I
         Meet at this hour, before he did apply
         His powers for Troy, when other Grecian states
         In hollow ships were his associates.
         But, since that time, mine eyes could never see
         Renown'd Ulysses, nor met his with me."
           The wise Telemachus again replied:
         "You shall with all I know be satisfied.
         My mother certain says I am his son;
         I know not; nor was ever simply known
         By any child the sure truth of his sire.
         But would my veins had took in living fire
         From some man happy, rather than one wise,
         Whom age might see seis'd of what youth made prise.
         But he whoever of the mortal race
         Is most unblest, he holds my father's place.
         This, since you ask, I answer." She, again:
           "The Gods sure did not make the future strain
         Both of thy race and days obscure to thee,
         Since thou wert born so of Penelope.
         The style may by thy after act be won,
         Of so great sire the high undoubted son.
           Say truth in this then: What's this feasting here?
         What all this rout? Is all this nuptial cheer?
         Or else some friendly banquet made by thee?
         For here no shots are, where all sharers be.
         Past measure contumeliously this crew
         Fare through thy house; which should th' ingenuous view
         Of any good or wise man come and find,
         (Impiety seeing play'd in every kind)
         He could not but through every vein be mov'd."
           Again Telemachus: "My guest much loved,
         Since you demand and sift these sights so far,
         I grant 'twere fit a house so regular,
         Rich, and so faultless once in government,
         Should still at all parts the same form present
         That gave it glory while her lord was here.
         But now the Gods, that us displeasure bear,
         Have otherwise appointed, and disgrace
         My father most of all the mortal race.
         For whom I could not mourn so were he dead,
         Amongst his fellow captains slaughtered
         By common enemies, or in the hands
         Of his kind friends had ended his commands,
         After he had egregiously bestow'd
         His power and order in a war so vow'd,
         And to his tomb all Greeks their grace had done,
         That to all ages he might leave his son
         Immortal honour; but now Harpies have
         Digg'd in their gorges his abhorred grave.
         Obscure, inglorious, death hath made his end,
         And me, for glories, to all griefs contend.
         Nor shall I any more mourn him alone,
         The Gods have given me other cause of moan.
         For look how many optimates remain
         In Samos, or the shores Dulichian,
         Shady Zacynthus, or how many bear
         Rule in the rough brows of this island here;
         So many now my mother and this house
         At all parts make defamed and ruinous;
         And she her hateful nuptials nor denies,
         Nor will dispatch their importunities,
         Though she beholds them spoil still as they feast
         All my free house yields, and the little rest
         Of my dead sire in me perhaps intend
         To bring ere long to some untimely end."
           This Pallas sigh'd and answer'd: "O," said she,
         "Absent Ulysses is much miss'd by thee,
         That on thee shameless suitors he might lay
         His wreakful hands. Should he now come, and stay
         In thy court's first gates, arm'd with helm and shield,
         And two such darts as I have seen him wield,
         When first I saw him in our Taphian court,
         Feasting, and doing his desert's disport;
         When from Ephyrus he return'd by us
         From Ilus, son to Centaur Mermerus,
         To whom he travell'd through the watery dreads,
         For bane to poison his sharp arrows' heads,
         That death, but touch'd, caused; which he would not give,
         Because he fear'd the Gods that ever live
         Would plague such death with death; and yet their fear
         Was to my father's bosom not so dear
         As was thy father's love; (for what he sought
         My loving father found him to a thought.)
         If such as then Ulysses might but meet
         With these proud wooers, all were at his feet
         But instant dead men, and their nuptials
         Would prove as bitter as their dying galls.
         But these things in the Gods' knees are reposed,
         If his return shall see with wreak inclosed,
         These in his house, or he return no more;
         And therefore I advise thee to explore
         All ways thyself, to set these wooers gone;
         To which end give me fit attention:
         To-morrow into solemn council call
         The Greek heroes, and declare to all
         (The Gods being witness) what thy pleasure is.
         Command to towns of their nativity,
         These frontless wooers. If thy mother's mind
         Stands to her second nuptials so inclined,
         Return she to her royal father's towers,
         Where th' one of these may wed her, and her dowers
         Make rich, and such as may consort with grace
         So dear a daughter of so great a race.
         And thee I warn as well (if thou as well
         Wilt hear and follow) take thy best built sail,
         With twenty oars mann'd, and haste t' inquire
         Where the abode is of thy absent sire,
         If any can inform thee, or thine ear
         From Jove the fame of his retreat may hear,
         For chiefly Jove gives all that honours men.
           To Pylos first be thy addression then,
         To god-like Nestor; thence to Sparta haste,
         To gold-lock'd Menelaus, who was last
         Of all the brass-arm'd Greeks that sail'd from Troy;
         And try from both these, if thou canst enjoy
         News of thy sire's returned life, anywhere,
         Though sad thou suffer'st in his search a year.
         If of his death thou hear'st, return thou home,
         And to his memory erect a tomb,
         Performing parent-rites, of feast and game,
         Pompous, and such as best may fit his fame;
         And then thy mother a fit husband give.
         These past, consider how thou mayst deprive
         Of worthless life these wooers in thy house,
         By open force, or projects enginous.
         Thing childish fit not thee; th' art so no more.
         Hast thou not heard, how all men did adore
         Divine Orestes, after he had slain
         Ægisthus murdering by a treacherous train
         His famous father? Be then, my most loved,
         Valiant and manly, every way approved
         As great as he. I see thy person fit,
         Noble thy mind, and excellent thy wit,
         All given thee so to use and manage here
         That even past death they may their memories bear.
         In mean time I'll descend to ship and men,
         That much expect me. Be observant then
         Of my advice, and careful to maintain
         In equal acts thy royal father's reign."
           Telemachus replied: "You ope, fair guest,
         A friend's heart in your speech, as well express'd
         As might a father serve t' inform his son;
         All which sure place have in my memory won.
         Abide yet, though your voyage calls away,
         That, having bath'd, and dignified your stay
         With some more honour, you may yet beside
         Delight your mind by being gratified
         With some rich present taken in your way,
         That, as a jewel, your respect may lay
         Up in your treasury, bestow'd by me,
         As free friends use to guests of such degree."
           "Detain me not," said she, "so much inclined
         To haste my voyage. What thy loved mind
         Commands to give, at my return this way,
         Bestow on me, that I directly may
         Convey it home; which more of price to me
         The more it asks my recompence to thee."
           This said, away grey-eyed Minerva flew,
         Like to a mounting lark; and did endue
         His mind with strength and boldness, and much more
         Made him his father long for than before;
         And weighing better who his guest might be,
         He stood amaz'd, and thought a Deity
         Was there descended; to whose will he fram'd
         His powers at all parts, and went so inflam'd
         Amongst the wooers, who were silent set,
         To hear a poet sing the sad retreat
         The Greeks perform'd from Troy; which was from thence
         Proclaim'd by Pallas, pain of her offence.
           When which divine song was perceived to bear
         That mournful subject by the listening ear
         Of wise Penelope, Icarius' seed,
         Who from an upper room had given it heed,
         Down she descended by a winding stair,
         Not solely, but the state in her repair
         Two maids of honour made. And when this queen
         Of women stoop'd so low, she might be seen
         By all her wooers. In the door, aloof,
         Entering the hall grac'd with a goodly roof,
         She stood, in shade of graceful veils, implied
         About her beauties; on her either side,
         Her honour'd women. When, to tears mov'd, thus
         She chid the sacred singer: "Phemius,
         You know a number more of these great deeds
         Of Gods and men, that are the sacred seeds,
         And proper subjects, of a poet's song,
         And those due pleasures that to men belong,
         Besides these facts that furnish Troy's retreat,
         Sing one of those to these, that round your seat
         They may with silence sit, and taste their wine;
         But cease this song, that through these ears of mine
         Conveys deserv'd occasion to my heart
         Of endless sorrows, of which the desert
         In me unmeasur'd is past all these men,
         So endless is the memory I retain,
         And so desertful is that memory,
         Of such a man as hath a dignity
         So broad it spreads itself through all the pride
         Of Greece and Argos." To the queen replied
         Inspired Telemachus: "Why thus envies
         My mother him that fits societies
         With so much harmony, to let him please
         His own mind in his will to honour these?
         For these ingenious and first sort of men,
         That do immediately from Jove retain
         Their singing rapture, are by Jove as well
         Inspir'd with choice of what their songs impell,
         Jove's will is free in it, and therefore theirs.
         Nor is this man to blame, that the repairs
         The Greeks make homeward sings; for his fresh muse
         Men still most celebrate that sings most news.
           And therefore in his note your ears employ:
         For not Ulysses only lost in Troy
         The day of his return, but numbers more
         The deadly ruins of his fortunes bore.
         Go you then in, and take your work in hand,
         Your web, and distaff; and your maids command
         To ply their fit work. Words to men are due,
         And those reproving counsels you pursue,
         And most to me of all men, since I bear
         The rule of all things that are managed here."
         She went amaz'd away, and in her heart
         Laid up the wisdom Pallas did impart
         To her lov'd son so lately, turn'd again
         Up to her chamber, and no more would reign
         In manly counsels. To her women she
         Applied her sway; and to the wooers he
         Began new orders, other spirits bewray'd
         Than those in spite of which the wooers sway'd.
         And (whiles his mother's tears still wash'd her eyes,
         Till grey Minerva did those tears surprise
         With timely sleep, and that her wooers did rouse
         Rude tumult up through all the shady house,
         Disposed to sleep because their widow was)
         Telemachus this new-given spirit did pass
         On their old insolence: "Ho! you that are
         My mother's wooers! Much too high ye bear
         Your petulant spirits; sit; and, while ye may
         Enjoy me in your banquets, see ye lay
         These loud notes down, nor do this man the wrong,
         Because my mother hath disliked his song,
         To grace her interruption. 'Tis a thing
         Honest, and honour'd too, to hear one sing
         Numbers so like the Gods in elegance,
         As this man flows in. By the morn's first light,
         I'll call ye all before me in a Court,
         That I may clearly banish your resort,
         With all your rudeness, from these roofs of mine.
         Away; and elsewhere in your feasts combine.
         Consume your own goods, and make mutual feast
         At either's house. Or if ye still hold best,
         And for your humours' more sufficed fill,
         To feed, to spoil, because unpunish'd still,
         On other findings, spoil; but here I call
         Th' Eternal Gods to witness, if it fall
         In my wish'd reach once to be dealing wreaks,
         By Jove's high bounty, these your present checks
         To what I give in charge shall add more reins
         To my revenge hereafter; and the pains
         Ye then must suffer shall pass all your pride
         Ever to see redress'd, or qualified."
           At this all bit their lips, and did admire
         His words sent from him with such phrase and fire;
         Which so much mov'd them that Antinous,
         Eupitheus' son, cried out: "Telemachus!
         The Gods, I think, have rapt thee to this height
         Of elocution, and this great conceit
         Of self-ability. We all may pray,
         That Jove invest not in this kingdom's sway
         Thy forward forces, which I see put forth
         A hot ambition in thee for thy birth."
           "Be not offended," he replied, "if I
         Shall say, I would assume this empery,
         If Jove gave leave. You are not he that sings:
         'The rule of kingdoms is the worst of things'.
         Nor is it ill, at all, to sway a throne;
         A man may quickly gain possession
         Of mighty riches, make a wondrous prize
         Set of his virtues; but the dignities
         That deck a king, there are enough beside
         In this circumfluous isle that want no pride
         To think them worthy of, as young as I,
         And old as you are. An ascent so high
         My thoughts affect not. Dead is he that held
         Desert of virtue to have so excell'd.
         But of these turrets I will take on me
         To be the absolute king, and reign as free,
         As did my father, over all his hand
         Left here in this house slaves to my command."
           Eurymachus, the son of Polybus,
         To this made this reply: "Telemachus!
         The girlond of this kingdom let the knees
         Of Deity run for; but the faculties
         This house is seised of, and the turrets here,
         Thou shalt be lord of, nor shall any bear
         The least part off of all thou dost possess,
         As long as this land is no wilderness,
         Nor ruled by out-laws. But give these their pass,
         And tell me, best of princes, who he was
         That guested here so late? From whence? And what
         In any region boasted he his state?
         His race? His country? Brought he any news
         Of thy returning father? Or for dues
         Of moneys to him made he fit repair?
         How suddenly he rush'd into the air,
         Nor would sustain to stay and make him known!
         His port show'd no debauch'd companion."
           He answer'd: "The return of my lov'd sire
         Is past all hope; and should rude Fame inspire
         From any place a flattering messenger
         With news of his survival, he should bear
         No least belief off from my desperate love.
         Which if a sacred prophet should approve,
         Call'd by my mother for her care's unrest,
         It should not move me. For my late fair guest,
         He was of old my father's, touching here
         From sea-girt Taphos, and for name doth bear
         Mentas, the son of wise Anchialus,
         And governs all the Taphians studious
         Of navigation." This he said, but knew
         It was a Goddess. These again withdrew
         To dances and attraction of the song;
         And while their pleasures did the time prolong,
         The sable Even descended, and did steep
         The lids of all men in desire of sleep.
           Telemachus, into a room built high
         Of his illustrious court, and to the eye
         Of circular prospect, to his bed ascended,
         And in his mind much weighty thought contended.
         Before him Euryclea (that well knew
         All the observance of a handmaid's due,
         Daughter to Opis Pisenorides)
         Bore two bright torches; who did so much please
         Laertes in her prime, that, for the price
         Of twenty oxen, he made merchandize
         Of her rare beauties; and love's equal flame
         To her he felt, as to his nuptial dame,
         Yet never durst he mix with her in bed,
         So much the anger of his wife he fled.
         She, now grown old, to young Telemachus
         Two torches bore, and was obsequious
         Past all his other maids, and did apply
         Her service to him from his infancy.
         His well-built chamber reach'd, she op'd the door,
         He on his bed sat, the soft weeds he wore
         Put off, and to the diligent old maid
         Gave all; who fitly all in thick folds laid,
         And hung them on a beam-pin near the bed,
         That round about was rich embroidered.
         Then made she haste forth from him, and did bring
         The door together with a silver ring,
         And by a string a bar to it did pull.
         He, laid, and cover'd well with curled wool
         Woven in silk quilts, all night employ'd his mind
         About the task that Pallas had design'd.

            FINIS LIBRI PRIMI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.






    THE SECOND BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    TELEMACHUS to court doth call
    The Wooers, and commands them all
    To leave his house; and, taking then
    From wise Minerva ship and men,
    And all things fit for him beside,
    That Euryclea could provide
    For sea-rites, till he found his sire,
    He hoists sail; when Heaven stoops his fire.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    The old Maid's store
    The voyage cheers.
    The ship leaves shore,
    Minerva steers.


    NOW when with rosy fingers, th' early born
         And thrown through all the air, appear'd the Morn,
         Ulysses' lov'd son from his bed appear'd,
         His weeds put on, and did about him gird
         His sword that thwart his shoulders hung, and tied
         To his fair feet fair shoes, and all parts plied
         For speedy readiness; who, when he trod
         The open earth, to men show'd like a God.
           The heralds then he straight charg'd to consort
         The curl'd-head Greeks, with loud calls, to a Court.
         They summon'd; th' other came in utmost haste.
         Who all assembled, and in one heap plac'd,
         He likewise came to council, and did bear
         In his fair hand his iron-headed spear.
         Nor came alone, nor with men troops prepar'd,
         But two fleet dogs made both his train and guard.
         Pallas supplied with her high wisdom's grace,
         That all men's wants supplies, State's painted face.
         His ent'ring presence all men did admire;
         Who took seat in the high throne of his sire,
         To which the grave peers gave him reverend way.
         Amongst whom, an Egyptian heroe
         (Crooked with age, and full of skill) begun
         The speech to all; who had a loved son
         That with divine Ulysses did ascend
         His hollow fleet to Troy; to serve which end,
         He kept fair horse, and was a man at arms,
         And in the cruel Cyclops' stern alarms
         His life lost by him in his hollow cave,
         Whose entrails open'd his abhorred grave,
         And made of him, of all Ulysses' train,
         His latest supper, being latest slain;
         His name was Antiphus. And this old man,
         This crooked grown, this wise Egyptian,
         Had three sons more; of which one riotous
         A wooer was, and call'd Eurynomus;
         The other two took both his own wish'd course.
         Yet both the best fates weigh'd not down the worse,
         But left the old man mindful still of moan;
         Who, weeping, thus bespake the session;
           "Hear, Ithacensians, all I fitly say:
         Since our divine Ulysses' parting day
         Never was council call'd, nor session,
         And now by whom is this thus undergone?
         Whom did necessity so much compell,
         Of young or old? Hath any one heard tell
         Of any coming army, that he thus now
         May openly take boldness to avow,
         First having heard it? Or will any here
         Some motion for the public good prefer?
         Some worth of note there is in this command;
         And, methinks, it must be some good man's hand
         That's put to it, that either hath direct
         Means to assist, or, for his good affect,
         Hopes to be happy in the proof he makes;
         And that Jove grant, whate'er he undertakes."
           Telemachus (rejoicing much to hear
         The good hope and opinion men did bear
         Of his young actions) no longer sat,
         But long'd t' approve what this man pointed at,
         And make his first proof in a cause so good;
         And in the council's chief place up he stood;
         When straight Pisenor (herald to his sire,
         And learn'd in counsels) felt his heart on fire
         To hear him speak, and put into his hand
         The sceptre that his father did command;
         Then, to the old Egyptian turn'd, he spoke:
           "Father, not far he is that undertook
         To call this Council; whom you soon shall know.
         Myself, whose wrongs my griefs will make me show,
         Am he that author'd this assembly here.
         Nor have I heard of any army near,
         Of which, being first told, I might iterate,
         Nor for the public good can aught relate,
         Only mine own affairs all this procure,
         That in my house a double ill endure;
         One, having lost a father so renown'd,
         Whose kind rule once with your command was crown'd;
         The other is, what much more doth augment
         His weighty loss, the ruin imminent
         Of all my house by it, my goods all spent.
         And of all this the wooers, that are sons
         To our chief peers, are the confusions,
         Importuning my mother's marriage
         Against her will; nor dares their blood's bold rage
         Go to Icarius', her father's, court,
         That, his will ask'd in kind and comely sort,
         He may endow his daughter with a dower,
         And, she consenting, at his pleasure's power
         Dispose her to a man, that, thus behav'd,
         May have fit grace, and see her honour sav'd;
         But these, in none but my house, all their lives
         Resolve to spend; slaught'ring my sheep and beeves,
         And with my fattest goats lay feast on feast,
         My generous wine consuming as they list.
         A world of things they spoil, here wanting one,
         That, like Ulysses, quickly could set gone
         These peace-plagues from his house, that spoil like war;
         Whom my powers are unfit to urge so far,
         Myself immartial. But, had I the power,
         My will should serve me to exempt this hour
         From out my life-time. For, past patience,
         Base deeds are done here, that exceed defence
         Of any honour. Falling is my house,
         Which you should shame to see so ruinous.
         Reverence the censures that all good men give,
         That dwell about you; and for fear to live
         Exposed to heaven's wrath (that doth ever pay
         Pains for joys forfeit) even by Jove I pray,
         Or Themis, both which powers have to restrain,
         Or gather, councils, that ye will abstain
         From further spoil, and let me only waste
         In that most wretched grief I have embrac'd
         For my lost father. And though I am free
         From meriting your outrage, yet, if he,
         Good man, hath ever with a hostile heart
         Done ill to any Greek, on me convert
         Your like hostility, and vengeance take
         Of his ill on my life, and all these make
         Join in that justice; but, to see abused
         Those goods that do none ill but being ill used,
         Exceeds all right. Yet better 'tis for me,
         My whole possessions and my rents to see
         Consum'd by you, than lose my life and all;
         For on your rapine a revenge may fall,
         While I live; and so long I may complain
         About the city, till my goods again,
         Oft ask'd, may be with all amends repaid.
         But in the mean space your misrule hath laid
         Griefs on my bosom, that can only speak,
         And are denied the instant power of wreak."
           This said, his sceptre 'gainst the ground he threw,
         And tears still'd from him; which mov'd all the crew,
         The court struck silent, not a man did dare
         To give a word that might offend his ear.
         Antinous only in this sort replied:
           "High spoken, and of spirit unpacified,
         How have you sham'd us in this speech of yours!
         Will you brand us for an offence not ours?
         Your mother, first in craft, is first in cause.
         Three years are past, and near the fourth now draws,
         Since first she mock'd the peers Achaian.
         All she made hope, and promis'd every man,
         Sent for us ever, left love's show in nought,
         But in her heart conceal'd another thought.
         Besides, as curious in her craft, her loom
         She with a web charg'd, hard to overcome,
         And thus bespake us: 'Youths, that seek my bed,
         Since my divine spouse rests amongst the dead,
         Hold on your suits but till I end, at most,
         This funeral weed, lest what is done be lost.
         Besides, I purpose, that when th' austere fate
         Of bitter death shall take into his state
         Laertes the heroe, it shall deck
         His royal corse, since I should suffer check
         In ill report of every common dame,
         If one so rich should show in death his shame.'
         This speech she used; and this did soon persuade
         Our gentle minds. But this a work she made
         So hugely long, undoing still in night,
         By torches, all she did by day's broad light,
         That three years her deceit div'd past our view,
         And made us think that all she feign'd was true.
         But when the fourth year came, and those sly hours
         That still surprise at length dames' craftiest powers,
         One of her women, that knew all, disclos'd
         The secret to us, that she still unloosed
         Her whole day's fair affair in depth of night.
         And then no further she could force her sleight,
         But, of necessity, her work gave end.
         And thus, by me, doth every other friend,
         Professing love to her, reply to thee;
         That even thyself, and all Greeks else, may see,
         That we offend not in our stay, but she.
         To free thy house then, send her to her sire,
         Commanding that her choice be left entire
         To his election, and one settled will.
         Nor let her vex with her illusions still
         Her friends that woo her, standing on her wit,
         Because wise Pallas hath given wills to it
         So full of art, and made her understand
         All works in fair skill of a lady's hand.
         But (for her working mind) we read of none
         Of all the old world, in which Greece hath shown
         Her rarest pieces, that could equal her:
         Tyro, Alcmena, and Mycena, were
         To hold comparison in no degree,
         For solid brain, with wise Penelope.
         And yet, in her delays of us, she shows
         No prophet's skill with all the wit she owes;
         For all this time thy goods and victuals go
         To utter ruin; and shall ever so,
         While thus the Gods her glorious mind dispose.
         Glory herself may gain, but thou shalt lose
         Thy longings even for necessary food,
         For we will never go where lies our good,
         Nor any other where, till this delay
         She puts on all, she quits with th' endless stay
         Of some one of us, that to all the rest
         May give free farewell with his nuptial feast."
           The wise young prince replied: "Antinous!
         I may by no means turn out of my house
         Her that hath brought me forth and nourish'd me.
         Besides, if quick or dead my father be
         In any region, yet abides in doubt;
         And 'twill go hard, my means being so run out,
         To tender to Icarius again,
         If he again my mother must maintain
         In her retreat, the dower she brought with her.
         And then a double ill it will confer,
         Both from my father and from God on me,
         When, thrust out of her house, on her bent knee,
         My mother shall the horrid Furies raise
         With imprecations, and all men dispraise
         My part in her exposure. Never then
         Will I perform this counsel. If your spleen
         Swell at my courses, once more I command
         Your absence from my house; some other's hand
         Charge with your banquets; on your own goods eat,
         And either other mutually intreat,
         At either of your houses, with your feast.
         But if ye still esteem more sweet and best
         Another's spoil, so you still wreakless live,
         Gnaw, vermin-like, things sacred, no laws give
         To your devouring; it remains that I
         Invoke each Ever-living Deity,
         And vow, if Jove shall deign in any date
         Power of like pains for pleasure so past rate,
         From thenceforth look, where ye have revelled so
         Unwreak'd, your ruins all shall undergo."
           Thus spake Telemachus; t' assure whose threat,
         Far-seeing Jove upon their pinions set
         Two eagles from the high brows of a hill,
         That, mounted on the winds, together still
         Their strokes extended; but arriving now
         Amidst the Council, over every brow
         Shook their thick wings and, threat'ning death's cold fears,
         Their necks and cheeks tore with their eager seres;
         Then, on the court's right-hand away they flew,
         Above both court and city. With whose view,
         And study what events they might foretell,
         The Council into admiration fell.
         The old heroe, Halitherses, then,
         The son of Nestor, that of all old men,
         His peers in that court, only could foresee
         By flight of fowls man's fixed destiny,
         'Twixt them and their amaze, this interpos'd:
           "Hear, Ithacensians, all your doubts disclos'd.
         The Wooers most are touch'd in this ostent,
         To whom are dangers great and imminent;
         For now not long more shall Ulysses bear
         Lack of his most lov'd, but fills some place near,
         Addressing to these Wooers fate and death.
         And many more this mischief menaceth
         Of us inhabiting this famous isle.
         Let us consult yet, in this long forewhile,
         How to ourselves we may prevent this ill.
         Let these men rest secure, and revel still;
         Though they might find it safer, if with us
         They would in time prevent what threats them thus;
         Since not without sure trial I foretell
         These coming storms, but know their issue well.
         For to Ulysses all things have event,
         As I foretold him, when for Ilion went
         The whole Greek fleet together, and with them
         Th' abundant-in-all-counsels took the stream.
         I told him, that, when much ill he had passed,
         And all his men were lost, he should at last,
         The twentieth year, turn home, to all unknown;
         All which effects are to perfection grown."
           Eurymachus, the son of Polybus,
         Opposed this man's presage, and answer'd thus:
           "Hence, great in years, go, prophesy at home,
         Thy children teach to shun their ills to come.
         In these superior far to thee am I.
         A world of fowls beneath the sun-beams fly
         That are not fit t' inform a prophecy.
         Besides, Ulysses perish'd long ago;
         And would thy fates to thee had destin'd so,
         Since so thy so much prophecy had spar'd
         Thy wronging of our rights, which, for reward
         Expected home with thee, hath summon'd us
         Within the anger of Telemachus.
         But this I will presage, which shall be true:
         If any spark of anger chance t' ensue
         Thy much old art in these deep auguries,
         In this young man incensed by thy lies,
         Even to himself his anger shall confer
         The greater anguish, and thine own ends err
         From all their objects; and, besides, thine age
         Shall feel a pain, to make thee curse presage
         With worthy cause, for it shall touch thee near.
         But I will soon give end to all our fear,
         Preventing whatsoever chance can fall,
         In my suit to the young prince for us all,
         To send his mother to her father's house,
         That he may sort her out a worthy spouse,
         And such a dower bestow, as may befit
         One lov'd, to leave her friends and follow it.
         Before which course be, I believe that none
         Of all the Greeks will cease th' ambition
         Of such a match. For, chance what can to us,
         We no man fear, no not Telemachus,
         Though ne'er so greatly spoken. Nor care we
         For any threats of austere prophecy,
         Which thou, old dotard, vaunt'st of so in vain.
         And thus shalt thou in much more hate remain;
         For still the Gods shall bear their ill expense,
         Nor ever be dispos'd by competence,
         Till with her nuptials she dismiss our suits,
         Our whole lives' days shall sow hopes for such fruits.
         Her virtues we contend to, nor will go
         To any other, be she never so
         Worthy of us, and all the worth we owe."
           He answer'd him: "Eurymachus, and all
         Ye generous Wooers, now, in general,
         I see your brave resolves, and will no more
         Make speech of these points, and, much less, implore.
         It is enough, that all the Grecians here,
         And all the Gods besides, just witness bear,
         What friendly premonitions have been spent
         On your forbearance, and their vain event.
         Yet, with my other friends, let love prevail
         To fit me with a vessel free of sail,
         And twenty men, that may divide to me
         My ready passage through the yielding sea.
         For Sparta, and Amathoan Pylos' shore,
         I now am bound, in purpose to explore
         My long-lack'd father, and to try if fame
         Or Jove, most author of man's honour'd name,
         With his return and life may glad mine ear,
         Though toil'd in that proof I sustain a year.
         If dead I hear him, nor of more state, here
         Retir'd to my lov'd country, I will rear
         A sepulchre to him, and celebrate
         Such royal parent-rites, as fits his state;
         And then my mother to a spouse dispose."
           This said, he sat; and to the rest arose
         Mentor, that was Ulysses' chosen friend,
         To whom, when he set forth, he did commend
         His complete family, and whom he will'd
         To see the mind of his old sire fulfill'd,
         All things conserving safe, till his retreat.
         Who, tender of his charge, and seeing to set
         In slight care of their king his subjects there,
         Suffering his son so much contempt to bear,
         Thus gravely, and with zeal, to him began:
           "No more let any sceptre-bearing man,
         Benevolent, or mild, or human be,
         Nor in his mind form acts of piety,
         But ever feed on blood, and facts unjust
         Commit, even to the full swing of his lust,
         Since of divine Ulysses no man now,
         Of all his subjects, any thought doth show.
         All whom he govern'd, and became to them,
         Rather than one that wore a diadem,
         A most indulgent father. But, for all
         That can touch me, within no envy fall
         These insolent Wooers, that in violent kind
         Commit things foul by th' ill wit of the mind,
         And with the hazard of their heads devour
         Ulysses' house, since his returning hour
         They hold past hope. But it affects me much,
         Ye dull plebeians, that all this doth touch
         Your free states nothing; who, struck dumb, afford
         These Wooers not so much wreak as a word,
         Though few, and you with only number might
         Extinguish to them the profaned light."
           Evenor's son, Leocritus, replied:
         "Mentor! the railer, made a fool with pride,
         What language giv'st thou that would quiet us
         With putting us in storm, exciting thus
         The rout against us? Who, though more than we,
         Should find it is no easy victory
         To drive men, habited in feast, from feasts,
         No not if Ithacus himself such guests
         Should come and find so furnishing his Court,
         And hope to force them from so sweet a fort.
         His wife should little joy in his arrive,
         Though much she wants him; for, where she alive
         Would her's enjoy, there death should claim his rights.
         'He must be conquer'd that with many fights.'
         Thou speak'st unfit things. To their labours then
         Disperse these people; and let these two men,
         Mentor and Halitherses, that so boast
         From the beginning to have govern'd most
         In friendship of the father, to the son
         Confirm the course he now affects to run.
         But my mind says, that, if he would but use
         A little patience, he should here hear news
         Of all things that his wish would understand,
         But no good hope for of the course in hand."
           This said, the Council rose; when every peer
         And all the people in dispersion were
         To houses of their own; the Wooers yet
         Made to Ulysses' house their old retreat.
           Telemachus, apart from all the prease,
         Prepar'd to shore, and, in the aged seas
         His fair hands wash'd, did thus to Pallas pray:
         "Hear me, O Goddess, that but yesterday
         Didst deign access to me at home, and lay
         Grave charge on me to take ship, and inquire
         Along the dark seas for mine absent sire!
         Which all the Greeks oppose; amongst whom most
         Those that are proud still at another's cost,
         Past measure, and the civil rights of men,
         My mother's Wooers, my repulse maintain."
           Thus spake he praying; when close to him came
         Pallas, resembling Mentor both in frame
         Of voice and person, and advised him thus:
           "Those Wooers well might know, Telemachus,
         Thou wilt not ever weak and childish be,
         If to thee be instill'd the faculty
         Of mind and body that thy father grac'd;
         And if, like him, there be in thee enchac'd
         Virtue to give words works, and works their end.
         This voyage, that to them thou didst commend,
         Shall not so quickly, as they idly ween,
         Be vain, or giv'n up, for their opposite spleen.
         But, if Ulysses nor Penelope
         Were thy true parents, I then hope in thee
         Of no more urging thy attempt in hand;
         For few, that rightly bred on both sides stand,
         Are like their parents, many that are worse,
         And most few better. Those then that the nurse
         Or mother call true born yet are not so,
         Like worthy sires much less are like to grow.
         But thou show'st now that in thee fades not quite
         Thy father's wisdom; and that future light
         Shall therefore show thee far from being unwise,
         Or touch'd with stain of bastard cowardice.
         Hope therefore says, that thou wilt to the end
         Pursue the brave act thou didst erst intend.
         But for the foolish Wooers, they bewray
         They neither counsel have nor soul, since they
         Are neither wise nor just, and so must needs
         Rest ignorant how black above their heads
         Fate hovers holding Death, that one sole day
         Will make enough to make them all away.
         For thee, the way thou wishest shall no more
         Fly thee a step; I, that have been before
         Thy father's friend, thine likewise now will be,
         Provide thy ship myself, and follow thee.
         Go thou then home, and sooth each Wooer's vein,
         But under hand fit all things for the main;
         Wine in as strong and sweet casks as you can,
         And meal, the very marrow of a man,
         Which put in good sure leather sacks, and see
         That with sweet food sweet vessels still agree.
         I from the people straight will press for you
         Free voluntaries; and, for ships, enow
         Sea-circled Ithaca contains, both new
         And old-built; all which I'll exactly view,
         And choose what one soever most doth please;
         Which rigg'd, we'll straight launch, and assay the seas."
           This spake Jove's daughter, Pallas; whose voice heard,
         No more Telemachus her charge deferr'd,
         But hasted home, and, sad at heart, did see
         Amidst his hall th' insulting Wooers flea
         Goats, and roast swine. 'Mongst whom, Antinous
         Careless, discovering in Telemachus
         His grudge to see them, laugh'd, met, took his hand,
         And said: "High-spoken, with the mind so mann'd!
         Come, do as we do, put not up your spirits
         With these low trifles, nor our loving merits
         In gall of any hateful purpose steep,
         But eat egregiously, and drink as deep.
         The things thou think'st on, all at full shall be
         By th' Achives thought on, and perform'd to thee;
         Ship, and choice oars, that in a trice will land
         Thy hasty fleet on heavenly Pylos' sand,
         And at the fame of thy illustrous sire."
           He answer'd: "Men, whom pride did so inspire,
         Are not fit consorts for an humble guest;
         Nor are constrain'd men merry at their feast.
         Is't not enough, that all this time ye have
         Op'd in your entrails my chief goods a grave,
         And, while I was a child, made me partake?
         My now more growth more grown my mind doth make,
         And, hearing speak more judging men than you,
         Perceive how much I was misgovern'd now.
         I now will try if I can bring ye home
         An ill Fate to consort you; if it come
         From Pylos, or amongst the people here.
         But thither I resolve, and know that there
         I shall not touch in vain. Nor will I stay,
         Though in a merchant's ship I steer my way;
         Which shows in your sights best; since me ye know
         Incapable of ship, or men to row."
           This said, his hand he coyly snatch'd away
         From forth Antinous' hand. The rest the day
         Spent through the house with banquets; some with jests,
         And some with railings, dignifying their feasts.
         To whom a jest-proud youth the wit began:
           "Telemachus will kill us every man.
         From Sparta, to the very Pylian sand,
         He will raise aids to his impetuous hand.
         O he affects it strangely! Or he means
         To search Ephyra's fat shores, and from thence
         Bring deathful poisons, which amongst our bowls
         Will make a general shipwrack of our souls."
           Another said: "Alas, who knows but he
         Once gone, and erring like his sire at sea,
         May perish like him, far from aid of friends,
         And so he makes us work? For all the ends
         Left of his goods here we shall share, the house
         Left to his mother and her chosen spouse."
           Thus they; while he a room ascended, high
         And large, built by his father, where did lie
         Gold and brass heap'd up, and in coffers were
         Rich robes, great store of odorous oils, and there
         Stood tuns of sweet old wines along the wall,
         Neat and divine drink, kept to cheer withall
         Ulysses' old heart, if he turn'd again
         From labours fatal to him to sustain.
         The doors of plank were, their close exquisite,
         Kept with a double key, and day and night
         A woman lock'd within; and that was she
         Who all trust had for her sufficiency,
         Old Euryclea, one of Opis' race,
         Son to Pisenor, and in passing grace
         With grey Minerva; her the prince did call,
         And said: "Nurse! Draw me the most sweet of all
         The wine thou keep'st; next that which for my sire
         Thy care reserves, in hope he shall retire.
         Twelve vessels fill me forth, and stop them well.
         Then into well-sew'd sacks of fine ground meal
         Pour twenty measures. Nor, to any one
         But thee thyself, let this design be known.
         All this see got together; I it all
         In night will fetch off, when my mother shall
         Ascend her high room, and for sleep prepare.
         Sparta and Pylos I must see, in care
         To find my father." Out Euryclea cried,
         And ask'd with tears: "Why is your mind applied,
         Dear son, to this course? Whither will you go?
         So far off leave us, and beloved so,
         So only? And the sole hope of your race?
         Royal Ulysses, far from the embrace
         Of his kind country, in a land unknown
         Is dead; and, you from your lov'd country gone,
         The Wooers will with some deceit assay
         To your destruction, making then their prey
         Of all your goods. Where, in your own y'are strong,
         Make sure abode. It fits not you so young
         To suffer so much by the aged seas,
         And err in such a wayless wilderness."
           "Be cheer'd, lov'd nurse," said he, "for, not without
         The will of God, go my attempts about.
         Swear therefore, not to wound my mother's ears
         With word of this, before from heaven appears
         Th' eleventh or twelfth light, or herself shall please
         To ask of me, or hears me put to seas,
         Lest her fair body with her woe be wore."
           To this the great oath of the Gods she swore;
         Which having sworn, and of it every due
         Perform'd to full, to vessels wine she drew,
         And into well-sew'd sacks pour'd foody meal.
         In mean time he, with cunning to conceal
         All thought of this from others, himself bore
         In broad house, with the Wooers, as before.
           Then grey-eyed Pallas other thoughts did own,
         And like Telemachus trod through the town,
         Commanding all his men in th' even to be
         Aboard his ship. Again then question'd she
         Noemon, famed for aged Phronius' son,
         About his ship; who all things to be done
         Assured her freely should. The sun then set,
         And sable shadows slid through every street,
         When forth they launch'd, and soon aboard did bring
         All arms, and choice of every needful thing
         That fits a well-rigg'd ship. The Goddess then
         Stood in the port's extreme part, where her men,
         Nobly appointed, thick about her came,
         Whose every breast she did with spirit enflame.
         Yet still fresh projects laid the grey-eyed Dame.
           Straight to the house she hasted, and sweet sleep
         Pour'd on each Wooer; which so laid in steep
         Their drowsy temples, that each brow did nod,
         As all were drinking, and each hand his load,
         The cup, let fall. All start up, and to bed,
         Nor more would watch, when sleep so surfeited
         Their leaden eye-lids. Then did Pallas call
         Telemachus, in body, voice, and all,
         Resembling Mentor, from his native nest,
         And said, that all his arm'd men were addrest
         To use their oars, and all expected now
         He should the spirit of a soldier show.
         "Come then," said she, "no more let us defer
         Our honour'd action." Then she took on her
         A ravish'd spirit, and led as she did leap;
         And he her most haste took out step by step.
           Arrived at sea and ship, they found ashore
         The soldiers that their fashion'd-long hair wore;
         To whom the prince said: "Come, my friends, let's bring
         Our voyage's provision; every thing
         Is heap'd together in our court; and none,
         No not my mother, nor her maids, but one
         Knows our intention." This express'd, he led,
         The soldiers close together followed;
         And all together brought aboard their store.
         Aboard the prince went; Pallas still before
         Sat at the stern, he close to her, the men
         Up hasted after. He and Pallas then
         Put from the shore. His soldiers then he bad
         See all their arms fit; which they heard, and had.
           A beechen mast, then, in the hollow base
         They put, and hoisted, fix'd it in his place
         With cables; and with well-wreath'd halsers hoise
         Their white sails, which grey Pallas now employs
         With full and fore-gales through the dark deep main.
         The purple waves, so swift cut, roar'd again
         Against the ship sides, that now ran and plow'd
         The rugged seas up. Then the men bestow'd
         Their arms about the ship, and sacrifice
         With crown'd wine-cups to th' endless Deities
         They offer'd up. Of all yet throned above,
         They most observed the grey-eyed seed of Jove;
         Who, from the evening till the morning rose,
         And all day long, their voyage did dispose.

            FINIS LIBRI SECUNDI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



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    CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD



    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.





    THE THIRD BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    TELEMACHUS, and Heaven's wise Dame
    That never husband had, now came
    To Nestor; who his either guest
    Received at the religious feast
    He made to Neptune, on his shore;
    And there told what was done before
    The Trojan turrets, and the state
    Of all the Greeks since Ilion's fate.
    This book these three of greatest place
    Doth serve with many a varied grace.
    Which past, Minerva takes her leave.
    Whose state when Nestor doth perceive,
    With sacrifice he makes it known,
    Where many a pleasing rite is shown.
    Which done, Telemachus hath gain'd
    A chariot of him; who ordain'd
    Pisistratus, his son, his guide
    To Sparta; and when starry eyed
    The ample heaven began to be,
    All house-rites to afford them free,
    In Pheris, Diocles did please,
    His surname Ortilochides.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... Ulysses son
    With Nestor lies,
    To Sparta gone;
    Thence Pallas flies.


    THE sun now left the great and goodly lake,
         And to the firm heaven bright ascent did make,
         To shine as well upon the mortal birth,
         Inhabiting the plow'd life-giving earth,
         As on the ever treaders upon death.
         And now to Pylos, that so garnisheth
         Herself with buildings, old Neleus' town,
         The prince and Goddess come had strange sights shown,
         For, on the marine shore, the people there
         To Neptune, that the azure looks doth wear,
         Beeves that were wholly black gave holy flame.
         Nine seats of state they made to his high name;
         And every seat set with five hundred men,
         And each five hundred was to furnish then
         With nine black oxen every sacred seat.
         These of the entrails only pleas'd to eat,
         And to the God enflam'd the fleshy thighs.
           By this time Pallas with the sparkling eyes,
         And he she led, within the haven bore,
         Struck sail, cast anchor, and trod both the shore,
         She first, he after. Then said Pallas: "Now
         No more befits thee the least bashful brow;
         T' embolden which this act is put on thee,
         To seek thy father both at shore and sea,
         And learn in what clime he abides so close,
         Or in the power of what Fate doth repose.
           Come then, go right to Nestor; let us see,
         If in his bosom any counsel be,
         That may inform us. Pray him not to trace
         The common courtship, and to speak in grace
         Of the demander, but to tell the truth;
         Which will delight him, and commend thy youth
         For such prevention; for he loves no lies,
         Nor will report them, being truly wise."
           He answer'd: "Mentor! how, alas! shall I
         Present myself? How greet his gravity?
         My youth by no means that ripe form affords,
         That can digest my mind's instinct in words
         Wise, and beseeming th' ears of one so sage.
         Youth of most hope blush to use words with age."
           She said: "Thy mind will some conceit impress,
         And something God will prompt thy towardness;
         For, I suppose, thy birth, and breeding too,
         Were not in spite of what the Gods could do."
           This said, she swiftly went before, and he
         Her steps made guides, and follow'd instantly.
         When soon they reach'd the Pylian throngs and seats,
         Where Nestor with his sons sat; and the meats,
         That for the feast serv'd, round about them were
         Adherents dressing, all their sacred cheer,
         Being roast and boil'd meats. When the Pylians saw
         These strangers come, in thrust did all men draw
         About their entry, took their hands, and pray'd
         They both would sit; their entry first assay'd
         By Nestor's son, Pisistratus. In grace
         Of whose repair, he gave them honour'd place
         Betwixt his sire and brother Thrasymed,
         Who sat at feast on soft fells that were spread
         Along the sea sands, kerv'd, and reach'd to them
         Parts of the inwards, and did make a stream
         Of spritely wine into a golden bowl;
         Which to Minerva with a gentle soul
         He gave, and thus spake: "Ere you eat, fair guest,
         Invoke the Seas' King, of whose sacred feast
         Your travel hither makes ye partners now;
         When, sacrificing as becomes, bestow
         This bowl of sweet wine on your friend, that he
         May likewise use these rites of piety;
         For I suppose his youth doth prayers use,
         Since all men need the Gods. But you I choose
         First in this cup's disposure, since his years
         Seem short of yours, who more like me appears."
         Thus gave he her the cup of pleasant wine;
         And since a wise and just man did design
         The golden bowl first to her free receit,
         Even to the Goddess it did add delight,
         Who thus invok'd: "Hear thou, whose vast embrace
         Enspheres the whole earth, nor disdain thy grace
         To us that ask it in performing this:
         To Nestor first, and these fair sons of his,
         Vouchsafe all honour; and, next them, bestow
         On all these Pylians, that have offer'd now
         This most renowned hecatomb to thee,
         Remuneration fit for them, and free;
         And lastly deign Telemachus and me,
         The work perform'd for whose effect we came,
         Our safe return, both with our ship and fame."
         Thus prayed she; and herself herself obey'd,
         In th' end performing all for which she pray'd.
         And now, to pray, and do as she had done,
         She gave the fair round bowl t' Ulysses' son.
           The meat then dress'd, and drawn, and serv'd t' each guest,
         They celebrated a most sumptuous feast.
         When appetite to wine and food allay'd,
         Horse-taming Nestor then began, and said:
           "Now life's desire is serv'd, as far as fare,
         Time fits me to enquire what guests these are.
         Fair guests, what are ye? And for what coast tries
         Your ship the moist deeps? For fit merchandise,
         Or rudely coast ye, like our men of prise,
         The rough seas tempting, desperately erring,
         The ill of others in their good conferring?"
          The wise prince now his boldness did begin,
         For Pallas' self had harden'd him within,
         By this device of travel to explore
         His absent father; which two girlonds wore;
         His good by manage of his spirits; and then
         To gain him high grace in th' accounts of men.
           "O Nestor! still in whom Neleus lives!
         And all the glory of the Greeks survives,
         You ask from whence we are, and I relate:
         From Ithaca (whose seat is situate
         Where Neius, the renowned mountain, rears
         His haughty forehead, and the honour bears
         To be our sea-mark) we assay'd the waves.
         The business, I must tell, our own good craves,
         And not the public. I am come t' enquire,
         If, in the fame that best men doth inspire
         Of my most-suffering father, I may hear
         Some truth of his estate now, who did bear
         The name, being join'd in fight with you alone,
         To even with earth the height of Ilion.
         Of all men else, that any name did bear,
         And fought for Troy, the several ends we hear;
         But his death Jove keeps from the world unknown,
         The certain fame thereof being told by none;
         If on the continent by enemies slain,
         Or with the waves eat of the ravenous main.
         For his love 'tis that to your knees I sue,
         That you would please, out of your own clear view,
         T' assure his sad end; or say, if your ear
         Hath heard of the unhappy wanderer,
         To too much sorrow whom his mother bore.
         You then by all your bounties I implore,
         (If ever to you deed or word hath stood,
         By my good father promis'd, rendered good
         Amongst the Trojans, where ye both have tried
         The Grecian suff'rance) that in nought applied
         To my respect or pity you will glose,
         But uncloth'd truth to my desires disclose."
           "O my much-lov'd," said he, "since you renew
         Remembrance of the miseries that grew
         Upon our still-in-strength-opposing Greece
         Amongst Troy's people, I must touch a piece
         Of all our woes there, either in the men
         Achilles brought by sea and led to gain
         About the country, or in us that fought
         About the city, where to death were brought
         All our chief men, as many as were there.
         There Mars-like Ajax lies; Achilles there;
         There the in-counsel-like-the-Gods, his friend;
         There my dear son Antilochus took end,
         Past measure swift of foot, and staid in fight.
         A number more that ills felt infinite;
         Of which to reckon all, what mortal man,
         If five or six years you should stay here, can
         Serve such enquiry? You would back again,
         Affected with unsufferable pain,
         Before you heard it. Nine years sieged we them,
         With all the depth and sleight of stratagem
         That could be thought. Ill knit to ill past end.
         Yet still they toil'd us; nor would yet Jove send
         Rest to our labours, nor will scarcely yet.
         But no man lived, that would in public set
         His wisdom by Ulysses' policy,
         As thought his equal; so excessively
         He stood superior all ways. If you be
         His son indeed, mine eyes even ravish me
         To admiration. And in all consent
         Your speech puts on his speech's ornament.
         Nor would one say, that one so young could use,
         Unless his son, a rhetoric so profuse.
         And while we lived together, he and I
         Never in speech maintain'd diversity;
         Nor set in counsel but, by one soul led,
         With spirit and prudent counsel furnished
         The Greeks at all hours, that, with fairest course,
         What best became them, they might put in force.
         But when Troy's high towers we had levell'd thus,
         We put to sea, and God divided us.
         And then did Jove our sad retreat devise;
         For all the Greeks were neither just nor wise,
         And therefore many felt so sharp a fate,
         Sent from Minerva's most pernicious hate;
         Whose mighty Father can do fearful things.
         By whose help she betwixt the brother kings
         Let fall contention; who in council met
         In vain, and timeless, when the sun was set,
         And all the Greeks call'd, that came charged with wine.
         Yet then the kings would utter their design,
         And why they summon'd. Menelaus, he
         Put all in mind of home, and cried, To sea.
         But Agamemnon stood on contraries,
         Whose will was, they should stay and sacrifice
         Whole hecatombs to Pallas, to forego
         Her high wrath to them. Fool! that did not know
         She would not so be won; for not with ease
         Th' Eternal Gods are turn'd from what they please.
         So they, divided, on foul language stood.
         The Greeks in huge rout rose, their wine-heat blood
         Two ways affecting. And, that night's sleep too,
         We turn'd to studying either other's woe;
         When Jove besides made ready woes enow.
         Morn came, we launch'd, and in our ships did stow
         Our goods, and fair-girt women. Half our men
         The people's guide, Atrides, did contain,
         And half, being now aboard, put forth to sea.
         A most free gale gave all ships prosperous way.
         God settled then the huge whale-bearing lake,
         And Tenedos we reach'd; where, for time's sake,
         We did divine rites to the Gods. But Jove,
         Inexorable still, bore yet no love
         To our return, but did again excite
         A second sad contention, that turn'd quite
         A great part of us back to sea again;
         Which were th' abundant-in-all-counsels man,
         Your matchless father, who, to gratify
         The great Atrides, back to him did fly.
         But I fled all, with all that follow'd me,
         Because I knew God studied misery,
         To hurl amongst us. With me likewise fled
         Martial Tydides. I the men he led
         Gat to go with him. Winds our fleet did bring
         To Lesbos, where the yellow-headed king,
         Though late, yet found us, as we put to choice
         A tedious voyage; if we sail should hoise
         Above rough Chius, left on our left hand,
         To th' isle of Psyria, or that rugged land
         Sail under, and for windy Mimas steer.
         We ask'd of God that some ostent might clear
         Our cloudy business, who gave us sign,
         And charge, that all should, in a middle line,
         The sea cut for Euboea, that with speed
         Our long-sustain'd infortune might be freed.
         Then did a whistling wind begin to rise,
         And swiftly flew we through the fishy skies,
         Till to Geraestus we in night were brought;
         Where, through the broad sea since we safe had wrought,
         At Neptune's altars many solid thighs
         Of slaughter'd bulls we burn'd for sacrifice.
           The fourth day came, when Tydeus' son did greet
         The haven of Argos with his complete fleet.
         But I for Pylos straight steer'd on my course,
         Nor ever left the wind his foreright force,
         Since God fore-sent it first. And thus I came,
         Dear son, to Pylos, uninform'd by fame,
         Nor know one saved by Fate, or overcome.
         Whom I have heard of since, set here at home,
         As fits, thou shalt be taught, nought left unshown.
           The expert spear-men, every Myrmidon,
         Led by the brave heir of the mighty-soul'd
         Unpeer'd Achilles, safe of home got hold;
         Safe Philoctetes, Poean's famous seed;
         And safe Idomenaeus his men led
         To his home, Crete, who fled the armed field,
         Of whom yet none the sea from him withheld.
           Atrides, you have both heard, though ye be
         His far-off dwellers, what an end had he,
         Done by Ægisthus to a bitter death;
         Who miserably paid for forced breath,
         Atrides leaving a good son, that dyed,
         In blood of that deceitful parricide,
         His wreakful sword. And thou my friend, as he
         For this hath his fame, the like spirit in thee
         Assume at all parts. Fair and great, I see,
         Thou art in all hope, make it good to th' end,
         That after-times as much may thee commend."
           He answer'd: "O thou greatest grace of Greece,
         Orestes made that wreak his master-piece,
         And him the Greeks will give a master-praise,
         Verse finding him to last all after-days.
         And would to God the Gods would favour me
         With his performance, that my injury,
         Done by my mother's Wooers, being so foul,
         I might revenge upon their every soul;
         Who, pressing me with contumelies, dare
         Such things as past the power of utt'rance are.
         But Heaven's great Powers have graced my destiny
         With no such honour. Both my sire and I
         Are born to suffer everlastingly."
           "Because you name those Wooers, friend," said he,
         "Report says, many such, in spite of thee,
         Wooing thy mother, in thy house commit
         The ills thou nam'st. But say: Proceedeth it
         From will in thee to bear so foul a foil?
         Or from thy subjects' hate, that wish thy spoil,
         And will not aid thee, since their spirits rely,
         Against thy rule, on some grave augury?
         What know they, but at length thy father may
         Come, and with violence their violence pay;
         Or he alone, or all the Greeks with him?
         But if Minerva now did so esteem
         Thee, as thy father in times past; whom, past
         All measure, she with glorious favours grac't
         Amongst the Trojans, where we suffered so;
         (O! I did never see, in such clear show,
         The Gods so grace a man, as she to him,
         To all our eyes, appear'd in all her trim)
         If so, I say, she would be pleased to love,
         And that her mind's care thou so much couldst move,
         As did thy father, every man of these
         Would lose in death their seeking marriages."
           "O father," answer'd he, "you make amaze
         Seize me throughout. Beyond the height of phrase
         You raise expression; but 'twill never be,
         That I shall move in any Deity
         So blest an honour. Not by any means,
         If Hope should prompt me, or blind Confidence,
         (The God of Fools) or every Deity
         Should will it; for 'tis past my destiny."
           The burning-eyed Dame answer'd: "What a speech
         Hath past the teeth-guard Nature gave to teach
         Fit question of thy words before they fly!
         God easily can (when to a mortal eye
         He's furthest off) a mortal satisfy;
         And does the more still. For thy cared-for sire,
         I rather wish, that I might home retire,
         After my sufferance of a world of woes,
         Far off, and then my glad eyes might disclose
         The day of my return, then straight retire,
         And perish standing by my household fire;
         As Agamemnon did, that lost his life
         By false Ægisthus, and his falser wife.
           For Death to come at length, 'tis due to all;
         Nor can the Gods themselves, when Fate shall call
         Their most loved man, extend his vital breath
         Beyond the fix'd bounds of abhorred Death."
           "Mentor!" said he, "let's dwell no more on this,
         Although in us the sorrow pious is.
         No such return, as we wish, Fates bequeath
         My erring father; whom a present death
         The Deathless have decreed. I'll now use speech
         That tends to other purpose; and beseech
         Instruction of grave Nestor, since he flows
         Past shore in all experience, and knows
         The sleights and wisdoms, to whose heights aspire
         Others, as well as my commended sire,
         Whom Fame reports to have commanded three
         Ages of men, and doth in sight to me
         Show like th' Immortals. 'Nestor! the renown
         Of old Neleius, make the clear truth known,
         How the most great in empire, Atreus son,
         Sustain'd the act of his destruction.
         Where then was Menelaus? How was it
         That false Ægisthus, being so far unfit
         A match for him, could his death so enforce?
         Was he not then in Argos? or his course
         With men so left, to let a coward breathe
         Spirit enough to dare his brother's death?"
           "I'll tell thee truth in all, fair son," said he:
         "Right well was this event conceiv'd by thee.
         If Menelaus in his brother's house
         Had found the idle liver with his spouse,
         Arriv'd from Troy, he had not liv'd, nor dead
         Had the digg'd heap pour'd on his lustful head,
         But fowls and dogs had torn him in the fields,
         Far off of Argos; not a dame it yields
         Had given him any tear, so foul his fact
         Show'd even to women. Us Troy's wars had rack'd
         To every sinew's sufferance, while he
         In Argos' uplands liv'd, from those works free,
         And Agamemnon's wife with force of word
         Flatter'd and soften'd, who, at first, abhorr'd
         A fact so infamous. The heav'nly dame
         A good mind had, but was in blood too blame.
         There was a poet, to whose care the king
         His queen committed, and in every thing,
         When he from Troy went, charg'd him to apply
         Himself in all guard to her dignity.
         But when strong Fate so wrapt-in her effects,
         That she resolv'd to leave her fit respects,
         Into a desert isle her guardian led,
         There left, the rapine of the vultures fed.
         Then brought he willing home his will's won prize,
         On sacred altars offer'd many thighs,
         Hung in the God's fanes many ornaments,
         Garments and gold, that he the vast events
         Of such a labour to his wish had brought,
         As neither fell into his hope nor thought.
           At last, from Troy sail'd Sparta's king and I,
         Both holding her untouch'd. And, that his eye
         Might see no worse of her, when both were blown
         To sacred Sunium, of Minerva's town
         The goodly promontory, with his shafts severe
         Augur Apollo slew him that did steer
         Atrides' ship, as he the stern did guide,
         And She the full speed of her sail applied.
         He was a man that nations of men
         Excell'd in safe guide of a vessel, when
         A tempest rush'd in on the ruffled seas;
         His name was Phrontis Onetorides.
         And thus was Menelaus held from home,
         Whose way he thirsted so to overcome,
         To give his friend the earth, being his pursuit,
         And all his exsequies to execute.
         But sailing still the wine-hued seas, to reach
         Some shore for fit performance, he did fetch
         The steep mount of the Malians, and there,
         With open voice, offended Jupiter
         Proclaim'd the voyage, his repugnant mind,
         And pour'd the puffs out of a shrieking wind,
         That nourish'd billows heighten'd like to hills;
         And with the fleet's division fulfils
         His hate proclaim'd; upon a part of Crete
         Casting the navy, where the sea-waves meet
         Rough Jardanus, and where the Cydons live.
           There is a rock, on which the sea doth drive,
         Bare, and all broken, on the confines set
         Of Gortys, that the dark seas likewise fret;
         And hither sent the South a horrid drift
         Of waves against the top, that was the left
         Of that torn cliff as far as Phaestus' strand.
         A little stone the great sea's rage did stand.
         The men here driven 'scap'd hard the ships' sore shocks,
         The ships themselves being wrack'd against the rocks,
         Save only five, that blue fore-castles bore,
         Which wind and water cast on Egypt's shore.
         When he (there victling well, and store of gold
         Aboard his ships brought) his wild way did hold,
         And t' other languag'd men was forced to roam.
         Mean space Ægisthus made sad work at home,
         And slew his brother, forcing to his sway
         Atrides' subjects, and did seven years lay
         His yoke upon the rich Mycenian state.
         But in the eighth, to his affrighting fate,
         Divine Orestes home from Athens came,
         And what his royal father felt, the same
         He made the false Ægisthus groan beneath.
         Death evermore is the reward of death.
           Thus having slain him, a sepulchral feast
         He made the Argives for his lustful guest,
         And for his mother whom he did detest.
         The self-same day upon him stole the king
         Good-at-a-martial-shout, and goods did bring,
         As many as his freighted fleet could bear.
         But thou, my son, too long by no means err,
         Thy goods left free from many a spoilful guest,
         Lest they consume some, and divide the rest,
         And thou, perhaps, besides, thy voyage lose.
         To Menelaus yet thy course dispose
         I wish and charge thee; who but late arriv'd
         From such a shore and men, as to have liv'd
         In a return from them he never thought,
         And whom black whirlwinds violently brought
         Within a sea so vast, that in a year
         Not any fowl could pass it anywhere,
         So huge and horrid was it. But go thou
         With ship and men (or, if thou pleasest now
         To pass by land, there shall be brought for thee
         Both horse and chariot, and thy guides shall be
         My sons themselves) to Sparta the divine,
         And to the king whose locks like amber shine.
         Intreat the truth of him, nor loves he lies,
         Wisdom in truth is, and he's passing wise."
           This said, the Sun went down, and up rose Night,
         When Pallas spake: "O father, all good right
         Bear thy directions. But divide we now
         The sacrifices' tongues, mix wines, and vow
         To Neptune, and the other Ever-Blest,
         That, having sacrific'd, we may to rest.
         The fit hour runs now, light dives out of date,
         At sacred feasts we must not sit too late."
           She said; they heard; the herald water gave;
         The youths crown'd cups with wine, and let all have
         Their equal shares, beginning from the cup
         Their parting banquet. All the tongues cut up,
         The fire they gave them, sacrific'd, and rose,
         Wine, and divine rites used, to each dispose;
         Minerva and Telemachus desir'd
         They might to ship be, with his leave, retir'd.
           He, mov'd with that, provok'd thus their abodes:
         "Now Jove forbid, and all the long-liv'd Gods,
         Your leaving me, to sleep aboard a ship;
         As I had drunk of poor Penia's whip,
         Even to my nakedness, and had nor sheet
         Nor covering in my house; that warm nor sweet
         A guest, nor I myself, had means to sleep;
         Where I, both weeds and wealthy coverings keep
         For all my guests. Nor shall Fame ever say,
         The dear son of the man Ulysses lay
         All night a-ship-board here while my days shine,
         Or in my court whiles any son of mine
         Enjoys survival, who shall guests receive,
         Whomever my house hath a nook to leave."
           "My much-lov'd father," said Minerva, "well
         All this becomes thee. But persuade to dwell
         This night with thee thy son Telemachus,
         For more convenient is the course for us,
         That he may follow to thy house and rest,
         And I may board our black-sail, that address'd
         At all parts I may make our men, and cheer
         All with my presence, since of all men there
         I boast myself the senior, th' others are
         Youths, that attend in free and friendly care
         Great-soul'd Telemachus, and are his peers
         In fresh similitude of form and years.
         For their confirmance, I will therefore now
         Sleep in our black bark. But, when light shall show
         Her silver forehead, I intend my way
         Amongst the Caucons, men that are to pay
         A debt to me, nor small, nor new. For this,
         Take you him home; whom in the morn dismiss,
         With chariot and your sons, and give him horse
         Ablest in strength, and of the speediest course."
           This said, away she flew, form'd like the fowl
         Men call the ossifrage; when every soul
         Amaze invaded; even th' old man admir'd,
         The youth's hand took, and said: "O most desir'd,
         My hope says thy proof will no coward show,
         Nor one unskill'd in war, when Deities now
         So young attend thee, and become thy guides;
         Nor any of the heaven-housed States besides,
         But Tritogenia's self, the Seed of Jove,
         The great in prey, that did in honour move
         So much about thy father, amongst all
         The Grecian army. Fairest queen, let fall
         On me like favours! Give me good renown!
         Which, as on me, on my lov'd wife let down,
         And all my children. I will burn to thee
         An ox right bred, broad-headed, and yoke-free,
         To no man's hand yet humbled. Him will I,
         His horns in gold hid, give thy Deity."
           Thus pray'd he, and she heard; and home he led
         His sons, and all his heaps of kindered.
         Who ent'ring his court royal, every one
         He marshall'd in his several seat and throne;
         And every one, so kindly come, he gave
         His sweet-wine cup; which none was let to have
         Before his 'leventh year landed him from Troy;
         Which now the butleress had leave t' employ,
         Who therefore pierc'd it, and did give it vent.
         Of this the old duke did a cup present
         To every guest; made his Maid many a prayer
         That wears the shield fring'd with his nurse's hair,
         And gave her sacrifice. With this rich wine
         And food sufficed, sleep all eyes did decline,
         And all for home went; but his court alone
         Telemachus, divine Ulysses' son,
         Must make his lodging, or not please his heart.
           A bed, all chequer'd with elaborate art,
         Within a portico that rung like brass,
         He brought his guest to; and his bedfere was
         Pisistratus, the martial guide of men,
         That liv'd, of all his sons, unwed till then.
         Himself lay in a by-room, far above,
         His bed made by his barren wife, his love.
           The rosy-finger'd Morn no sooner shone,
         But up he rose, took air, and sat upon
         A seat of white and goodly polish'd stone,
         That such a gloss as richest ointments wore,
         Before his high gates; where the counsellor
         That match'd the Gods (his father) used to sit,
         Who now, by fate forc'd, stoop'd as low as it.
         And here sat Nestor, holding in his hand
         A sceptre; and about him round did stand,
         As early up, his sons' troop; Perseus,
         The god-like Thrasymed, and Aretus,
         Echephron, Stratius, the sixth and last
         Pisistratus, and by him (half embrac'd
         Still as they came) divine Telemachus;
         To these spake Nestor, old Gerenius:
           "Haste, loved sons, and do me a desire,
         That, first of all the Gods, I may aspire
         To Pallas' favour, who vouchsafed to me
         At Neptune's feast her sight so openly.
         Let one to field go, and an ox with speed
         Cause hither brought, which let the herdsman lead;
         Another to my dear guest's vessel go,
         And all his soldiers bring, save only two;
         A third the smith that works in gold command
         (Laertius) to attend, and lend his hand,
         To plate the both horns round about with gold;
         The rest remain here close. But first, see told
         The maids within, that they prepare a feast,
         Set seats through all the court, see straight address'd
         The purest water, and get fuel fell'd."
           This said, not one but in the service held
         Officious hand. The ox came led from field;
         The soldiers troop'd from ship; the smith he came,
         And those tools brought that serv'd the actual frame
         His art conceiv'd, brought anvil, hammers brought,
         Fair tongs, and all, with which the gold was wrought.
         Minerva likewise came, to set the crown
         On that kind sacrifice, and make 't her own.
           Then th' old knight Nestor gave the smith the gold,
         With which he straight did both the horns infold,
         And trimm'd the offering so, the Goddess joy'd.
         About which thus were Nestor's sons employ'd:
         Divine Echephron, and fair Stratius,
         Held both the horns. The water odorous,
         In which they wash'd, what to the rites was vow'd,
         Aretus, in a caldron all bestrow'd
         With herbs and flowers, serv'd in from th' holy room
         Where all were drest, and whence the rites must come.
         And after him a hallow'd virgin came,
         That brought the barley-cake, and blew the flame.
         The axe, with which the ox should both be fell'd
         And cut forth, Thrasymed stood by and held.
         Perseus the vessel held that should retain
         The purple liquor of the offering slain.
           Then wash'd the pious father, then the cake
         (Of barley, salt, and oil, made) took, and brake,
         Ask'd many a boon of Pallas, and the state
         Of all the offering did initiate,
         In three parts cutting off the hair, and cast
         Amidst the flame. All th' invocation past,
         And all the cake broke, manly Thrasymed
         Stood near, and sure, and such a blow he laid
         Aloft the offering, that to earth he sunk,
         His neck-nerves sunder'd, and his spirits shrunk.
         Out shriek'd the daughters, daughter-in-laws, and wife
         Of three-aged Nestor, who had eldest life
         Of Clymen's daughters, chaste Eurydice.
         The ox on broad earth then laid laterally
         They held, while duke Pisistratus the throat
         Dissolv'd, and set the sable blood afloat,
         And then the life the bones left. Instantly
         They cut him up; apart flew either thigh,
         That with the fat they dubb'd, with art alone,
         The throat-brisk, and the sweet-bread pricking on.
         Then Nestor broil'd them on the coal-turn'd wood,
         Pour'd black wine on; and by him young men stood,
         That spits fine-pointed held, on which, when burn'd
         The solid thighs were, they transfix'd, and turn'd
         The inwards, cut in cantles; which, the meat
         Vow'd to the Gods consum'd, they roast and eat.
           In mean space, Polycaste (call'd the fair,
         Nestor's young'st daughter) bath'd Ulysses' heir;
         Whom having cleans'd, and with rich balms bespread,
         She cast a white shirt quickly o'er his head,
         And then his weeds put on; when forth he went,
         And did the person of a God present,
         Came, and by Nestor took his honour'd seat,
         This pastor of the people. Then, the meat
         Of all the spare parts roasted, off they drew,
         Sat, and fell to. But soon the temperate few
         Rose, and in golden bowls fill'd others wine.
         Till, when the rest felt thirst of feast decline,
         Nestor his sons bad fetch his high-man'd horse,
         And them in chariot join, to run the course
         The prince resolv'd. Obey'd, as soon as heard,
         Was Nestor by his sons, who straight prepar'd
         Both horse and chariot. She that kept the store,
         Both bread and wine, and all such viands more,
         As should the feast of Jove-fed kings compose,
         Purvey'd the voyage. To the rich coach rose
         Ulysses' son, and close to him ascended
         The duke Pisistratus, the reins intended,
         And scourg'd, to force to field, who freely flew;
         And left the town that far her splendour threw,
         Both holding yoke, and shook it all the day.
         But now the sun set, dark'ning every way,
         When they to Pheris came; and in the house
         Of Diocles (the son t' Orsilochus,
         Whom flood Alpheus got) slept all that night;
         Who gave them each due hospitable rite.
         But when the rosy-finger'd Morn arose,
         They went to coach, and did their horse inclose,
         Drave forth the fore-court, and the porch that yields
         Each breath a sound, and to the fruitful fields
         Rode scourging still their willing flying steeds,
         Who strenuously perform'd their wonted speeds.
         Their journey ending just when sun went down,
         And shadows all ways through the earth were thrown.

            FINIS LIBRI TERTII HOM. ODYSS.




    CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD




           


    THE FOURTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    RECEIVED now in the Spartan court,
    Telemachus prefers report
    To Menelaus of the throng
    Of Wooers with him, and their wrong.
    Atrides tells the Greeks' retreat,
    And doth a prophecy repeat
    That Proteus made, by which he knew
    His brother's death; and then doth show
    How with Calypso lived the sire
    Of his young guest. The Wooers conspire
    Their prince's death. Whose treachery known,
    Penelope in tears doth drown.
    Whom Pallas by a dream doth cheer,
    And in similitude appear
    Of fair Iphthima, known to be
    The sister of Penelope.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    Here of the sire
    The son doth hear.
    The Wooers conspire.
    The Mother's fear.


    IN Lacedæmon now, the nurse of whales,
         These two arriv'd, and found at festivals,
         With mighty concourse, the renowned king,
         His son and daughter jointly marrying.
         Alector's daughter he did give his son,
         Strong Megapenthes, who his life begun
         By Menelaus' bondmaid; whom he knew
         In years when Helen could no more renew
         In issue like divine Hermione,
         Who held in all fair form as high degree
         As golden Venus. Her he married now
         To great Achilles' son, who was by vow
         Betrothed to her at Troy. And thus the Gods
         To constant loves give nuptial periods.
         Whose state here past, the Myrmidons' rich town
         (Of which she shar'd in the imperial crown)
         With horse and chariots he resign'd her to.
         Mean space, the high huge house with feast did flow
         Of friends and neighbours, joying with the king.
         Amongst whom did a heavenly poet sing,
         And touch his harp. Amongst whom likewise danc'd
         Two, who in that dumb motion advanc'd,
         Would prompt the singer what to sing and play.
         All this time in the utter court did stay,
         With horse and chariot, Telemachus,
         And Nestor's noble son Pisistratus.
         Whom Eteoneus, coming forth, descried,
         And, being a servant to the king, most tried
         In care and his respect, he ran and cried:
         "Guests, Jove-kept Menelaus, two such men
         As are for form of high Saturnius' strain.
         Inform your pleasure, if we shall unclose
         Their horse from coach, or say they must dispose
         Their way to some such house, as may embrace
         Their known arrival with more welcome grace?"
           He, angry, answer'd: "Thou didst never show
         Thyself a fool, Boethides, till now;
         But now, as if turn'd child, a childish speech
         Vents thy vain spirits. We ourselves now reach
         Our home by much spent hospitality
         Of other men; nor know if Jove will try
         With other after-wants our state again;
         And therefore from our feast no more detain
         Those welcome guests, but take their steeds from coach,
         And with attendance guide in their approach."
           This said, he rush'd abroad, and call'd some more
         Tried in such service, that together bore
         Up to the guests, and took their steeds that swet
         Beneath their yokes from coach; at mangers set,
         Wheat and white barley gave them mix'd; and plac'd
         Their chariot by a wall so clear, it cast
         A light quite through it. And then they led
         Their guests to the divine house; which so fed
         Their eyes at all parts with illustrious sights,
         That admiration seized them. Like the lights
         The sun and moon gave, all the palace threw
         A lustre through it. Satiate with whose view,
         Down to the king's most bright-kept baths they went;
         Where handmaids did their services present,
         Bath'd, balm'd them, shirts and well-napt weeds put on,
         And by Atrides' side set each his throne.
         Then did the handmaid-royal water bring,
         And to a laver, rich and glittering,
         Of massy gold, pour'd; which she plac'd upon
         A silver caldron, into which might run
         The water as they wash'd. Then set she near
         A polish'd table, on which all the cheer
         The present could afford a reverend dame,
         That kept the larder, set. A cook then came,
         And divers dishes, borne thence, serv'd again;
         Furnish'd the board with bowls of gold. And then,
         His right hand given the guests, Atrides said:
         "Eat, and be cheerful. Appetite allay'd,
         I long to ask, of what stock ye descend;
         For not from parents whose race nameless end
         We must derive your offspring. Men obscure
         Could get none such as you. The portraiture
         Of Jove-sustain'd and sceptre-bearing kings
         Your either person in his presence brings."
         An ox's fat chine then they up did lift,
         And set before the guests; which was a gift,
         Sent as an honour to the king's own taste.
         They saw yet 'twas but to be eaten plac'd,
         And fell to it. But food and wine's care past,
         Telemachus thus prompted Nestor's son,
         (His ear close laying, to be heard of none)
           "Consider, thou whom most my mind esteems,
         The brass-work here, how rich it is in beams,
         And how, besides, it makes the whole house sound;
         What gold, and amber, silver, ivory, round
         Is wrought about it. Out of doubt, the hall
         Of Jupiter Olympius hath of all
         This state the like. How many infinites
         Take up to admiration all men's sights!"
           Atrides over-heard, and said: "Lov'd son,
         No mortal must affect contention
         With Jove, whose dwellings are of endless date.
         Perhaps of men some one may emulate,
         Or none, my house, or me; for I am one
         That many a grave extreme have undergone,
         Much error felt by sea, and till th' eighth year,
         Had never stay, but wander'd far and near,
         Cyprus, Phoenicia, and Sidonia,
         And fetch'd the far-off Æthiopia,
         Reach'd the Erembi of Arabia,
         And Lybia, where with horns ewes yean their lambs,
         Which every full year ewes are three times dams,
         Where neither king, nor shepherd, want comes near
         Of cheese, or flesh, or sweet milk; all the year
         They ever milk their ewes. And here while I
         Err'd, gathering means to live, one, murderously,
         Unwares, unseen, bereft my brother's life,
         Chiefly betray'd by his abhorred wife.
         So hold I, not enjoying, what you see.
         And of your fathers, if they living be,
         You must have heard this, since my sufferings were
         So great and famous; from this palace here
         (So rarely-well-built, furnished so well,
         And substanced with such a precious deal
         Of well-got treasure) banish'd by the doom
         Of Fate, and erring as I had no home.
         And now I have, and use it, not to take
         Th' entire delight it offers, but to make
         Continual wishes, that a triple part
         Of all it holds were wanting, so my heart
         Were eas'd of sorrows, taken for their deaths
         That fell at Troy, by their revived breaths.
         And thus sit I here weeping, mourning still
         Each least man lost; and sometimes make mine ill,
         In paying just tears for their loss, my joy.
         Sometimes I breathe my woes, for in annoy
         The pleasure soon admits satiety.
         But all these men's wants wet not so mine eye,
         Though much they move me, as one sole man's miss,
         For which my sleep and meat even loathsome is
         In his renew'd thought, since no Greek hath won
         Grace for such labours as Laertes' son
         Hath wrought and suffer'd, to himself nought else
         But future sorrows forging, to me hells
         For his long absence, since I cannot know
         If life or death detain him; since such woe
         For his love, old Laertes, his wise wife,
         And poor young son sustains, whom new with life
         He left as sireless." This speech grief to tears
         (Pour'd from the son's lids on the earth) his ears,
         Told of the father, did excite; who kept
         His cheeks dry with his red weed as he wept,
         His both hands used therein. Atrides then
         Began to know him, and did strife retain,
         If he should let himself confess his sire,
         Or with all fitting circumstance enquire.
           While this his thoughts disputed, forth did shine,
         Like to the golden distaff-deck'd Divine,
         From her bed's high and odoriferous room,
         Helen. To whom, of an elaborate loom,
         Adresta set a chair; Alcippe brought
         A piece of tapestry of fine wool wrought;
         Phylo a silver cabinet conferr'd,
         Given by Alcandra, nuptially endear'd
         To lord Polybius, whose abode in Thebes
         Th' Ægyptian city was, where wealth in heaps
         His famous house held, out of which did go,
         In gift t' Atrides, silver bath-tubs two,
         Two tripods, and of fine gold talents ten.
         His wife did likewise send to Helen then
         Fair gifts, a distaff that of gold was wrought,
         And that rich cabinet that Phylo brought,
         Round, and with gold ribb'd, now of fine thread full;
         On which extended (crown'd with finest wool,
         Of violet gloss) the golden distaff lay.
           She took her state-chair, and a foot-stool's stay
         Had for her feet; and of her husband thus
         Ask'd to know all things: "Is it known to us,
         King Menelaus, whom these men commend
         Themselves for, that our court now takes to friend?
         I must affirm, be I deceived or no,
         I never yet saw man nor woman so
         Like one another, as this man is like
         Ulysses' son. With admiration strike
         His looks my thoughts, that they should carry now
         Power to persuade me thus, who did but know,
         When newly he was born, the form they bore.
         But 'tis his father's grace, whom more and more
         His grace resembles, that makes me retain
         Thought that he now is like Telemachus, then
         Left by his sire, when Greece did undertake
         Troy's bold war for my impudency's sake."
           He answer'd: "Now wife, what you think I know,
         The true cast of his father's eye doth show
         In his eyes order. Both his head and hair,
         His hands and feet, his very father's are.
         Of whom, so well remember'd, I should now
         Acknowledge for me his continual flow
         Of cares and perils, yet still patient.
         But I should too much move him, that doth vent
         Such bitter tears for that which hath been spoke,
         Which, shunning soft show, see how he would cloak,
         And with his purple weed his weepings hide."
           Then Nestor's son, Pisistratus, replied:
         "Great pastor of the people, kept of God!
         He is Ulysses' son, but his abode
         Not made before here, and he modest too,
         He holds it an indignity to do
         A deed so vain, to use the boast of words,
         Where your words are on wing; whose voice affords
         Delight to us as if a God did break
         The air amongst us, and vouchsafe to speak.
         But me my father, old duke Nestor, sent
         To be his consort hither; his content
         Not to be heighten'd so as with your sight,
         In hope that therewith words and actions might
         Inform his comforts from you, since he is
         Extremely grieved and injured by the miss
         Of his great father; suffering even at home,
         And few friends found to help him overcome
         His too weak suff'rance, now his sire is gone;
         Amongst the people, not afforded one
         To check the miseries that mate him thus.
         And this the state is of Telemachus."
           "O Gods," said he, "how certain, now, I see
         My house enjoys that friend's son, that for me
         Hath undergone so many willing fights!
         Whom I resolved, past all the Grecian knights,
         To hold in love, if our return by seas
         The far-off Thunderer did ever please
         To grant our wishes. And to his respect
         A palace and a city to erect,
         My vow had bound me; whither bringing then
         His riches, and his son, and all his men,
         From barren Ithaca, (some one sole town
         Inhabited about him batter'd down)
         All should in Argos live. And there would I
         Ease him of rule, and take the empery
         Of all on me. And often here would we,
         Delighting, loving either's company,
         Meet and converse; whom nothing should divide,
         Till death's black veil did each all over hide.
         But this perhaps hath been a mean to take
         Even God himself with envy; who did make
         Ulysses therefore only the unblest,
         That should not reach his loved country's rest."
           These woes made every one with woe in love;
         Even Argive Helen wept, the seed of Jove;
         Ulysses' son wept; Atreus' son did weep;
         And Nestor's son his eyes in tears did steep,
         But his tears fell not from the present cloud
         That from Ulysses was exhaled, but flow'd
         From brave Antilochus' remember'd due,
         Whom the renown'd Son of the Morning slew,
         Which yet he thus excused: "O Atreus' son!
         Old Nestor says, there lives not such a one
         Amongst all mortals as Atrides is
         For deathless wisdom. 'Tis a praise of his,
         Still given in your remembrance, when at home
         Our speech concerns you. Since then overcome
         You please to be with sorrow, even to tears,
         That are in wisdom so exempt from peers,
         Vouchsafe the like effect in me excuse,
         If it be lawful, I affect no use
         Of tears thus after meals; at least, at night;
         But when the morn brings forth, with tears, her light,
         It shall not then impair me to bestow
         My tears on any worthy's overthrow.
         It is the only rite that wretched men
         Can do dead friends, to cut hair, and complain.
         But Death my brother took, whom none could call
         The Grecian coward, you best knew of all.
         I was not there, nor saw, but men report
         Antilochus excell'd the common sort
         For footmanship, or for the chariot race,
         Or in the fight for hardy hold of place."
           "O friend," said he, "since thou hast spoken so,
         At all parts as one wise should say and do,
         And like one far beyond thyself in years,
         Thy words shall bounds be to our former tears.
         O he is questionless a right born son,
         That of his father hath not only won
         The person but the wisdom; and that sire
         Complete himself that hath a son entire,
         Jove did not only his full fate adorn,
         When he was wedded, but when he was born.
         As now Saturnius, through his life's whole date,
         Hath Nestor's bliss raised to as steep a state,
         Both in his age to keep in peace his house,
         And to have children wise and valorous.
         But let us not forget our rear feast thus.
         Let some give water here. Telemachus!
         The morning shall yield time to you and me
         To do what fits, and reason mutually."
           This said, the careful servant of the king,
         Asphalion, pour'd on th' issue of the spring;
         And all to ready feast set ready hand.
         But Helen now on new device did stand,
         Infusing straight a medicine to their wine,
         That, drowning cares and angers, did decline
         All thought of ill. Who drunk her cup could shed
         All that day not a tear, no not if dead
         That day his father or his mother were,
         Not if his brother, child, or chiefest dear,
         He should see murder'd then before his face.
         Such useful medicines, only borne in grace
         Of what was good, would Helen ever have.
         And this juice to her Polydamna gave
         The wife of Thoon, all Ægyptian born,
         Whose rich earth herbs of medicine do adorn
         In great abundance. Many healthful are,
         And many baneful. Every man is there
         A good physician out of Nature's grace,
         For all the nation sprung of Paeon's race.
           When Helen then her medicine had infus'd,
         She bad pour wine to it, and this speech us'd:
           "Atrides, and these good men's sons, great Jove
         Makes good and ill one after other move,
         In all things earthly; for he can do all.
         The woes past, therefore, he so late let fall,
         The comforts he affords us let us take;
         Feast, and, with fit discourses, merry make.
         Nor will I other use. As then our blood
         Griev'd for Ulysses', since he was so good,
         Since he was good, let us delight to hear
         How good he was, and what his sufferings were;
         Though every fight, and every suffering deed,
         Patient Ulysses underwent, exceed
         My woman's power to number, or to name.
         But what he did, and suffer'd, when he came
         Amongst the Trojans, where ye Grecians all
         Took part with suff'rance, I in part can call
         To your kind memories. How with ghastly wounds
         Himself he mangled, and the Trojan bounds,
         Thrust thick with enemies, adventur'd on,
         His royal shoulders having cast upon
         Base abject weeds, and enter'd like a slave.
         Then, beggar-like, he did of all men crave,
         And such a wretch was, as the whole Greek fleet
         Brought not besides. And thus through every street
         He crept discovering, of no one man known.
         And yet through all this difference, I alone
         Smoked his true person, talk'd with him; but he
         Fled me with wiles still. Nor could we agree,
         Till I disclaim'd him quite; and so (as mov'd
         With womanly remorse of one that prov'd
         So wretched an estate, whate'er he were)
         Won him to take my house. And yet even there,
         Till freely I, to make him doubtless, swore
         A powerful oath, to let him reach the shore
         Of ships and tents before Troy understood,
         I could not force on him his proper good.
         But then I bath'd and sooth'd him, and he then
         Confess'd, and told me all; and, having slain
         A number of the Trojan guards, retired,
         And reach'd the fleet, for sleight and force admired.
         Their husbands' deaths by him the Trojan wives
         Shriek'd for; but I made triumphs for their lives,
         For then my heart conceiv'd, that once again
         I should reach home; and yet did still retain
         Woe for the slaughters Venus made for me,
         When both my husband, my Hermione,
         And bridal room, she robb'd of so much right,
         And drew me from my country with her sleight,
         Though nothing under heaven I here did need,
         That could my fancy or my beauty feed."
           Her husband said: "Wife! what you please to tell
         Is true at all parts, and becomes you well;
         And I myself, that now may say have seen
         The minds and manners of a world of men,
         And great heroes, measuring many a ground,
         Have never, by these eyes that light me, found
         One with a bosom so to be beloved,
         As that in which th' accomplish'd spirit moved
         Of patient Ulysses. What, brave man,
         He both did act, and suffer, when he wan
         The town of Ilion, in the brave-built horse,
         When all we chief states of the Grecian force
         Were hous'd together, bringing Death and Fate
         Amongst the Trojans, you, wife, may relate;
         For you, at last, came to us; God, that would
         The Trojans' glory give, gave charge you should
         Approach the engine; and Deiphobus,
         The god-like, follow'd. Thrice ye circled us
         With full survey of it; and often tried
         The hollow crafts that in it were implied.
         When all the voices of their wives in it
         You took on you with voice so like and fit,
         And every man by name so visited,
         That I, Ulysses, and king Diomed,
         (Set in the midst, and hearing how you call'd)
         Tydides, and myself (as half appall'd
         With your remorseful plaints) would passing fain
         Have broke our silence, rather than again
         Endure, respectless, their so moving cries.
         But Ithacus our strongest phantasies
         Contain'd within us from the slenderest noise,
         And every man there sat without a voice.
         Anticlus only would have answer'd thee,
         But his speech Ithacus incessantly
         With strong hand held in, till, Minerva's call
         Charging thee off, Ulysses sav'd us all."
           Telemachus replied: "Much greater is
         My grief, for hearing this high praise of his.
         For all this doth not his sad death divert,
         Nor can, though in him swell'd an iron heart.
         Prepare, and lead then, if you please, to rest:
         Sleep, that we hear not, will content us best."
           Then Argive Helen made her handmaid go,
         And put fair bedding in the portico,
         Lay purple blankets on, rugs warm and soft,
         And cast an arras coverlet aloft.
           They torches took, made haste, and made the bed;
         When both the guests were to their lodgings led
         Within a portico without the house.
         Atrides, and his large-train-wearing spouse,
         The excellent of women, for the way,
         In a retired receit, together lay.
         The Morn arose; the king rose, and put on
         His royal weeds, his sharp sword hung upon
         His ample shoulders, forth his chamber went,
         And did the person of a God present.
           Telemachus accosts him, who begun
         Speech of his journey's proposition:
           "And what, my young Ulyssean heroe,
         Provoked thee on the broad back of the sea,
         To visit Lacedaemon the divine?
         Speak truth, some public [good] or only thine?"
           "I come," said he, "to hear, if any fame
         Breath'd of my father to thy notice came.
         My house is sack'd, my fat works of the field
         Are all destroy'd; my house doth nothing yield
         But enemies, that kill my harmless sheep,
         And sinewy oxen, nor will ever keep
         Their steels without them. And these men are they
         That woo my mother, most inhumanly
         Committing injury on injury.
         To thy knees therefore I am come, t' attend
         Relation of the sad and wretched end
         My erring father felt, if witness'd by
         Your own eyes, or the certain news that fly
         From others' knowledges. For, more than is
         The usual heap of human miseries,
         His mother bore him to. Vouchsafe me then,
         Without all ruth of what I can sustain,
         The plain and simple truth of all you know.
         Let me beseech so much, if ever vow
         Was made, and put in good effect to you,
         At Troy, where suff'rance bred you so much smart,
         Upon my father good Ulysses' part,
         And quit it now to me (himself in youth)
         Unfolding only the unclosed truth."
           He, deeply sighing, answer'd him: "O shame,
         That such poor vassals should affect the fame
         To share the joys of such a worthy's bed!
         As when a hind, her calves late farrowed,
         To give suck, enters the bold lion's den,
         He roots of hills and herby vallies then
         For food (there feeding) hunting; but at length
         Returning to his cavern, gives his strength
         The lives of both the mother and her brood
         In deaths indecent; so the Wooers' blood
         Must pay Ulysses' powers as sharp an end.
         O would to Jove, Apollo, and thy friend
         The wise Minerva, that thy father were
         As once he was, when he his spirits did rear
         Against Philomelides, in a fight
         Perform'd in well-built Lesbos, where, down-right
         He strook the earth with him, and gat a shout
         Of all the Grecians! O, if now full out
         He were as then, and with the Wooers coped,
         Short-liv'd they all were, and their nuptials hoped
         Would prove as desperate. But, for thy demand
         Enforc'd with prayers, I'll let thee understand
         The truth directly, nor decline a thought,
         Much less deceive, or sooth thy search in ought;
         But what the old and still-true-spoken God,
         That from the sea breathes oracles abroad,
         Disclosed to me, to thee I'll all impart,
         Nor hide one word from thy sollicitous heart.
           I was in Ægypt, where a mighty time
         The Gods detained me, though my natural clime
         I never so desired, because their homes
         I did not greet with perfect hecatombs.
         For they will put men evermore in mind,
         How much their masterly commandments bind.
           There is, besides, a certain island, called
         Pharos, that with the high-wav'd sea is wall'd,
         Just against Ægypt, and so much remote,
         As in a whole day, with a fore-gale smote,
         A hollow ship can sail. And this isle bears
         A port most portly, where sea-passengers
         Put in still for fresh water, and away
         To sea again. Yet here the Gods did stay
         My fleet full twenty days; the winds, that are
         Masters at sea, no prosp'rous puff would spare
         To put us off; and all my victuals here
         Had quite corrupted, as my men's minds were,
         Had not a certain Goddess given regard,
         And pitied me in an estate so hard;
         And 'twas Idothea, honour'd Proteus' seed,
         That old sea-farer. Her mind I made bleed
         With my compassion, when (walk'd all alone,
         From all my soldiers, that were ever gone
         About the isle on fishing with hooks bent;
         Hunger their bellies on her errand sent)
         She came close to me, spake, and thus began:
           'Of all men thou art the most foolish man,
         Or slack in business, or stay'st here of choice,
         And dost in all thy suff'rances rejoice,
         That thus long liv'st detain'd here, and no end
         Canst give thy tarriance? Thou dost much offend
         The minds of all thy fellows.' I replied:
           'Whoever thou art of the Deified,
         I must affirm, that no way with my will
         I make abode here; but, it seems, some ill
         The Gods, inhabiting broad heaven, sustain
         Against my getting off. Inform me then,
         For Godheads all things know, what God is he
         That stays my passage from the fishy sea?'
           'Stranger,' said she, 'I'll tell thee true: There lives
         An old sea-farer in these seas, that gives
         A true solution of all secrets here,
         Who deathless Proteus is, th' Ægyptian peer,
         Who can the deeps of all the seas exquire,
         Who Neptune's priest is, and, they say, the sire
         That did beget me. Him, if any way
         Thou couldst inveigle, he would clear display
         Thy course from hence, and how far off doth lie
         Thy voyage's whole scope through Neptune's sky.
         Informing thee, O God-preserved, beside,
         If thy desires would so be satisfied,
         Whatever good or ill hath got event,
         In all the time thy long and hard course spent,
         Since thy departure from thy house.' This said;
         Again I answer'd: 'Make the sleights display'd
         Thy father useth, lest his foresight see,
         Or his foreknowledge taking note of me,
         He flies the fixt place of his used abode.
         'Tis hard for man to countermine with God.'
           She straight replied: 'I'll utter truth in all:
         When heaven's supremest height the sun doth skall,
         The old Sea-tell-truth leaves the deeps, and hides
         Amidst a black storm, when the West Wind chides,
         In caves still sleeping. Round about him sleep
         (With short feet swimming forth the foamy deep)
         The sea-calves, lovely Halosydnes call'd,
         From whom a noisome odour is exhaled,
         Got from the whirl-pools, on whose earth they lie.
         Here, when the morn illustrates all the sky,
         I'll guide, and seat thee in the fittest place
         For the performance thou hast now in chace.
         In mean time, reach thy fleet, and choose out three
         Of best exploit, to go as aids to thee.
           But now I'll show thee all the old God's sleights:
         He first will number, and take all the sights
         Of those his guard, that on the shore arrives.
         When having view'd, and told them forth by fives,
         He takes place in their midst, and there doth sleep,
         Like to a shepherd midst his flock of sheep.
         In his first sleep, call up your hardiest cheer,
         Vigour and violence, and hold him there,
         In spite of all his strivings to be gone.
         He then will turn himself to every one
         Of all things that in earth creep and respire,
         In water swim, or shine in heavenly fire.
         Yet still hold you him firm, and much the more
         Press him from passing. But when, as before,
         When sleep first bound his powers, his form ye see,
         Then cease your force, and th' old heroe free,
         And then demand, which heaven-born it may be
         That so afflicts you, hindering your retreat,
         And free sea-passage to your native seat.'
           This said, she div'd into the wavy seas,
         And I my course did to my ships address,
         That on the sands stuck; where arriv'd, we made
         Our supper ready. Then th' ambrosian shade
         Of night fell on us, and to sleep we fell.
         Rosy Aurora rose; we rose as well,
         And three of them on whom I most relied,
         For firm at every force, I choosed, and hied
         Straight to the many-river-served seas;
         And all assistance ask'd the Deities.
           Mean time Idothea the sea's broad breast
         Embrac'd, and brought for me, and all my rest,
         Four of the sea-calves' skins but newly flay'd,
         To work a wile which she had fashioned
         Upon her father. Then, within the sand
         A covert digging, when these calves should land,
         She sat expecting. We came close to her;
         She plac'd us orderly, and made us wear
         Each one his calf's skin. But we then must pass
         A huge exploit. The sea-calf's savour was
         So passing sour, they still being bred at seas,
         It much afflicted us; for who can please
         To lie by one of these same sea-bred whales?
         But she preserves us, and to memory calls
         A rare commodity; she fetch'd to us
         Ambrosia, that an air most odorous
         Bears still about it, which she nointed round
         Our either nosthrils, and in it quite drown'd
         The nasty whale-smell. Then the great event
         The whole morn's date, with spirits patient,
         We lay expecting. When bright noon did flame,
         Forth from the sea in shoals the sea-calves came,
         And orderly, at last lay down and slept
         Along the sands. And then th' old Sea-God crept
         From forth the deeps, and found his fat calves there,
         Survey'd, and number'd, and came never near
         The craft we used, but told us five for calves.
         His temples then dis-eased with sleep he salves;
         And in rush'd we, with an abhorred cry,
         Cast all our hands about him manfully;
         And then th' old Forger all his forms began:
         First was a lion with a mighty mane,
         Then next a dragon, a pied panther then,
         A vast boar next, and suddenly did strain
         All into water. Last he was a tree,
         Curl'd all at top, and shot up to the sky.
           We, with resolv'd hearts, held him firmly still,
         When th' old one (held too straight for all his skill
         To extricate) gave words, and question'd me:
           'Which of the Gods, O Atreus' son,' said he,
         'Advised and taught thy fortitude this sleight,
         To take and hold me thus in my despite?'
         'What asks thy wish now?' I replied. 'Thou know'st.
         Why dost thou ask? What wiles are these thou show'st?
         I have within this isle been held for wind
         A wondrous time, and can by no means find
         An end to my retention. It hath spent
         The very heart in me. Give thou then vent
         To doubts thus bound in me, ye Gods know all,
         Which of the Godheads doth so foully fall
         On my addression home, to stay me here,
         Avert me from my way, the fishy clear
         Barr'd to my passage?' He replied: 'Of force,
         If to thy home thou wishest free recourse,
         To Jove, and all the other Deities,
         Thou must exhibit solemn sacrifice;
         And then the black sea for thee shall be clear,
         Till thy lov'd country's settled reach. But where
         Ask these rites thy performance? 'Tis a fate
         To thee and thy affairs appropriate,
         That thou shalt never see thy friends, nor tread
         Thy country's earth, nor see inhabited
         Thy so magnificent house, till thou make good
         Thy voyage back to the Ægyptian flood,
         Whose waters fell from Jove, and there hast given
         To Jove, and all Gods housed in ample heaven,
         Devoted hecatombs, and then free ways
         Shall open to thee, clear'd of all delays.'
           This told he; and, methought, he brake my heart,
         In such a long and hard course to divert
         My hope for home, and charge my back retreat
         As far as Ægypt. I made answer yet:
           "Father, thy charge I'll perfect; but before
         Resolve me truly, if their natural shore
         All those Greeks, and their ships, do safe enjoy,
         That Nestor and myself left, when from Troy
         We first raised sail? Or whether any died
         At sea a death unwish'd? Or, satisfied,
         When war was past, by friends embrac'd, in peace
         Resign'd their spirits?" He made answer: "Cease
         To ask so far. It fits thee not to be
         So cunning in thine own calamity.
         Nor seek to learn what learn'd thou shouldst forget.
         Men's knowledges have proper limits set,
         And should not prease into the mind of God.
         But 'twill not long be, as my thoughts abode,
         Before thou buy this curious skill with tears.
         Many of those, whose states so tempt thine ears,
         Are stoop'd by death, and many left alive,
         One chief of which in strong hold doth survive,
         Amidst the broad sea. Two, in their retreat,
         Are done to death. I list not to repeat
         Who fell at Troy, thyself was there in fight.
         But in return swift Ajax lost the light,
         In his long-oar'd ship. Neptune, yet, awhile
         Saft him unwrack'd, to the Gyraean isle,
         A mighty rock removing from his way.
         And surely he had 'scap'd the fatal day,
         In spite of Pallas, if to that foul deed
         He in her fane did, (when he ravished
         The Trojan prophetess) he had not here
         Adjoin'd an impious boast, that he would bear,
         Despite the Gods, his ship safe through the waves
         Then raised against him. These his impious braves
         When Neptune heard, in his strong hand he took
         His massy trident, and so soundly strook
         The rock Gyraean, that in two it cleft;
         Of which one fragment on the land he left,
         The other fell into the troubled seas,
         At which first rush'd Ajax Oiliades,
         And split his ship, and then himself afloat
         Swum on the rough waves of the world's vast mote,
         Till having drunk a salt cup for his sin,
         There perish'd he. Thy brother yet did win
         The wreath from death, while in the waves they strove,
         Afflicted by the reverend wife of Jove.
         But when the steep mount of the Malian shore
         He seem'd to reach, a most tempestuous blore,
         Far to the fishy world that sighs so sore,
         Straight ravish'd him again as far away,
         As to th' extreme bounds where the Agrians stay,
         Where first Thyestes dwelt, but then his son
         Ægisthus Thyestiades lived. This done,
         When his return untouch'd appear'd again,
         Back turn'd the Gods the wind, and set him then
         Hard by his house. Then, full of joy, he left
         His ship, and close t' his country earth he cleft,
         Kiss'd it, and wept for joy, pour'd tear on tear,
         To set so wishedly his footing there.
         But see, a sentinel that all the year
         Crafty Ægisthus in a watchtower set
         To spy his landing, for reward as great
         As two gold talents, all his powers did call
         To strict remembrance of his charge, and all
         Discharged at first sight, which at first he cast
         On Agamemnon, and with all his haste
         Inform'd Ægisthus. He an instant train
         Laid for his slaughter: Twenty chosen men
         Of his plebeians he in ambush laid;
         His other men he charged to see purvey'd
         A feast; and forth, with horse and chariots graced,
         He rode t' invite him, but in heart embraced
         Horrible welcomes, and to death did bring,
         With treacherous slaughter, the unwary king,
         Received him at a feast, and, like an ox
         Slain at his manger, gave him bits and knocks.
         No one left of Atrides' train, nor one
         Saved to Ægisthus, but himself alone,
         All strew'd together there the bloody court.'
         This said, my soul he sunk with his report,
         Flat on the sands I fell, tears spent their store,
         I light abhorr'd, my heart would live no more.
           When dry of tears, and tired of tumbling there,
         Th' old Tell-truth thus my daunted spirits did cheer:
           'No more spend tears nor time, O Atreus' son,
         With ceaseless weeping never wish was won.
         Use uttermost assay to reach thy home,
         And all unwares upon the murderer come,
         For torture, taking him thyself alive;
         Or let Orestes, that should far out-strive
         Thee in fit vengeance, quickly quit the light
         Of such a dark soul, and do thou the rite
         Of burial to him with a funeral feast.'
           With these last words I fortified my breast,
         In which again a generous spring began
         Of fitting comfort, as I was a man;
         But, as a brother, I must ever mourn.
         Yet forth I went, and told him the return
         Of these I knew; but he had named a third,
         Held on the broad sea, still with life inspired,
         Whom I besought to know, though likewise dead,
         And I must mourn alike. He answered:
           'He is Laertes' son; whom I beheld
         In nymph Calypso's palace, who compell'd
         His stay with her, and, since he could not see
         His country earth, he mourn'd incessantly.
         For he had neither ship instruct with oars,
         Nor men to fetch him from those stranger shores.
         Where leave we him, and to thy self descend,
         Whom not in Argos Fate nor Death shall end,
         But the immortal ends of all the earth,
         So ruled by them that order death by birth,
         The fields Elysian, Fate to thee will give;
         Where Rhadamanthus rules, and where men live
         A never-troubled life, where snow, nor showers,
         Nor irksome Winter spends his fruitless powers,
         But from the ocean Zephyr still resumes
         A constant breath, that all the fields perfumes.
         Which, since thou marriedst Helen, are thy hire,
         And Jove himself is by her side thy sire.'
           This said; he dived the deepsome watery heaps;
         I and my tried men took us to our ships,
         And worlds of thoughts I varied with my steps.
           Arrived and shipp'd, the silent solemn night
         And sleep bereft us of our visual light.
         At morn, masts, sails, rear'd, we sat, left the shores,
         And beat the foamy ocean with our oars.
           Again then we the Jove-fall'n flood did fetch,
         As far as Ægypt; where we did beseech
         The Gods with hecatombs; whose angers ceast,
         I tomb'd my brother that I might be blest.
           All rites perform'd, all haste I made for home,
         And all the prosp'rous winds about were come,
         I had the passport now of every God,
         And here closed all these labours period.
           Here stay then till th' eleventh or twelfth day's light,
         And I'll dismiss thee well, gifts exquisite
         Preparing for thee, chariot, horses three,
         A cup of curious frame to serve for thee
         To serve th' immortal Gods with sacrifice,
         Mindful of me while all suns light thy skies."
           He answer'd: "Stay me not too long time here,
         Though I could sit attending all the year.
         Nor should my house, nor parents, with desire,
         Take my affections from you, so on fire
         With love to hear you are my thoughts; but so
         My Pylian friends I shall afflict with woe,
         Who mourn even this stay. Whatsoever be
         The gifts your grace is to bestow on me,
         Vouchsafe them such as I may bear and save
         For your sake ever. Horse, I list not have,
         To keep in Ithaca, but leave them here,
         To your soil's dainties, where the broad fields bear
         Sweet cypers grass, where men-fed lote doth flow,
         Where wheat-like spelt, and wheat itself, doth grow,
         Where barley, white, and spreading like a tree;
         But Ithaca hath neither ground to be,
         For any length it comprehends, a race
         To try a horse's speed, nor any place
         To make him fat in; fitter far to feed
         A cliff-bred goat, than raise or please a steed.
         Of all isles, Ithaca doth least provide
         Or meads to feed a horse, or ways to ride."
           He, smiling, said: "Of good blood art thou, son.
         What speech, so young! What observation
         Hast thou made of the world! I well am pleased
         To change my gifts to thee, as being confess'd
         Unfit indeed, my store is such I may.
         Of all my house-gifts then, that up I lay
         For treasure there, I will bestow on thee
         The fairest, and of greatest price to me.
         I will bestow on thee a rich carv'd cup,
         Of silver all, but all the brims wrought up
         With finest gold; it was the only thing
         That the heroical Sidonian king
         Presented to me, when we were to part
         At his receipt of me, and 'twas the art
         Of that great Artist that of heaven is free;
         And yet even this will I bestow on thee."
           This speech thus ended, guests came, and did bring
         Muttons, for presents, to the God-like king,
         And spirit-prompting wine, that strenuous makes.
         Their riband-wreathed wives brought fruit and cakes.
           Thus in this house did these their feast apply;
         And in Ulysses' house activity
         The Wooers practised; tossing of the spear,
         The stone, and hurling; thus delighted, where
         They exercised such insolence before,
         Even in the court that wealthy pavements wore.
         Antinous did still their strifes decide,
         And he that was in person deified
         Eurymachus; both ring-leaders of all,
         For in their virtues they were principal.
           These by Noemon, son to Phronius,
         Were sided now, who made the question thus:
           "Antinous! Does any friend here know,
         When this Telemachus returns, or no,
         From sandy Pylos? He made bold to take
         My ship with him; of which, I now should make
         Fit use myself, and sail in her as far
         As spacious Elis, where of mine there are
         Twelve delicate mares, and under their sides go
         Laborious mules, that yet did never know
         The yoke, nor labour; some of which should bear
         The taming now, if I could fetch them there."
         This speech the rest admired, nor dream'd that he
         Neleian Pylos ever thought to see,
         But was at field about his flocks' survey,
         Or thought his herdsmen held him so away.
         Eupitheus son, Antinous, then replied:
         "When went he, or with what train dignified?
         Of his selected Ithacensian youth?
         Prest men, or bond men, were they? Tell the truth.
         Could he effect this? Let me truly know.
         To gain thy vessel did he violence show,
         And used her 'gainst thy will? or had her free,
         When fitting question he had made with thee?"
           Noemon answer'd: "I did freely give
         My vessel to him. Who deserves to live
         That would do other, when such men as he
         Did in distress ask? He should churlish be
         That would deny him. Of our youth the best
         Amongst the people, to the interest
         His charge did challenge in them, giving way,
         With all the tribute all their powers could pay.
         Their captain, as he took the ship, I knew,
         Who Mentor was, or God. A Deity's shew
         Mask'd in his likeness. But, to think 'twas he,
         I much admire, for I did clearly see,
         But yester-morning, God-like Mentor here;
         Yet th' other evening he took shipping there,
         And went for Pylos." Thus went he for home,
         And left the rest with envy overcome;
         Who sat, and pastime left. Eupitheus son,
         Sad, and with rage his entrails overrun,
         His eyes like flames, thus interposed his speech:
         "Strange thing! An action of how proud a reach
         Is here committed by Telemachus!
         A boy, a child, and we, a sort of us,
         Vow'd 'gainst his voyage, yet admit it thus!
         With ship and choice youth of our people too!
         But let him on, and all his mischief do,
         Jove shall convert upon himself his powers,
         Before their ill presum'd he brings on ours.
         Provide me then a ship, and twenty men
         To give her manage, that, against again
         He turns for home, on th' Ithacensian seas,
         Or cliffy Samian, I may interprease,
         Way-lay, and take him, and make all his craft
         Sail with his ruin for his father saft."
           This all applauded, and gave charge to do,
         Rose, and to greet Ulysses' house did go.
         But long time past not, ere Penelope
         Had notice of their far-fetch'd treachery.
         Medon the herald told her, who had heard
         Without the hall how they within conferr'd,
         And hasted straight to tell it to the queen,
         Who, from the entry having Medon seen,
         Prevents him thus: "Now herald, what affair
         Intend the famous Wooers, in your repair?
         To tell Ulysses' maids that they must cease
         From doing our work, and their banquets dress?
         I would to heaven, that, leaving wooing me,
         Nor ever troubling other company,
         Here might the last feast be, and most extreme,
         That ever any shall address for them.
         They never meet but to consent in spoil,
         And reap the free fruits of another's toil.
         O did they never, when they children were,
         What to their fathers was Ulysses, hear?
         Who never did 'gainst any one proceed
         With unjust usage, or in word or deed?
         'Tis yet with other kings another right,
         One to pursue with love, another spite;
         He still yet just, nor would, though might, devour,
         Nor to the worst did ever taste of power.
         But their unrul'd acts show their minds' estate.
         Good turns received once, thanks grow out of date."
           Medon, the learn'd in wisdom, answer'd her:
         "I wish, O queen, that their ingratitudes were
         Their worst ill towards you; but worse by far,
         And much more deadly, their endeavours are,
         Which Jove will fail them in. Telemachus
         Their purpose is, as he returns to us,
         To give their sharp steels in a cruel death;
         Who now is gone to learn, if fame can breathe
         News of his sire, and will the Pylian shore,
         And sacred Sparta, in his search explore."
           This news dissolv'd to her both knees and heart,
         Long silence held her ere one word would part,
         Her eyes stood full of tears, her small soft voice
         All late use lost; that yet at last had choice
         Of wonted words, which briefly thus she used:
           "Why left my son his mother? Why refused
         His wit the solid shore, to try the seas,
         And put in ships the trust of his distress,
         That are at sea to men unbridled horse,
         And run, past rule, their far-engaged course,
         Amidst a moisture past all mean unstaid?
         No need compell'd this. Did he it, afraid
         To live and leave posterity his name?"
           "I know not," he replied, "if th' humour came
         From current of his own instinct, or flow'd
         From others' instigations; but he vow'd
         Attempt to Pylos, or to see descried
         His sire's return, or know what death he died."
           This said, he took him to Ulysses' house
         After the Wooers; the Ulyssean spouse,
         Run through with woes, let Torture seize her mind,
         Nor in her choice of state chairs stood inclined
         To take her seat, but th' abject threshold chose
         Of her fair chamber for her loath'd repose,
         And mourn'd most wretch-like. Round about her fell
         Her handmaids, join'd in a continuate yell.
         From every corner of the palace, all
         Of all degrees tuned to her comfort's fall
         Their own dejections; to whom her complaint
         She thus enforc'd: "The Gods, beyond constraint
         Of any measure, urge these tears on me;
         Nor was there ever dame of my degree
         So past degree grieved. First, a lord so good,
         That had such hardy spirits in his blood,
         That all the virtues was adorn'd withal,
         That all the Greeks did their superior call,
         To part with thus, and lose! And now a son,
         So worthily belov'd, a course to run
         Beyond my knowledge; whom rude tempests have
         Made far from home his most inglorious grave!
         Unhappy wenches, that no one of all
         (Though in the reach of every one must fall
         His taking ship) sustain'd the careful mind,
         To call me from my bed, who this design'd
         And most vow'd course in him had either stay'd,
         How much soever hasted, or dead laid
         He should have left me. Many a man I have,
         That would have call'd old Dolius my slave,
         (That keeps my orchard, whom my father gave
         At my departure) to have run, and told
         Laertes this; to try if he could hold
         From running through the people, and from tears,
         In telling them of these vow'd murderers;
         That both divine Ulysses' hope, and his,
         Resolv'd to end in their conspiracies."
           His nurse then, Euryclea, made reply:
         "Dear sovereign, let me with your own hands die,
         Or cast me off here, I'll not keep from thee
         One word of what I know. He trusted me
         With all his purpose, and I gave him all
         The bread and wine for which he pleased to call.
         But then a mighty oath he made me swear,
         Not to report it to your royal ear
         Before the twelfth day either should appear,
         Or you should ask me when you heard him gone.
         Impair not then your beauties with your moan,
         But wash, and put untear-stain'd garments on,
         Ascend your chamber with your ladies here,
         And pray the seed of goat-nurs'd Jupiter,
         Divine Athenia, to preserve your son,
         And she will save him from confusion.
         Th' old king, to whom your hopes stand so inclin'd
         For his grave counsels, you perhaps may find
         Unfit affected, for his age's sake.
         But heaven-kings wax not old, and therefore make
         Fit prayers to them; for my thoughts never will
         Believe the heavenly Powers conceit so ill
         The seed of righteous Arcesiades,
         To end it utterly, but still will please
         In some place evermore some one of them
         To save, and deck him with a diadem,
         Give him possession of erected tow'rs,
         And far-stretch'd fields, crown'd all of fruits and flow'rs."
         This eas'd her heart, and dried her humorous eyes,
         When having wash'd, and weeds of sacrifice
         Pure, and unstain'd with her distrustful tears,
         Put on, with all her women-ministers
         Up to a chamber of most height she rose,
         And cakes of salt and barley did impose
         Within a wicker basket; all which broke
         In decent order, thus she did invoke:
           "Great Virgin of the goat-preserved God,
         If ever the inhabited abode
         Of wise Ulysses held the fatted thighs
         Of sheep and oxen, made thy sacrifice
         By his devotion, hear me, nor forget
         His pious services, but safe see set
         His dear son on these shores, and banish hence
         These Wooers past all mean in insolence."
           This said, she shriek'd, and Pallas heard her prayer.
         The Wooers broke with tumult all the air
         About the shady house; and one of them,
         Whose pride his youth had made the more extreme,
         Said: "Now the many-wooer-honour'd queen
         Will surely satiate her delayful spleen,
         And one of us in instant nuptials take.
         Poor dame, she dreams not, what design we make
         Upon the life and slaughter of her son."
           So said he; but so said was not so done;
         Whose arrogant spirit in a vaunt so vain
         Antinous chid, and said: "For shame, contain
         These braving speeches. Who can tell who hears?
         Are we not now in reach of others' ears?
         If our intentions please us, let us call
         Our spirits up to them, and let speeches fall.
         By watchful danger men must silent go.
         What we resolve on, let's not say, but do."
         This said, he choos'd out twenty men, that bore
         Best reckoning with him, and to ship and shore
         All hasted, reach'd the ship, launch'd, rais'd the mast,
         Put sails in, and with leather loops made fast
         The oars; sails hoisted, arms their men did bring,
         All giving speed and form to everything.
         Then to the high deeps their rigg'd vessel driven,
         They supp'd, expecting the approaching even.
           Mean space, Penelope her chamber kept
         And bed, and neither eat, nor drank, nor slept,
         Her strong thoughts wrought so on her blameless son,
         Still in contention, if he should be done
         To death, or 'scape the impious Wooers' design.
         Look how a lion, whom men-troops combine
         To hunt, and close him in a crafty ring,
         Much varied thought conceives, and fear doth sting
         For urgent danger; so fared she, till sleep,
         All juncture of her joints and nerves did steep
         In his dissolving humour. When, at rest,
         Pallas her favours varied, and addressed
         An idol, that Iphthima did present
         In structure of her every lineament,
         Great-soul'd Icarius' daughter, whom for spouse
         Eumelus took, that kept in Pheris' house.
         This to divine Ulysses' house she sent,
         To try her best mean how she might content
         Mournful Penelope, and make relent
         The strict addiction in her to deplore.
         This idol, like a worm, that less or more
         Contracts or strains her, did itself convey,
         Beyond the wards or windings of the key,
         Into the chamber, and, above her head
         Her seat assuming, thus she comforted
         Distress'd Penelope: "Doth sleep thus seize
         Thy powers, affected with so much dis-ease?
         The Gods, that nothing troubles, will not see
         Thy tears nor griefs, in any least degree,
         Sustain'd with cause, for they will guard thy son
         Safe to his wish'd and native mansion,
         Since he is no offender of their states,
         And they to such are firmer than their fates."
           The wise Penelope receiv'd her thus,
         Bound with a slumber most delicious,
         And in the port of dreams: "O sister, why
         Repair you hither, since so far off lie
         Your house and household? You were never here
         Before this hour, and would you now give cheer
         To my so many woes and miseries,
         Affecting fitly all the faculties
         My soul and mind hold, having lost before
         A husband, that of all the virtues bore
         The palm amongst the Greeks, and whose renown
         So ample was that Fame the sound hath blown
         Through Greece and Argos to her very heart?
         And now again, a son, that did convert
         My whole powers to his love, by ship is gone;
         A tender plant, that yet was never grown
         To labour's taste, nor the commerce of men;
         For whom more than my husband I complain,
         And lest he should at any suff'rance touch
         (Or in the sea, or by the men so much
         Estrang'd to him that must his consorts be)
         Fear and chill tremblings shake each joint of me.
         Besides, his danger sets on foes profess'd
         To way-lay his return, that have address'd
         Plots for his death." The scarce-discerned Dream,
         Said: "Be of comfort, nor fears so extreme
         Let thus dismay thee; thou hast such a mate
         Attending thee, as some at any rate
         Would wish to purchase, for her power is great;
         Minerva pities thy delights' defeat,
         Whose grace hath sent me to foretell thee these."
           "If thou," said she, "be of the Goddesses,
         And heardst her tell thee these, thou mayst as well
         From her tell all things else. Deign then to tell,
         If yet the man to all misfortunes born,
         My husband, lives, and sees the sun adorn
         The darksome earth, or hides his wretched head
         In Pluto's house, and lives amongst the dead?"
           "I will not," she replied, "my breath exhale
         In one continued and perpetual tale,
         Lives he or dies he. 'Tis a filthy use,
         To be in vain and idle speech profuse."
         This said, she, through the key-hole of the door,
         Vanish'd again into the open blore.
         Icarius' daughter started from her sleep,
         And Joy's fresh humour her lov'd breast did steep,
         When now so clear, in that first watch of night,
         She saw the seen Dream vanish from her sight.
           The Wooers' ship the sea's moist waves did ply,
         And thought the prince a haughty death should die.
         There lies a certain island in the sea,
         Twist rocky Samos and rough Ithaca,
         That cliffy is itself, and nothing great,
         Yet holds convenient havens that two ways let
         Ships in and out, call'd Asteris; and there
         The Wooers hoped to make their massacre.

            FINIS LIBRI QUARTI HOM. ODYSS.




    THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    A SECOND Court on Jove attends;
    Who Hermes to Calypso sends,
    Commanding her to clear the ways
    Ulysses sought; and she obeys.
    When Neptune saw Ulysses free,
    And so in safety plough the sea,
    Enraged, he ruffles up the waves,
    And splits his ship. Leucothea saves
    His person yet, as being a Dame
    Whose Godhead govern'd in the frame
    Of those seas' tempers. But the mean,
    By which she curbs dread Neptune's spleen,
    Is made a jewel, which she takes
    From off her head, and that she makes
    Ulysses on his bosom wear,
    About his neck, she ties it there,
    And, when he is with waves beset,
    Bids wear it as an amulet,
    Commanding him, that not before
    He touch'd upon Phaeacia's shore,
    He should not part with it, but then
    Return it to the sea again,
    And cast it from him. He performs;
    Yet, after this, bides bitter storms,
    And in the rocks sees death engraved,
    But on Phaeacia's shore is saved.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    E. Ulysses builds
    A ship; and gains
    The glassy fields;
    Pays Neptune pains.


    AURORA rose from high-born Tithon's bed,
         That men and Gods might be illustrated,
         And then the Deities sat. Imperial Jove,
         That makes the horrid murmur beat above,
         Took place past all, whose height for ever springs,
         And from whom flows th' eternal power of things.
           Then Pallas, mindful of Ulysses, told
         The many cares that in Calypso's hold
         He still sustain'd, when he had felt before
         So much affliction, and such dangers more.
           "O Father," said she, "and ye Ever-blest,
         Give never king hereafter interest
         In any aid of yours, by serving you,
         By being gentle, human, just, but grow
         Rude, and for ever scornful of your rights,
         All justice ordering by their appetites,
         Since he, that ruled as it in right behoved,
         That all his subjects as his children loved,
         Finds you so thoughtless of him and his birth.
         Thus men begin to say, ye rule in earth,
         And grudge at what ye let him undergo,
         Who yet the least part of his suff'rance know:
         Thrall'd in an island, shipwrack'd in his tears,
         And, in the fancies that Calypso bears,
         Bound from his birthright, all his shipping gone,
         And of his soldiers not retaining one.
         And now his most-lov'd son's life doth inflame
         Their slaught'rous envies; since his father's fame
         He puts in pursuit, and is gone as far
         As sacred Pylos, and the singular
         Dame-breeding Sparta." This, with this reply,
         The Cloud-assembler answer'd: "What words fly
         Thine own remembrance, daughter? Hast not thou
         The counsel given thyself, that told thee how
         Ulysses shall with his return address
         His Wooers wrongs? And, for the safe access
         His son shall make to his innative port,
         Do thou direct it, in as curious sort
         As thy wit serves thee; it obeys thy powers;
         And in their ship return the speedless Wooers."
           Then turn'd he to his issue Mercury,
         And said: "Thou hast made good our ambassy
         To th' other Statists, to the Nymph then now,
         On whose fair head a tuft of gold doth grow,
         Bear our true-spoken counsel, for retreat
         Of patient Ulysses; who shall get
         No aid from us, nor any mortal man,
         But in a patch'd-up skiff (built as he can,
         And suffering woes enough) the twentieth day
         At fruitful Scheria let him breathe his way,
         With the Phaeacians, that half Deities live,
         Who like a God will honour him, and give
         His wisdom clothes, and ship, and brass, and gold,
         More than for gain of Troy he ever told;
         Where, at the whole division of the prey,
         If he a saver were, or got away
         Without a wound, if he should grudge, 'twas well.
         But th' end shall crown all; therefore Fate will deal
         So well with him, to let him land, and see
         His native earth, friends, house, and family."
           Thus charged he; nor Argicides denied,
         But to his feet his fair wing'd shoes he tied,
         Ambrosian, golden, that in his command
         Put either sea, or the unmeasured land,
         With pace as speedy as a puft of wind.
         Then up his rod went, with which he declined
         The eyes of any waker, when he pleased,
         And any sleeper, when he wish'd, diseased.
           This took; he stoop'd Pieria, and thence
         Glid through the air, and Neptune's confluence
         Kiss'd as he flew, and check'd the waves as light
         As any sea-mew in her fishing flight,
         Her thick wings sousing in the savory seas.
         Like her, he pass'd a world of wilderness;
         But when the far-off isle he touch'd, he went
         Up from the blue sea to the continent,
         And reach'd the ample cavern of the Queen,
         Whom he within found, without seldom seen.
         A sun-like fire upon the hearth did flame,
         The matter precious, and divine the frame,
         Of cedar cleft and incense was the pile,
         That breathed an odour round about the isle.
         Herself was seated in an inner room,
         Whom sweetly sing he heard, and at her loom,
         About a curious web, whose yarn she threw
         In with a golden shittle. A grove grew
         In endless spring about her cavern round,
         With odorous cypress, pines, and poplars, crown'd,
         Where hawks, sea-owls, and long-tongued bittours bred;
         And other birds their shady pinions spread;
         All fowls maritimal; none roosted there,
         But those whose labours in the waters were.
         A vine did all the hollow cave embrace,
         Still green, yet still ripe bunches gave it grace.
         Four fountains, one against another, pour'd
         Their silver streams; and meadows all enflower'd
         With sweet balm-gentle, and blue violets hid,
         That deck'd the soft breasts of each fragrant mead.
         Should any one, though he immortal were,
         Arrive and see the sacred objects there,
         He would admire them, and be over-joy'd;
         And so stood Hermes' ravish'd powers employed.
           But having all admired, he enter'd on
         The ample cave, nor could be seen unknown
         Of great Calypso (for all Deities are
         Prompt in each other's knowledge, though so far
         Sever'd in dwellings) but he could not see
         Ulysses there within; without was he
         Set sad ashore, where 'twas his use to view
         Th' unquiet sea, sigh'd, wept, and empty drew
         His heart of comfort. Placed here in her throne,
         That beams cast up to admiration,
         Divine Calypso question'd Hermes thus:
           "For what cause, dear, and much-esteem'd by us,
         Thou golden-rod-adorned Mercury,
         Arriv'st thou here? Thou hast not used t' apply
         Thy passage this way. Say, whatever be
         Thy heart's desire, my mind commands it thee,
         If in my means it lie, or power of fact.
         But first, what hospitable rights exact,
         Come yet more near, and take." This said, she set
         A table forth, and furnish'd it with meat,
         Such as the Gods taste; and serv'd in with it
         Vermilion nectar. When with banquet fit
         He had confirm'd his spirits, he thus express'd
         His cause of coming: "Thou hast made request,
         Goddess of Goddesses, to understand
         My cause of touch here; which thou shalt command,
         And know with truth: Jove caused my course to thee
         Against my will, for who would willingly
         Lackey along so vast a lake of brine,
         Near to no city that the Powers divine
         Receives with solemn rites and hecatombs?
         But Jove's will ever all law overcomes,
         No other God can cross or make it void;
         And he affirms, that one the most annoy'd
         With woes and toils of all those men that fought
         For Priam's city, and to end hath brought
         Nine years in the contention, is with thee.
         For in the tenth year, when roy victory
         Was won to give the Greeks the spoil of Troy,
         Return they did profess, but not enjoy,
         Since Pallas they incens'd, and she the waves
         By all the winds' power, that blew ope their graves.
         And there they rested. Only this poor one
         This coast both winds and waves have cast upon;
         Whom now forthwith he wills thee to dismiss,
         Affirming that th' unaltered Destinies
         Not only have decreed he shall not die
         Apart his friends, but of necessity
         Enjoy their sights before those fatal hours,
         His country earth reach, and erected towers."
           This struck a love-check'd horror through her powers,
         When, naming him, she this reply did give:
         "Insatiate are ye Gods, past all that live,
         In all things you affect; which still converts
         Your powers to envies. It afflicts your hearts,
         That any Goddess should, as you obtain
         The use of earthly dames, enjoy the men,
         And most in open marriage. So ye far'd,
         When the delicious-finger'd Morning shar'd
         Orion's bed; you easy-living States
         Could never satisfy your emulous hates,
         Till in Ortygia the precise-liv'd Dame,
         Gold-throned Diana, on him rudely came,
         And with her swift shafts slew him. And such pains,
         When rich-hair'd Ceres pleas'd to give the reins
         To her affections, and the grace did yield
         Of love and bed amidst a three-cropp'd field,
         To her Iasion, he paid angry Jove,
         Who lost no long time notice of their love,
         But with a glowing lightning was his death.
         And now your envies labour underneath
         A mortal's choice of mine; whose life I took
         To liberal safety, when his ship Jove strook,
         With red-hot flashes, piece-meal in the seas,
         And all his friends and soldiers succourless
         Perish'd but he. Him, cast upon this coast
         With blasts and billows, I, in life given lost,
         Preserv'd alone, lov'd, nourish'd, and did vow
         To make him deathless, and yet never grow
         Crooked, or worn with age, his whole life long.
         But since no reason may be made so strong
         To strive with Jove's will, or to make it vain,
         No not if all the other Gods should strain
         Their powers against it, let his will be law,
         So he afford him fit means to withdraw,
         As he commands him, to the raging main.
         But means from me he never shall obtain,
         For my means yield nor men, nor ship, nor oars,
         To set him off from my so envied shores.
         But if my counsel and good will can aid
         His safe pass home, my best shall be assay'd."
           "Vouchsafe it so," said heaven's ambassador,
         "And deign it quickly. By all means abhor
         T' incense Jove's wrath against thee, that with grace
         He may hereafter all thy wish embrace."
           Thus took the Argus-killing God his wings.
         And since the reverend Nymph these awful things
         Receiv'd from Jove, she to Ulysses went;
         Whom she ashore found, drown'd in discontent,
         His eyes kept never dry he did so mourn,
         And waste his dear age for his wish'd return;
         Which still without the cause he used to do,
         Because he could not please the Goddess so.
         At night yet, forc'd, together took their rest,
         The willing Goddess and th' unwilling Guest;
         But he all day in rocks, and on the shore,
         The vex'd sea view'd, and did his fate deplore.
         Him, now, the Goddess coming near bespake:
           "Unhappy man, no more discomfort take
         For my constraint of thee, nor waste thine age,
         I now will passing freely disengage
         Thy irksome stay here. Come then, fell thee wood,
         And build a ship, to save thee from the flood.
         I'll furnish thee with fresh wave, bread, and wine
         Ruddy and sweet, that will the piner pine,
         Put garments on thee, give thee winds foreright,
         That every way thy home-bent appetite
         May safe attain to it; if so it please
         At all parts all the heaven-housed Deities,
         That more in power are, more in skill, than I,
         And more can judge what fits humanity."
           He stood amaz'd at this strange change in her,
         And said: "O Goddess! Thy intents prefer
         Some other project than my parting hence,
         Commanding things of too high consequence
         For my performance, that myself should build
         A ship of power, my home-assays to shield
         Against the great sea of such dread to pass;
         Which not the best built ship that ever was
         Will pass exulting, when such winds, as Jove
         Can thunder up, their trims and tacklings prove.
         But could I build one, I would ne'er aboard,
         Thy will opposed, nor, won, without thy word,
         Given in the great oath of the Gods to me,
         Not to beguile me in the least degree."
           The Goddess smiled, held hard his hand, and said:
         "O y' are a shrewd one, and so habited
         In taking heed thou know'st not what it is
         To be unwary, nor use words amiss.
         How hast thou charm'd me, were I ne'er so sly!
         Let earth know then, and heaven, so broad, so high,
         And th' under-sunk waves of th' infernal stream,
         (Which is an oath, as terribly supreme,
         As any God swears) that I had no thought
         But stood with what I spake, nor would have wrought,
         Nor counsell'd, any act against thy good;
         But over diligently weigh'd, and stood
         On those points in persuading thee, that I
         Would use myself in such extremity.
         For my mind simple is, and innocent,
         Not given by cruel sleights to circumvent,
         Nor bear I in my breast a heart of steel,
         But with the sufferer willing suff'rance feel."
         This said, the Grace of Goddesses led home,
         He track'd her steps; and, to the cavern come,
         In that rich throne, whence Mercury arose,
         He sat. The Nymph herself did then appose,
         For food and beverage, to him all best meat
         And drink, that mortals used to taste and eat.
         Then sat she opposite, and for her feast
         Was nectar and ambrosia address'd
         By handmaids to her. Both, what was prepar'd,
         Did freely fall to. Having fitly far'd,
         The Nymph Calypso this discourse began:
           "Jove-bred Ulysses! Many-witted man!
         Still is thy home so wish'd? So soon, away?
         Be still of cheer, for all the worst I say.
         But, if thy soul knew what a sum of woes,
         For thee to cast up, thy stern Fates impose,
         Ere to thy country earth thy hopes attain,
         Undoubtedly thy choice would here remain,
         Keep house with me, and be a liver ever.
         Which, methinks, should thy house and thee dissever,
         Though for thy wife there thou art set on fire,
         And all thy days are spent in her desire;
         And though it be no boast in me to say
         In form and mind I match her every way.
         Nor can it fit a mortal dame's compare,
         T' affect those terms with us that deathless are."
           The great-in-counsels made her this reply:
         "Renown'd, and to be reverenced, Deity!
         Let it not move thee, that so much I vow
         My comforts to my wife; though well I know
         All cause myself why wise Penelope
         In wit is far inferior to thee,
         In feature, stature, all the parts of show,
         She being a mortal, an immortal thou,
         Old ever growing, and yet never old.
         Yet her desire shall all my days see told,
         Adding the sight of my returning day,
         And natural home. If any God shall lay
         His hand upon me as I pass the seas,
         I'll bear the worst of what his hand shall please,
         As having given me such a mind as shall
         The more still rise the more his hand lets fall.
         In wars and waves my sufferings were not small.
         I now have suffer'd much, as much before,
         Hereafter let as much result, and more."
           This said, the sun set, and earth shadows gave;
         When these two (in an in-room of the cave,
         Left to themselves) left love no rites undone.
         The early Morn up, up he rose, put on
         His in and out weed. She herself enchaces
         Amidst a white robe, full of all the Graces,
         Ample, and pleated thick like fishy scales;
         A golden girdle then her waist impales;
         Her head a veil decks; and abroad they come.
         And now began Ulysses to go home.
           A great axe first she gave, that two ways cut,
         In which a fair well-polish'd helm was put,
         That from an olive bough receiv'd his frame.
         A plainer then. Then led she, till they came
         To lofty woods that did the isle confine.
         The fir tree, poplar, and heaven-scaling pine,
         Had there their offspring. Of which, those that were
         Of driest matter, and grew longest there,
         He choos'd for lighter sail. This place thus shown,
         The Nymph turn'd home. He fell to felling down,
         And twenty trees he stoop'd in little space,
         Plain'd, used his plumb, did all with artful grace.
         In mean time did Calypso wimbles bring.
         He bor'd, closed, nail'd, and order'd every thing,
         And took how much a ship-wright will allow
         A ship of burden (one that best doth know
         What fits his art) so large a keel he cast,
         Wrought up her decks, and hatches, side-boards, mast,
         With willow watlings arm'd her to resist
         The billows outrage, added all she miss'd,
         Sail-yards, and stern for guide. The Nymph then brought
         Linen for sails, which with dispatch he wrought,
         Gables, and halsters, tacklings. All the frame
         In four days' space to full perfection came.
         The fifth day, they dismiss'd him from the shore,
         Weeds neat, and odorous, gave him, victuals store,
         Wine, and strong waters, and a prosp'rous wind,
         To which, Ulysses, fit-to-be-divin'd,
         His sails expos'd, and hoised. Off he gat;
         And cheerful was he. At the stern he sat,
         And steer'd right artfully. Nor sleep could seize
         His eye-lids. He beheld the Pleiades;
         The Bear, surnam'd the Wain, that round doth move
         About Orion, and keeps still above
         The billowy ocean; the slow-setting star
         Bootes call'd, by some the waggoner.
           Calypso warn'd him he his course should steer
         Still to his left hand. Seventeen days did clear
         The cloudy night's command in his moist way,
         And by the eighteenth light he might display
         The shady hills of the Phaeacian shore,
         For which, as to his next abode, he bore.
         The country did a pretty figure yield,
         And look'd from off the dark seas like a shield.
           Imperious Neptune, making his retreat
         From th' Æthiopian earth, and taking seat
         Upon the mountains of the Solymi,
         From thence, far off discovering, did descry
         Ulysses his fields ploughing. All on fire
         The sight straight set his heart, and made desire
         Of wreak run over, it did boil so high.
         When, his head nodding, "O impiety,"
         He cried out, "now the Gods' inconstancy
         Is most apparent, altering their designs
         Since I the Æthiops saw, and here confines
         To this Ulysses' fate his misery.
         The great mark, on which all his hopes rely,
         Lies in Phaeacia. But I hope he shall
         Feel woe at height, ere that dead calm befall."
         This said; he, begging, gather'd clouds from land,
         Frighted the seas up, snatch'd into his hand
         His horrid trident, and aloft did toss,
         Of all the winds, all storms he could engross,
         All earth took into sea with clouds, grim Night
         Fell tumbling headlong from the cope of light,
         The East and South winds justled in the air,
         The violent Zephyr, and North making-fair,
         Rolled up the waves before them. And then bent
         Ulysses' knees, then all his spirit was spent.
         In which despair, he thus spake: "Woe is me!
         What was I born to, man of misery!
         Fear tells me now, that, all the Goddess said,
         Truth's self will author, that Fate would he paid
         Grief's whole sum due from me, at sea, before
         I reach'd the dear touch of my country's shore.
         With what clouds Jove heaven's heighten'd forehead binds!
         How tyrannize the wraths of all the winds!
         How all the tops he bottoms with the deeps,
         And in the bottoms all the tops he steeps!
         Thus dreadful is the presence of our death.
         Thrice four times blest were they that sunk beneath
         Their fates at Troy, and did to nought contend
         But to renown Atrides with their end!
         I would to God, my hour of death and fate
         That day had held the power to terminate,
         When showers of darts my life bore undepress'd
         About divine Æacides deceased!
         Then had I been allotted to have died,
         By all the Greeks with funerals glorified,
         (Whence death, encouraging good life, had grown)
         Where now I die, by no man mourn'd nor known."
           This spoke, a huge wave took him by the head,
         And hurl'd him o'er board; ship and all it laid
         Inverted quite amidst the waves, but he
         Far off from her sprawl'd, strow'd about the sea,
         His stern still holding broken off, his mast
         Burst in the midst, so horrible a blast
         Of mix'd winds struck it. Sails and sail-yards fell
         Amongst the billows; and himself did dwell
         A long time under water, nor could get
         In haste his head out, wave with wave so met
         In his depression; and his garments too,
         Given by Calypso, gave him much to do,
         Hind'ring his swimming; yet he left not so
         His drenched vessel, for the overthrow
         Of her nor him, but gat at length again,
         Wrestling with Neptune, hold of her; and then
         Sat in her bulk, insulting over death,
         Which, with the salt stream press'd to stop his breath,
         He 'scap'd, and gave the sea again to give
         To other men. His ship so striv'd to live,
         Floating at randon, cuff'd from wave to wave.
         As you have seen the North wind when he drave
         In autumn heaps of thorn-fed Grasshoppers
         Hither and thither, one heap this way bears,
         Another that, and makes them often meet
         In his confus'd gales; so Ulysses' fleet
         The winds hurl'd up and down; now Boreas
         Toss'd it to Notus, Notus gave it pass
         To Eurus, Eurus Zephyr made it pursue
         The horrid tennis. This sport call'd the view
         Of Cadmus' daughter, with the narrow heel,
         Ino Leucothea, that first did feel
         A mortal dame's desires, and had a tongue,
         But now had th' honour to be nam'd among
         The marine Godheads. She with pity saw
         Ulysses justled thus from flaw to flaw,
         And, like a cormorant in form and flight,
         Rose from a whirl-pool, on the ship did light,
         And thus bespake him: "Why is Neptune thus
         In thy pursuit extremely furious,
         Oppressing thee with such a world of ill,
         Even to thy death? He must not serve his will,
         Though 'tis his study. Let me then advise
         As my thoughts serve; thou shalt not be unwise
         To leave thy weeds and ship to the commands
         Of these rude winds, and work out with thy hands
         Pass to Phaeacia, where thy austere Fate
         Is to pursue thee with no more such hate.
         Take here this tablet, with this riband strung,
         And see it still about thy bosom hung;
         By whose eternal virtue never fear
         To suffer thus again, nor perish here.
         But when thou touchest with thy hand the shore,
         Then take it from thy neck, nor wear it more,
         But cast it far off from the continent,
         And then thy person far ashore present."
           Thus gave she him the tablet; and again,
         Turn'd to a cormorant, dived, past sight, the main.
           Patient Ulysses sigh'd at this, and stuck
         In the conceit of such fair-spoken luck,
         And said: "Alas! I must suspect even this,
         Lest any other of the Deities
         Add sleight to Neptune's force, to counsel me
         To leave my vessel, and so far off see
         The shore I aim at. Not with thoughts too clear
         Will I obey her, but to me appear
         These counsels best: As long as I perceive
         My ship not quite dissolv'd, I will not leave
         The help she may afford me, but abide,
         And suffer all woes till the worst be tried.
         When she is split, I'll swim. No miracle can,
         Past near and clear means, move a knowing man."
           While this discourse employ'd him, Neptune raised
         A huge, a high, and horrid sea, that seized
         Him and his ship, and toss'd them through the lake.
         As when the violent winds together take
         Heaps of dry chaff, and hurl them every way;
         So his long wood-stack Neptune strook astray.
           Then did Ulysses mount on rib, perforce,
         Like to a rider of a running horse,
         To stay himself a time, while he might shift
         His drenched weeds, that were Calypso's gift.
         When putting straight Leucothea's amulet
         About his neck, he all his forces set
         To swim, and cast him prostrate to the seas.
         When powerful Neptune saw the ruthless prease
         Of perils siege him thus, he mov'd his head,
         And this betwixt him and his heart he said:
           "So, now feel ills enow, and struggle so,
         Till to your Jove-lov'd islanders you row.
         But my mind says, you will not so avoid
         This last task too, but be with suff'rance cloy'd."
           This said, his rich-man'd horse he mov'd, and reach'd
         His house at Ægas. But Minerva fetch'd
         The winds from sea, and all their ways but one
         Barr'd to their passage; the bleak North alone
         She set to blow, the rest she charg'd to keep
         Their rages in, and bind themselves in sleep.
         But Boreas still flew high to break the seas,
         Till Jove-bred Ithacus the more with ease
         The navigation-skill'd Phaeacian states
         Might make his refuge, Death and angry Fates
         At length escaping. Two nights, yet, and days
         He spent in wrestling with the sable seas;
         In which space, often did his heart propose
         Death to his eyes. But when Aurora rose,
         And threw the third light from her orient hair,
         The winds grew calm, and clear was all the air,
         Not one breath stirring. Then he might descry,
         Rais'd by the high seas, clear, the land was nigh.
         And then, look how to good sons that esteem
         Their father's life dear, (after pains extreme,
         Felt in some sickness, that hath held him long
         Down to his bed, and with affections strong
         Wasted his body, made his life his load,
         As being inflicted by some angry God)
         When on their prayers they see descend at length
         Health from the heavens, clad all in spirit and strength,
         The sight is precious; so, since here should end
         Ulysses' toils, which therein should extend
         Health to his country, held to him his sire,
         And on which long for him disease did tire,
         And then, besides, for his own sake to see
         The shores, the woods so near, such joy had he,
         As those good sons for their recover'd sire.
         Then labour'd feet and all parts to aspire
         To that wish'd continent; which when as near
         He came, as Clamour might inform an ear,
         He heard a sound beat from the sea-bred rocks,
         Against which gave a huge sea horrid shocks,
         That belch'd upon the firm land weeds and foam,
         With which were all things hid there, where no room
         Of fit capacity was for any port,
         Nor from the sea for any man's resort,
         The shores, the rocks, the cliffs, so prominent were.
         "O," said Ulysses then, "now Jupiter
         Hath given me sight of an unhoped for shore,
         Though I have wrought these seas so long, so sore.
         Of rest yet no place shows the slend'rest prints,
         The rugged shore so bristled is with flints,
         Against which every way the waves so flock,
         And all the shore shows as one eminent rock,
         So near which 'tis so deep, that not a sand
         Is there for any tired foot to stand,
         Nor fly his death-fast following miseries,
         Lest, if he land, upon him fore-right flies
         A churlish wave, to crush him 'gainst a cliff,
         Worse than vain rend'ring all his landing strife.
         And should I swim to seek a haven elsewhere,
         Or land less way-beat, I may justly fear
         I shall be taken with a gale again,
         And cast a huge way off into the main;
         And there the great Earth-shaker (having seen
         My so near landing, and again his spleen
         Forcing me to him) will some whale send out,
         (Of which a horrid number here about,
         His Amphitrite breeds) to swallow me.
         I well have prov'd, with what malignity
         He treads my steps. While this discourse he held,
         A curs'd surge 'gainst a cutting rock impell'd
         His naked body, which it gash'd and tore,
         And had his bones broke, if but one sea more
         Had cast him on it. But She prompted him,
         That never fail'd, and bade him no more swim
         Still off and on, but boldly force the shore,
         And hug the rock that him so rudely tore;
         Which he with both hands sigh'd and clasp'd, till past
         The billow's rage was; when 'scap'd, back so fast
         The rock repuls'd it, that it reft his hold,
         Sucking him from it, and far back he rolled.
         And as the polypus that (forc'd from home
         Amidst the soft sea, and near rough land come
         For shelter 'gainst the storms that beat on her
         At open sea, as she abroad doth err)
         A deal of gravel, and sharp little stones,
         Needfully gathers in her hollow bones;
         So he forc'd hither by the sharper ill,
         Shunning the smoother, where he best hop'd, still
         The worst succeeded; for the cruel friend,
         To which he cling'd for succour, off did rend
         From his broad hands the soaken flesh so sore,
         That off he fell, and could sustain no more.
         Quite under water fell he; and, past fate,
         Hapless Ulysses there had lost the state
         He held in life, if, still the grey-eyed Maid
         His wisdom prompting, he had not assay'd
         Another course, and ceas'd t' attempt that shore,
         Swimming, and casting round his eye t' explore
         Some other shelter. Then the mouth he found
         Of fair Callicoe's flood, whose shores were crown'd
         With most apt succours; rocks so smooth they seem'd
         Polish'd of purpose; land that quite redeem'd
         With breathless coverts th' others' blasted shores.
         The flood he knew, and thus in heart implores:
         "King of this river, hear! Whatever name
         Makes thee invok'd, to thee I humbly frame
         My flight from Neptune's furies. Reverend is
         To all the ever-living Deities
         What erring man soever seeks their aid.
         To thy both flood and knees a man dismay'd
         With varied suff'rance sues. Yield then some rest
         To him that is thy suppliant profess'd."
         This, though but spoke in thought, the Godhead heard,
         Her current straight stay'd, and her thick waves clear'd
         Before him, smooth'd her waters, and, just where
         He pray'd half-drown'd, entirely saved him there.
           Then forth he came, his both knees falt'ring, both
         His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth
         His cheeks and nosthrils flowing, voice and breath
         Spent to all use, and down he sunk to death.
         The sea had soak'd his heart through; all his veins
         His toils had rack'd t' a labouring woman's pains.
         Dead weary was he. But when breath did find
         A pass reciprocal, and in his mind
         His spirit was recollected, up he rose,
         And from his neck did th' amulet unloose,
         That Ino gave him; which he hurl'd from him
         To sea. It sounding fell, and back did swim
         With th' ebbing waters, till it straight arriv'd
         Where Ino's fair hand it again receiv'd.
         Then kiss'd he th' humble earth; and on he goes,
         Till bulrushes show'd place for his repose,
         Where laid, he sigh'd, and thus said to his soul:
         "O me, what strange perplexities control
         The whole skill of thy powers in this event!
         What feel I? If till care-nurse night be spent
         I watch amidst the flood, the sea's chill breath,
         And vegetant dews, I fear will be my death,
         So low brought with my labours. Towards day
         A passing sharp air ever breathes at sea.
         If I the pitch of this next mountain scale,
         And shady wood, and in some thicket fall
         Into the hands of Sleep, though there the cold
         May well be check'd, and healthful slumbers hold
         Her sweet hand on my powers, all care allay'd,
         Yet there will beasts devour me. Best appaid
         Doth that course make me yet; for there, some strife,
         Strength, and my spirit, may make me make for life;
         Which, though impair'd, may yet be fresh applied,
         Where peril possible of escape is tried.
         But he that fights with heaven, or with the sea,
         To indiscretion adds impiety."
           Thus to the woods he hasted; which he found
         Not far from sea, but on far-seeing ground,
         Where two twin underwoods he enter'd on,
         With olive-trees and oil-trees overgrown;
         Through which the moist force of the loud-voiced wind
         Did never beat, nor ever Phoebus shin'd,
         Nor shower beat through, they grew so one in one,
         And had, by turns, their power t' exclude the sun.
         Here enter'd our Ulysses; and a bed
         Of leaves huge, and of huge abundance, spread
         With all his speed. Large he made it, for there
         For two or three men ample coverings were,
         Such as might shield them from the winter's worst,
         Though steel it breath'd, and blew as it would burst.
           Patient Ulysses joy'd, that ever day
         Show'd such a shelter. In the midst he lay,
         Store of leaves heaping high on every side.
         And as in some out-field a man doth hide
         A kindled brand, to keep the seed of fire,
         No neighbour dwelling near, and his desire
         Serv'd with self store, he else would ask of none,
         But of his fore-spent sparks rakes th' ashes on;
         So this out-place Ulysses thus receives,
         And thus nak'd virtue's seed lies hid in leaves.
         Yet Pallas made him sleep as soon as men
         Whom delicacies all their flatteries deign,
         And all that all his labours could comprise
         Quickly concluded in his closed eyes.

            FINIS LIBRI QUINTI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



    THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    MINERVA in a vision stands
    Before Nausicaa; and commands
    She to the flood her weeds should bear,
    For now her nuptial day was near.
    Nausicaa her charge obeys,
    And then with other virgins plays.
    Their sports make wak'd Ulysses rise,
    Walk to them, and beseech supplies
    Of food and clothes. His naked sight
    Puts th' other maids, afraid, to flight;
    Nausicaa only boldly stays,
    And gladly his desire obeys.
    He, furnished with her favours shown,
    Attends her and the rest to town.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... Here olive leaves
    T' hide shame began.
    The maid receives
    The naked man.


    HE much-sustaining, patient, heavenly man,
         Whom Toil and Sleep had worn so weak and wan,
         Thus won his rest. In mean space Pallas went
         To the Phaeacian city, and descent
         That first did broad Hyperia's lands divide,
         Near the vast Cyclops, men of monstrous pride,
         That prey'd on those Hyperians, since they were
         Of greater power; and therefore longer there
         Divine Nausithous dwelt not, but arose,
         And did for Scheria all his powers dispose,
         Far from ingenious art-inventing men;
         But there did he erect a city then,
         First drew a wall round, then he houses builds,
         And then a temple to the Gods, the fields
         Lastly dividing. But he, stoop'd by Fate,
         Div'd to th' infernals; and Alcinous sate
         In his command, a man the Gods did teach
         Commanding counsels. His house held the reach
         Of grey Minerva's project, to provide
         That great-soul'd Ithacus might be supplied
         With all things fitting his return. She went
         Up to the chamber, where the fair descent
         Of great Alcinous slept; a maid, whose parts
         In wit and beauty wore divine deserts.
         Well deck'd her chamber was; of which the door
         Did seem to lighten, such a gloss it bore
         Betwixt the posts, and now flew ope to find
         The Goddess entry. Like a puft of wind
         She reach'd the virgin bed; near which there lay
         Two maids, to whom the Graces did convey
         Figure and manners. But above the head
         Of bright Nausicaa did Pallas tread
         The subtle air, and put the person on
         Of Dymas' daughter, from comparison
         Exempt in business naval. Like his seed
         Minerva look'd now; whom one year did breed
         With bright Nausicaa, and who had gain'd
         Grace in her love, yet on her thus complain'd:
           "Nausicaa! Why bred thy mother one
         So negligent in rites so stood upon
         By other virgins? Thy fair garments lie
         Neglected by thee, yet thy nuptials nigh;
         When rich in all attire both thou shouldst be,
         And garments give to others honouring thee,
         That lead thee to the temple. Thy good name
         Grows amongst men for these things; they inflame
         Father and reverend mother with delight.
         Come, when the Day takes any wink from Night,
         Let's to the river, and repurify
         Thy wedding garments. My society
         Shall freely serve thee for thy speedier aid,
         Because thou shalt no more stand on the maid.
         The best of all Phaeacia woo thy grace,
         Where thou wert bred, and owest thyself a race.
         Up, and stir up to thee thy honour'd sire,
         To give thee mules and coach, thee and thy tire,
         Veils, girdles, mantles, early to the flood,
         To bear in state. It suits thy high-born blood,
         And far more fits thee, than to foot so far,
         For far from town thou knowst the bath-founts are."
           This said, away blue-eyed Minerva went
         Up to Olympus, the firm continent
         That bears in endless being the Deified kind,
         That's neither soused with showers, nor shook with wind,
         Nor chill'd with snow, but where Serenity flies
         Exempt from clouds, and ever-beamy skies
         Circle the glittering hill, and all their days
         Give the delights of blessed Deity praise.
         And hither Pallas flew, and left the maid,
         When she had all that might excite her said.
         Straight rose the lovely Morn, that up did raise
         Fair-veil'd Nausicaa, whose dream her praise
         To admiration took; who no time spent
         To give the rapture of her vision vent
         To her lov'd parents, whom she found within.
         Her mother set at fire, who had to spin
         A rock, whose tincture with sea-purple shin'd;
         Her maids about her. But she chanced to find
         Her father going abroad, to council call'd
         By his grave Senate. And to him exhaled
         Her smother'd bosom was: "Lov'd sire," said she,
         "Will you not now command a coach for me,
         Stately and complete, fit for me to bear
         To wash at flood the weeds I cannot wear
         Before repurified? Yourself it fits
         To wear fair weeds, as every man that sits
         In place of council. And five sons you have,
         Two wed, three bachelors, that must be brave
         In every day's shift, that they may go dance;
         For these three last with these things must advance
         Their states in marriage, and who else but I,
         Their sister, should their dancing rites supply?"
           This general cause she show'd, and would not name
         Her mind of nuptials to her sire, for shame.
         He understood her yet, and thus replied:
         "Daughter! nor these, nor any grace beside,
         I either will deny thee, or defer,
         Mules, nor a coach, of state and circular,
         Fitting at all parts. Go, my servants shall
         Serve thy desires, and thy command in all."
           The servants then commanded soon obey'd,
         Fetch'd coach, and mules join'd in it. Then the Maid
         Brought from the chamber her rich weeds, and laid
         All up in coach; in which her mother plac'd
         A maund of victuals, varied well in taste,
         And other junkets. Wine she likewise fill'd
         Within a goat-skin bottle, and distill'd
         Sweet and moist oil into a golden cruse,
         Both for her daughter's, and her handmaid's, use,
         To soften their bright bodies, when they rose
         Cleans'd from their cold baths. Up to coach then goes
         Th' observed Maid, takes both the scourge and reins,
         And to her side her handmaid straight attains.
         Nor these alone, but other virgins, grac'd
         The nuptial chariot. The whole bevy plac'd,
         Nausicaa scourg'd to make the coach-mules run,
         That neigh'd, and pac'd their usual speed, and soon
         Both maids and weeds brought to the river side,
         Where baths for all the year their use supplied,
         Whose waters were so pure they would not stain,
         But still ran fair forth, and did more remain
         Apt to purge stains, for that purg'd stain within,
         Which by the water's pure store was not seen.
           These, here arriv'd, the mules uncoach'd, and drave
         Up to the gulfy river's shore, that gave
         Sweet grass to them. The maids from coach then took
         Their clothes, and steep'd them in the sable brook;
         Then put them into springs, and trod them clean
         With cleanly feet; adventuring wagers then,
         Who should have soonest and most cleanly done.
         When having throughly cleans'd, they spread them on
         The flood's shore, all in order. And then, where
         The waves the pebbles wash'd, and ground was clear,
         They bath'd themselves, and all with glittering oil
         Smooth'd their white skins; refreshing then their toil
         With pleasant dinner, by the river's side;
         Yet still watch'd when the sun their clothes had dried.
         Till which time, having dined, Nausicaa
         With other virgins did at stool-ball play,
         Their shoulder-reaching head-tires laying by.
         Nausicaa, with the wrists of ivory,
         The liking stroke struck, singing first a song,
         As custom order'd, and amidst the throng
         Made such a show, and so past all was seen,
         As when the chaste-born, arrow-loving, Queen,
         Along the mountains gliding, either over
         Spartan Taygetus, whose tops far discover,
         Or Eurymanthus, in the wild boar's chace,
         Or swift-hoved hart, and with her Jove's fair race,
         The field Nymphs, sporting; amongst whom, to see
         How far Diana had priority,
         Though all were fair, for fairness yet of all,
         As both by head and forehead being more tall,
         Latona triumph'd, since the dullest sight
         Might eas'ly judge whom her pains brought to light;
         Nausicaa so, whom never husband tamed,
         Above them all in all the beauties flamed.
         But when they now made homewards, and array'd,
         Ordering their weeds disorder'd as they play'd,
         Mules and coach ready, then Minerva thought
         What means to wake Ulysses might be wrought,
         That he might see this lovely-sighted maid,
         Whom she intended should become his aid,
         Bring him to town, and his return advance.
         Her mean was this, though thought a stool-ball chance:
         The queen now, for the upstroke, struck the ball
         Quite wide off th' other maids, and made it fall
         Amidst the whirlpools. At which out shriek'd all,
         And with the shriek did wise Ulysses wake;
         Who, sitting up, was doubtful who should make
         That sudden outcry, and in mind thus striv'd:
         "On what a people am I now arriv'd?
         At civil hospitable men, that fear
         The Gods? Or dwell injurious mortals here?
         Unjust, and churlish? Like the female cry
         Of youth it sounds. What are they? Nymphs bred high
         On tops of hills, or in the founts of floods,
         In herby marshes, or in leafy woods?
         Or are they high-spoke men I now am near?
         I'll prove, and see." With this, the wary peer
         Crept forth the thicket, and an olive bough
         Broke with his broad hand, which he did bestow
         In covert of his nakedness, and then
         Put hasty head out. Look how from his den
         A mountain lion looks, that, all embrued
         With drops of trees, and weather-beaten hued,
         Bold of his strength, goes on, and in his eye
         A burning furnace glows, all bent to prey
         On sheep, or oxen, or the upland hart,
         His belly charging him, and he must part
         Stakes with the herdsman in his beast's attempt,
         Even where from rape their strengths are most exempt;
         So wet, so weather-beat, so stung with need,
         Even to the home-fields of the country's breed
         Ulysses was to force forth his access,
         Though merely naked; and his sight did press
         The eyes of soft-hair'd virgins. Horrid was
         His rough appearance to them; the hard pass
         He had at sea stuck by him. All in flight
         The virgins scatter'd, frighted with this sight,
         About the prominent windings of the flood.
         All but Nausicaa fled; but she fast stood,
         Pallas had put a boldness in her breast,
         And in her fair limbs tender fear compress'd.
         And still she stood him, as resolv'd to know
         What man he was, or out of what should grow
         His strange repair to them. And here was he
         Put to his wisdom; if her virgin knee
         He should be bold, but kneeling, to embrace;
         Or keep aloof, and try with words of grace,
         In humblest suppliance, if he might obtain
         Some cover for his nakedness, and gain
         Her grace to show and guide him to the town.
         The last he best thought, to be worth his own,
         In weighing both well; to keep still aloof,
         And give with soft words his desires their proof,
         Lest, pressing so near as to touch her knee,
         He might incense her maiden modesty.
         This fair and fil'd speech then shew'd this was he:
           "Let me beseech, O queen, this truth of thee,
         Are you of mortal, or the deified, race?
         If of the Gods, that th' ample heavens embrace,
         I can resemble you to none above
         So near as to the chaste-born birth of Jove,
         The beamy Cynthia. Her you full present,
         In grace of every God-like lineament,
         Her goodly magnitude, and all th' address
         You promise of her very perfectness.
         If sprung of humans, that inhabit earth,
         Thrice blest are both the authors of your birth,
         Thrice blest your brothers, that in your deserts
         Must, even to rapture, bear delighted hearts,
         To see, so like the first trim of a tree,
         Your form adorn a dance. But most blest he,
         Of all that breathe, that hath the gift t' engage
         Your bright neck in the yoke of marriage,
         And deck his house with your commanding merit.
         I have not seen a man of so much spirit,
         Nor man, nor woman, I did ever see,
         At all parts equal to the parts in thee.
         T' enjoy your sight, doth admiration seize
         My eyes, and apprehensive faculties.
         Lately in Delos (with a charge of men
         Arrived, that render'd me most wretched then,
         Now making me thus naked) I beheld
         The burthen of a palm, whose issue swell'd
         About Apollo's fane, and that put on
         A grace like thee; for Earth had never none
         Of all her sylvan issue so adorn'd.
         Into amaze my very soul was turn'd,
         To give it observation; as now thee
         To view, O virgin, a stupidity
         Past admiration strikes me, join'd with fear
         To do a suppliant's due, and press so near,
         As to embrace thy knees. Nor is it strange,
         For one of fresh and firmest spirit would change
         T' embrace so bright an object. But, for me,
         A cruel habit of calamity
         Prepared the strong impression thou hast made;
         For this last day did fly night's twentieth shade
         Since I, at length, escap'd the sable seas;
         When in the mean time th' unrelenting prease
         Of waves and stern storms toss'd me up and down,
         From th' isle Ogygia. And now God hath thrown
         My wrack on this shore, that perhaps I may
         My miseries vary here; for yet their stay,
         I fear, Heaven hath not order'd, though, before
         These late afflictions, it hath lent me store.
         O queen, deign pity then, since first to you
         My fate importunes my distress to vow.
         No other dame, nor man, that this Earth own,
         And neighbour city, I have seen or known.
         The town then show me; give my nakedness
         Some shroud to shelter it, if to these seas
         Linen or woollen you have brought to cleanse.
         God give you, in requital, all th' amends
         Your heart can wish, a husband, family,
         And good agreement. Nought beneath the sky
         More sweet, more worthy is, than firm consent
         Of man and wife in household government.
         It joys their wishers well, their enemies wounds,
         But to themselves the special good redounds."
           She answer'd: "Stranger! I discern in thee
         Nor sloth, nor folly, reigns; and yet I see
         Th' art poor and wretched. In which I conclude,
         That industry nor wisdom make endued
         Men with those gifts that make them best to th' eye;
         Jove only orders man's felicity.
         To good and bad his pleasure fashions still
         The whole proportion of their good and ill.
         And he perhaps hath form'd this plight in thee,
         Of which thou must be patient, as he free.
         But after all thy wand'rings, since thy way,
         Both to our earth, and near our city, lay,
         As being expos'd to our cares to relieve,
         Weeds, and what else a human hand should give
         To one so suppliant and tamed with woe,
         Thou shalt not want. Our city I will show,
         And tell our people's name: This neighbour town,
         And all this kingdom, the Phaeacians own.
         And (since thou seem'dst so fain to know my birth,
         And mad'st a question, if of heaven or earth,)
         This earth hath bred me; and my father's name
         Alcinous is, that in the power and frame
         Of this isle's rule is supereminent."
           Thus, passing him, she to the virgins went,
         And said: "Give stay both to your feet and fright.
         Why thus disperse ye for a man's mere sight?
         Esteem you him a Cyclop, that long since
         Made use to prey upon our citizens?
         This man no moist man is, (nor wat'rish thing,
         That's ever flitting, ever ravishing
         All it can compass; and, like it, doth range
         In rape of women, never stay'd in change)
         This man is truly manly, wise, and stay'd,
         In soul more rich the more to sense decay'd,
         Who nor will do, nor suffer to be done,
         Acts lewd and abject; nor can such a one
         Greet the Phaeacians with a mind envious,
         Dear to the Gods they are, and he is pious.
         Besides, divided from the world we are,
         The out-part of it, billows circular
         The sea revolving round about our shore;
         Nor is there any man that enters more
         Than our own countrymen, with what is brought
         From other countries. This man, minding nought
         But his relief, a poor unhappy wretch,
         Wrack'd here, and hath no other land to fetch,
         Him now we must provide for. From Jove come
         All strangers, and the needy of a home,
         Who any gift, though ne'er so small it be,
         Esteem as great, and take it gratefully.
         And therefore, virgins, give the stranger food,
         And wine; and see ye bathe him in the flood,
         Near to some shore to shelter most inclin'd.
         'To cold bath bathers hurtful is the wind,'
         Not only rugged making th' outward skin,
         But by his thin powers pierceth parts within.
           This said, their flight in a return they set,
         And did Ulysses with all grace entreat,
         Show'd him a shore, wind-proof, and full of shade,
         By him a shirt and utter mantle laid,
         A golden jug of liquid oil did add,
         Bad wash, and all things as Nausicaa bad.
           Divine Ulysses would not use their aid;
         But thus bespake them: "Every lovely maid,
         Let me entreat to stand a little by,
         That I, alone, the fresh flood may apply
         To cleanse my bosom of the sea-wrought brine,
         And then use oil, which long time did not shine
         On my poor shoulders. I'll not wash in sight
         Of fair-hair'd maidens. I should blush outright,
         To bathe all bare by such a virgin light."
           They moved, and mused a man had so much grace,
         And told their mistress what a man he was.
           He cleans'd his broad soil'd shoulders, back, and head,
         Yet never tam'd, but now had foam and weed
         Knit in the fair curls. Which dissolv'd, and he
         Slick'd all with sweet oil, the sweet charity
         The untouch'd virgin show'd in his attire
         He cloth'd him with. Then Pallas put a fire,
         More than before, into his sparkling eyes,
         His late soil set off with his soon fresh guise.
         His locks, cleans'd, curl'd the more, and match'd, in power
         To please an eye, the hyacinthian flower.
         And as a workman, that can well combine
         Silver and gold, and make both strive to shine,
         As being by Vulcan, and Minerva too,
         Taught how far either may be urg'd to go
         In strife of eminence, when work sets forth
         A worthy soul to bodies of such worth,
         No thought reproving th' act, in any place,
         Nor Art no debt to Nature's liveliest grace;
         So Pallas wrought in him a grace as great
         From head to shoulders, and ashore did seat
         His goodly presence. To which such a guise
         He show'd in going, that it ravish'd eyes.
         All which continued, as he sat apart,
         Nausicaa's eye struck wonder through her heart,
         Who thus bespake her consorts: "Hear me, you
         Fair-wristed virgins! This rare man, I know,
         Treads not our country earth, against the will
         Of some God, throned on the Olympian hill.
         He show'd to me, till now, not worth the note,
         But now he looks as he had godhead got.
         I would to heaven my husband were no worse,
         And would be call'd no better, but the course
         Of other husbands pleas'd to dwell out here.
         Observe and serve him with our utmost cheer."
           She said; they heard, and did. He drunk and eat
         Like to a harpy, having touch'd no meat
         A long before time. But Nausicaa now
         Thought of the more grace she did lately vow,
         Had horse to chariot join'd, and up she rose,
         Up cheer'd her guest, and said: "Guest, now dispose
         Yourself for town, that I may let you see
         My father's court, where all the peers will be
         Of our Phaeacian state. At all parts, then,
         Observe to whom and what place y' are t' attain;
         Though I need usher you with no advice,
         Since I suppose you absolutely wise.
         While we the fields pass, and men's labours there,
         So long, in these maids' guides, directly bear
         Upon my chariot (I must go before
         For cause that after comes, to which this more
         Be my induction) you shall then soon end
         Your way to town, whose towers you see ascend
         To such a steepness. On whose either side
         A fair port stands, to which is nothing wide
         An enterer's passage; on whose both hands ride
         Ships in fair harbours; which once past, you win
         The goodly market-place (that circles in
         A fane to Neptune, built of curious stone,
         And passing ample) where munition,
         Gables, and masts, men make, and polish'd oars;
         For the Phaeacians are not conquerors
         By bows nor quivers; oars, masts, ships they are
         With which they plough the sea, and wage their war.
         And now the cause comes why I lead the way,
         Not taking you to coach: The men, that sway
         In work of those tools that so fit our state,
         Are rude mechanicals, that rare and late
         Work in the market-place; and those are they
         Whose bitter tongues I shun, who straight would say,
         (For these vile vulgars are extremely proud,
         And foully-languag'd) 'What is he, allowed
         To coach it with Nausicaa, so large set,
         And fairly fashion'd? Where were these two met?
         He shall be sure her husband. She hath been
         Gadding in some place, and, of foreign men
         Fitting her fancy, kindly brought him home
         In her own ship. He must, of force, be come
         From some far region; we have no such man.
         It may be, praying hard, when her heart ran
         On some wish'd husband, out of heaven some God
         Dropp'd in her lap; and there lies she at road
         Her complete life time. But, in sooth, if she,
         Ranging abroad, a husband, such as he
         Whom now we saw, laid hand on, she was wise,
         For none of all our nobles are of prize
         Enough for her; he must beyond sea come,
         That wins her high mind, and will have her home.
         Of our peers many have importuned her,
         Yet she will none.' Thus these folks will confer
         Behind my back; or, meeting, to my face
         The foul-mouth rout dare put home this disgrace.
         And this would be reproaches to my fame,
         For, even myself just anger would inflame,
         If any other virgin I should see,
         Her parents living, keep the company
         Of any man to any end of love,
         Till open nuptials should her act approve.
         And therefore hear me, guest, and take such way,
         That you yourself may compass, in your stay,
         Your quick deduction by my father's grace,
         And means to reach the root of all your race.
           We shall, not far out of our way to town,
         A never-fell'd grove find, that poplars crown,
         To Pallas sacred, where a fountain flows,
         And round about the grove a meadow grows,
         In which my father holds a manor house,
         Deck'd all with orchards, green, and odorous,
         As far from town as one may hear a shout.
         There stay, and rest your foot-pains, till full out
         We reach the city; where, when you may guess
         We are arriv'd, and enter our access
         Within my father's court, then put you on
         For our Phaeacian state, where, to be shown
         My father's house, desire. Each infant there
         Can bring you to it; and yourself will clear
         Distinguish it from others, for no shows
         The city buildings make compar'd with those
         That king Alcinous' seat doth celebrate.
         In whose roofs, and the court (where men of state,
         And suitors sit and stay) when you shall hide,
         Straight pass it, ent'ring further, where abide
         My mother, with her withdrawn housewiferies,
         Who still sits in the fire-shine, and applies
         Her rock, all purple, and of pompous show,
         Her chair plac'd 'gainst a pillar, all a-row
         Her maids behind her set; and to her here
         My father's dining throne looks, seated where
         He pours his choice of wine in, like a God.
         This view once past, for th' end of your abode,
         Address suit to my mother, that her mean
         May make the day of your redition seen,
         And you may frolic straight, though far away
         You are in distance from your wished stay.
         For, if she once be won to wish you well,
         Your hope may instantly your passport seal,
         And thenceforth sure abide to see your friends,
         Fair house, and all to which your heart contends."
           This said, she used her shining scourge, and lash'd
         Her mules, that soon the shore left where she wash'd,
         And, knowing well the way, their pace was fleet,
         And thick they gather'd up their nimble feet.
         Which yet she temper'd so, and used her scourge
         With so much skill, as not to over-urge
         The foot behind, and make them straggle so
         From close society. Firm together go
         Ulysses and her maids. And now the sun
         Sunk to the waters, when they all had won
         The never-fell'd, and sound-exciting, wood,
         Sacred to Pallas; where the god-like good
         Ulysses rested, and to Pallas pray'd:
           "Hear me, of goat-kept Jove th' unconquer'd Maid!
         Now throughly hear me, since, in all the time
         Of all my wrack, my prayers could never climb
         Thy far-off ears; when noiseful Neptune toss'd
         Upon his watry bristles my emboss'd
         And rock-torn body. Hear yet now, and deign
         I may of the Phaeacian state obtain
         Pity, and grace." Thus pray'd he, and she heard,
         By no means yet, exposed to sight, appear'd,
         For fear t' offend her uncle, the supreme
         Of all the Sea-Gods, whose wrath still extreme
         Stood to Ulysses, and would never cease,
         Till with his country shore he crown'd his peace.

            FINIS LIBRI SEXTI HOM. ODYSS.




    THE SEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    NAUSICAA arrives at town;
    And then Ulysses. He makes known
    His suit to Arete; who view
    Takes of his vesture, which she knew,
    And asks him from whose hands it came.
    He tells, with all the hapless frame
    Of his affairs in all the while
    Since he forsook Calypso's isle.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... The honour'd minds,
    And welcome things,
    Ulysses finds
    In Scheria's kings.


    THUS pray'd the wise and God-observing man.
         The Maid, by free force of her palfreys, wan
         Access to town, and the renowned court
         Reach'd of her father; where, within the port,
         She stay'd her coach, and round about her came
         Her brothers, made as of immortal frame,
         Who yet disdain'd not, for her love, mean deeds,
         But took from coach her mules, brought in her weeds.
         And she ascends her chamber; where purvey'd
         A quick fire was by her old chamber-maid,
         Eurymedusa, th' Aperaean born,
         And brought by sea from Apera t' adorn
         The court of great Alcinous, because
         He gave to all the blest Phaeacians laws,
         And, like a heaven-born power in speech, acquired
         The people's ears. To one then so admired,
         Eurymedusa was esteem'd no worse
         Than worth the gift, yet now, grown old, was nurse
         To ivory-arm'd Nausicaa, gave heat
         To all her fires, and dress'd her privy meat.
           Then rose Ulysses, and made way to town;
         Which ere he reach'd, a mighty mist was thrown
         By Pallas round about him, in her care,
         Lest, in the sway of envies popular,
         Some proud Phaeacian might foul language pass,
         Justle him up, and ask him what he was.
           Ent'ring the lovely town yet, through the cloud
         Pallas appear'd, and like a young wench show'd
         Bearing a pitcher, stood before him so
         As if objected purposely to know
         What there he needed; whom he question'd thus:
           "Know you not, daughter, where Alcinous,
         That rules this town, dwells? I, a poor distress'd
         Mere stranger here, know none I may request
         To make this court known to me." She replied:
           "Strange father, I will see you satisfied
         In that request. My father dwells just by
         The house you seek for; but go silently,
         Nor ask, nor speak to any other, I
         Shall be enough to show your way. The men
         That here inhabit do not entertain
         With ready kindness strangers, of what worth
         Or state soever, nor have taken forth
         Lessons of civil usage or respect
         To men beyond them. They, upon their powers
         Of swift ships building, top the wat'ry towers,
         And Jove hath given them ships, for sail so wrought,
         They cut a feather, and command a thought."
           This said, she usher'd him, and after he
         Trod in the swift steps of the Deity.
         The free-sail'd seamen could not get a sight
         Of our Ulysses yet, though he forthright
         Both by their houses and their persons past,
         Pallas about him such a darkness cast
         By her divine power, and her reverend care,
         She would not give the town-born cause to stare.
           He wonder'd, as he past, to see the ports;
         The shipping in them; and for all resorts
         The goodly market-steads; and aisles beside
         For the heroes; walls so large and wide;
         Rampires so high, and of such strength withal,
         It would with wonder any eye appall.
           At last they reach'd the court, and Pallas said:
         "Now, honour'd stranger, I will see obey'd
         Your will, to show our ruler's house; 'tis here;
         Where you shall find kings celebrating cheer.
         Enter amongst them, nor admit a fear.
         'More bold a man is, he prevails the more,
         Though man nor place he ever saw before.'
           You first shall find the queen in court, whose name
         Is Arete, of parents born the same
         That was the king her spouse; their pedigree
         I can report. The great Earth-shaker, he
         Of Periboea (that her sex out-shone,
         And youngest daughter was t' Eurymedon,
         Who of th' unmeasur'd-minded giants sway'd
         Th' imperial sceptre, and the pride allay'd
         Of men so impious with cold death, and died
         Himself soon after) got the magnified
         In mind, Nausithous; whom the kingdom's state
         First held in supreme rule. Nausithous gat
         Rhexenor, and Alcinous, now king.
         Rhexenor (whose seed did no male fruit spring,
         And whom the silver-bow-grac'd Phoebus slew
         Young in the court) his shed blood did renew
         In only Arete, who now is spouse
         To him that rules the kingdom in this house,
         And is her uncle king Alcinous,
         Who honours her past equal. She may boast
         More honour of him than the honour'd most
         Of any wife in earth can of her lord,
         How many more soever, realms afford,
         That keep house under husbands. Yet no more
         Her husband honours her, than her blest store
         Of gracious children. All the city cast
         Eyes on her as a Goddess, and give taste
         Of their affections to her in their prayers,
         Still as she decks the streets; for, all affairs
         Wrapt in contention, she dissolves to men.
         Whom she affects, she wants no mind to deign
         Goodness enough. If her heart stand inclin'd
         To your dispatch, hope all you wish to find,
         Your friends, your longing family, and all
         That can within your most affections fall."
           This said, away the grey-eyed Goddess flew
         Along th' untamed sea, left the lovely hue
         Scheria presented, out flew Marathon,
         And ample-streeted Athens lighted on;
         Where to the house, that casts so thick a shade,
         Of Erectheus she ingression made.
           Ulysses to the lofty-builded court
         Of king Alcinous made bold resort;
         Yet in his heart cast many a thought, before
         The brazen pavement of the rich court bore
         His enter'd person. Like heaven's two main lights,
         The rooms illustrated both days and nights.
         On every side stood firm a wall of brass,
         Even from the threshold to the inmost pass,
         Which bore a roof up that all sapphire was.
         The brazen thresholds both sides did enfold
         Silver pilasters, hung with gates of gold;
         Whose portal was of silver; over which
         A golden cornice did the front enrich.
         On each side, dogs, of gold and silver framed,
         The house's guard stood; which the Deity lamed
         With knowing inwards had inspired, and made
         That death nor age should their estates invade.
           Along the wall stood every way a throne,
         From th' entry to the lobby, every one
         Cast over with a rich-wrought cloth of state.
         Beneath which the Phaeacian princes sate
         At wine and food, and feasted all the year.
         Youths forged of gold, at every table there,
         Stood holding flaming torches, that, in night,
         Gave through the house each honour'd guest his light.
           And, to encounter feast with housewifery,
         In one room fifty women did apply
         Their several tasks. Some apple-colour'd corn
         Ground in fair querns, and some did spindles turn,
         Some work in looms; no hand least rest receives,
         But all had motion, apt as aspen leaves.
         And from the weeds they wove, so fast they laid,
         And so thick thrust together thread by thread,
         That th' oil, of which the wool had drunk his fill,
         Did with his moisture in light dews distill.
           As much as the Phaeacian men excell'd
         All other countrymen in art to build
         A swift-sail'd ship; so much the women there,
         For work of webs, past other women were.
         Past mean, by Pallas' means, they understood
         The grace of good works; and had wits as good.
           Without the hall, and close upon the gate,
         A goodly orchard-ground was situate,
         Of near ten acres; about which was led
         A lofty quickset. In it flourished
         High and broad fruit trees, that pomegranates bore,
         Sweet figs, pears, olives; and a number more
         Most useful plants did there produce their store,
         Whose fruits the hardest winter could not kill,
         Nor hottest summer wither. There was still
         Fruit in his proper season all the year.
         Sweet Zephyr breathed upon them blasts that were
         Of varied tempers. These he made to bear
         Ripe fruits, these blossoms. Pear grew after pear,
         Apple succeeded apple, grape the grape,
         Fig after fig came; time made never rape
         Of any dainty there. A spritely vine
         Spread here his root, whose fruit a hot sunshine
         Made ripe betimes; here grew another green.
         Here some were gathering, here some pressing seen.
         A large-allotted several each fruit had;
         And all th' adorn'd grounds their appearance made
         In flower and fruit, at which the king did aim
         To the precisest order he could claim.
           Two fountains graced the garden; of which, one
         Pour'd out a winding stream that over-run
         The grounds for their use chiefly, th' other went
         Close by the lofty palace gate, and lent
         The city his sweet benefit. And thus
         The Gods the court deck'd of Alcinous.
           Patient Ulysses stood a while at gaze,
         But, having all observed, made instant pace
         Into the court; where all the peers he found,
         And captains of Phaeacia, with cups crown'd,
         Offering to sharp-eyed Hermes, to whom last
         They used to sacrifice, when sleep had cast
         His inclination through their thoughts. But these
         Ulysses past, and forth went; nor their eyes
         Took note of him, for Pallas stopp'd the light
         With mists about him, that, unstay'd, he might
         First to Alcinous, and Arete,
         Present his person; and, of both them, she,
         By Pallas counsel, was to have the grace
         Of foremost greeting. Therefore his embrace
         He cast about her knee. And then off flew
         The heavenly air that hid him. When his view,
         With silence and with admiration strook
         The court quite through; but thus he silence broke:
           "Divine Rhexenor's offspring, Arete,
         To thy most honour'd husband, and to thee,
         A man whom many labours have distress'd
         Is come for comfort, and to every guest.
         To all whom heaven vouchsafe delightsome lives,
         And after to your issue that survives
         A good resignment of the goods ye leave,
         With all the honour that yourselves receive
         Amongst your people. Only this of me
         Is the ambition; that I may but see
         (By your vouchsaf'd means, and betimes vouchsaf'd)
         My country earth; since I have long been left
         To labours, and to errors, barr'd from end,
         And far from benefit of any friend."
           He said no more, but left them dumb with that,
         Went to the hearth, and in the ashes sat,
         Aside the fire. At last their silence brake,
         And Echineus, th' old heroe, spake;
         A man that all Phaeacians pass'd in years,
         And in persuasive eloquence all the peers,
         Knew much, and used it well; and thus spake he:
           "Alcinous! It shews not decently,
         Nor doth your honour what you see admit,
         That this your guest should thus abjectly sit,
         His chair the earth, the hearth his cushion,
         Ashes as if apposed for food. A throne,
         Adorn'd with due rites, stands you more in hand
         To see his person placed in, and command
         That instantly your heralds fill in wine,
         That to the God that doth in lightnings shine
         We may do sacrifice; for he is there,
         Where these his reverend suppliants appear.
         Let what you have within be brought abroad,
         To sup the stranger. All these would have show'd
         This fit respect to him, but that they stay
         For your precedence, that should grace the way."
           When this had added to the well-inclined
         And sacred order of Alcinous' mind,
         Then of the great-in-wit the hand he seiz'd,
         And from the ashes his fair person raised,
         Advanced him to a well-adorned throne,
         And from his seat raised his most loved son,
         Laodamas, that next himself was set,
         To give him place. The handmaid then did get
         An ewer of gold, with water fill'd, which placed
         Upon a caldron, all with silver graced,
         She pour'd out on their hands. And then was spread
         A table, which the butler set with bread,
         As others served with other food the board,
         In all the choice the present could afford.
         Ulysses meat and wine took; and then thus
         The king the herald call'd: "Pontonous!
         Serve wine through all the house, that all may pay
         Rites to the Lightner, who is still in way
         With humble suppliants, and them pursues
         With all benign and hospitable dues."
           Pontonous gave act to all he will'd,
         And honey-sweetness-giving-minds wine fill'd,
         Disposing it in cups for all to drink.
         All having drunk what either's heart could think
         Fit for due sacrifice, Alcinous said:
         "Hear me, ye dukes that the Phaeacians lead,
         And you our counsellors, that I may now
         Discharge the charge my mind suggests to you,
         For this our guest: Feast past, and this night's sleep,
         Next morn, our senate summon'd, we will keep
         Justs, sacred to the Gods, and this our guest
         Receive in solemn court with fitting feast;
         Then think of his return, that, under hand
         Of our deduction, his natural land
         (Without more toil or care, and with delight,
         And that soon given him, how far hence dissite
         Soever it can be) he may ascend;
         And in the mean time without wrong attend,
         Or other want, fit means to that ascent.
         What, after, austere Fates shall make th' event
         Of his life's thread, now spinning, and began
         When his pain'd mother freed his root of man,
         He must endure in all kinds. If some God
         Perhaps abides with us in his abode,
         And other things will think upon than we,
         The Gods' wills stand, who ever yet were free
         Of their appearance to us, when to them
         We offer'd hecatombs of fit esteem,
         And would at feast sit with us, even where we
         Order'd our session. They would likewise be
         Encount'rers of us, when in way alone
         About his fit affairs went any one.
         Nor let them cloak themselves in any care
         To do us comfort, we as near them are,
         As are the Cyclops, or the impious race
         Of earthy giants, that would heaven outface."
           Ulysses answer'd; "Let some other doubt
         Employ your thoughts than what your words give out,
         Which intimate a kind of doubt that I
         Should shadow in this shape a Deity.
         I bear no such least semblance, or in wit,
         Virtue, or person. What may well befit
         One of those mortals, whom you chiefly know
         Bears up and down the burthen of the woe
         Appropriate to poor man, give that to me;
         Of whose moans I sit in the most degree,
         And might say more, sustaining griefs that all
         The Gods consent to; no one 'twixt their fall
         And my unpitied shoulders letting down
         The least diversion. Be the grace then shown,
         To let me taste your free-given food in peace.
         'Through greatest grief the belly must have ease.
         Worse than an envious belly nothing is.'
         It will command his strict necessities,
         Of men most grieved in body or in mind,
         That are in health, and will not give their kind
         A desperate wound. When most with cause I grieve,
         It bids me still, Eat, man, and drink, and live;
         And this makes all forgot. Whatever ill
         I ever bear it ever bids me fill.
         But this ease is but forc'd, and will not last,
         Till what the mind likes be as well embrac'd;
         And therefore let me wish you would partake
         In your late purpose; when the morn shall make
         Her next appearance, deign me but the grace,
         Unhappy man, that I may once embrace
         My country earth. Though I be still thrust at
         By ancient ills, yet make me but see that,
         And then let life go, when withal I see
         My high-roof'd large house, lands, and family."
           This all approved; and each will'd every one,
         Since he hath said so fairly, set him gone.
           Feast past and sacrifice, to sleep all vow
         Their eyes at either's house. Ulysses now
         Was left here with Alcinous, and his queen,
         The all-loved Arete. The handmaids then
         The vessel of the banquet took away.
         When Arete set eye on his array;
         Knew both his out and under weed, which she
         Made with her maids; and mused by what means he
         Obtain'd their wearing; which she made request
         To know, and wings gave to these speeches: "Guest!
         First let me ask, what, and from whence you are?
         And then, who grac'd you with the weeds you wear?
         Said you not lately, you had err'd at seas,
         And thence arrived here?" Laertides
         To this thus answer'd: "'Tis a pain, O queen,
         Still to be opening wounds wrought deep and green,
         Of which the Gods have opened store in me;
         Yet your will must be served. Far hence, at sea,
         There lies an isle, that bears Ogygia's name,
         Where Atlas' daughter, the ingenious dame,
         Fair-hair'd Calypso lives; a Goddess grave,
         And with whom men nor Gods society have;
         Yet I, past man unhappy, lived alone,
         By Heaven's wrath forced, her house companion.
         For Jove had with a fervent lightning cleft
         My ship in twain, and far at black sea left
         Me and my soldiers; all whose lives I lost.
         I in mine arms the keel took, and was tost
         Nine days together up from wave to wave.
         The tenth grim night, the angry Deities drave
         Me and my wrack on th' isle, in which doth dwell
         Dreadful Calypso; who exactly well
         Received and nourish'd me, and promise made
         To make me deathless, nor should age invade
         My powers with his deserts through all my days.
         All moved not me, and therefore, on her stays,
         Seven years she made me lie; and there spent I
         The long time, steeping in the misery
         Of ceaseless tears the garments I did wear,
         From her fair hand. The eighth revolved year
         (Or by her changed mind, or by charge of Jove)
         She gave provok'd way to my wish'd remove,
         And in a many-jointed ship, with wine
         Dainty in savour, bread, and weeds divine,
         Sign'd, with a harmless and sweet wind, my pass.
         Then seventeen days at sea I homeward was,
         And by the eighteenth the dark hills appear'd
         That your earth thrusts up. Much my heart was cheer'd,
         Unhappy man, for that was but a beam,
         To show I yet had agonies extreme
         To put in suff'rance, which th' Earth-shaker sent,
         Crossing my way with tempests violent,
         Unmeasured seas up-lifting, nor would give
         The billows leave to let my vessel live
         The least time quiet, that even sigh'd to bear
         Their bitter outrage, which, at last, did tear
         Her sides in pieces, set on by the winds.
         I yet through-swum the waves that your shore binds,
         Till wind and water threw me up to it;
         When, coming forth, a ruthless billow smit
         Against huge rocks, and an accessless shore,
         My mangl'd body. Back again I bore,
         And swum till I was fall'n upon a flood,
         Whose shores, methought, on good advantage stood
         For my receipt, rock-free, and fenc'd from wind;
         And this I put for, gathering up my mind.
         Then the divine night came, and treading earth,
         Close by the flood that had from Jove her birth,
         Within a thicket I reposed; when round
         I ruffled up fall'n leaves in heap; and found,
         Let fall from heaven, a sleep interminate.
         And here my heart, long time excruciate,
         Amongst the leaves I rested all that night,
         Even till the morning and meridian light.
         The sun declining then, delightsome sleep
         No longer laid my temples in his steep,
         But forth I went, and on the shore might see
         Your daughter's maids play. Like a Deity
         She shined above them; and I pray'd to her,
         And she in disposition did prefer
         Noblesse, and wisdom, no more low than might
         Become the goodness of a Goddess' height.
         Nor would you therefore hope, supposed distrest
         As I was then, and old, to find the least
         Of any grace from her, being younger far.
         'With young folks Wisdom makes her commerce rare.'
         Yet she in all abundance did bestow
         Both wine, that makes the blood in humans grow,
         And food, and bath'd me in the flood, and gave
         The weeds to me which now ye see me have.
         This through my griefs I tell you, and 'tis true."
           Alcinous answer'd: "Guest! my daughter knew
         Least of what most you give her; nor became
         The course she took, to let with every dame
         Your person lackey; nor hath with them brought
         Yourself home too; which first you had besought."
           "O blame her not," said he, "heroical lord,
         Nor let me hear against her worth a word.
         She faultless is, and wish'd I would have gone
         With all her women home, but I alone
         Would venture my receipt here, having fear
         And reverend awe of accidents that were
         Of likely issue; both your wrath to move,
         And to enflame the common people's love
         Of speaking ill, to which they soon give place.
         'We men are all a most suspicious race.'"
           "My guest," said he, "I use not to be stirr'd
         To wrath too rashly; and where are preferr'd
         To men's conceits things that may both ways fail,
         The noblest ever should the most prevail.
         Would Jove our Father, Pallas, and the Sun,
         That, were you still as now, and could but run
         One fate with me, you would my daughter wed,
         And be my son-in-law, still vow'd to lead
         Your rest of life here! I a house would give,
         And household goods, so freely you would live,
         Confined with us. But 'gainst your will shall none
         Contain you here, since that were violence done
         To Jove our father. For your passage home,
         That you may well know we can overcome
         So great a voyage, thus it shall succeed:
         To-morrow shall our men take all their heed,
         While you securely sleep, to see the seas
         In calmest temper, and, if that will please,
         Show you your country and your house ere night,
         Though far beyond Euboea be that sight.
         And this Euboea, as our subjects say
         That have been there and seen, is far away,
         Farthest from us of all the parts they know;
         And made the trial when they help'd to row
         The gold-lock'd Rhadamanth, to give him view
         Of earth-born Tityus; whom their speeds did show
         In that far-off Euboea, the same day
         They set from hence; and home made good their way
         With ease again, and him they did convey.
         Which I report to you, to let you see
         How swift my ships are, and how matchlessly
         My young Phaeacians with their oars prevail,
         To beat the sea through, and assist a sail."
           This cheer'd Ulysses, who in private pray'd:
         "I would to Jove our Father, what he said,
         He could perform at all parts; he should then
         Be glorified for ever, and I gain
         My natural country." This discourse they had;
         When fair-arm'd Arete her handmaids bad
         A bed make in the portico, and ply
         With clothes, the covering tapestry,
         The blankets purple; well-napp'd waistcoats too,
         To wear for more warmth. What these had to do,
         They torches took and did. The bed purvey'd,
         They moved Ulysses for his rest, and said:
           "Come guest, your bed is fit, now frame to rest."
         Motion of sleep was gracious to their guest;
         Which now he took profoundly, being laid
         Within a loop-hole tower, where was convey'd
         The sounding portico. The king took rest
         In a retired part of the house; where drest
         The queen her self a bed, and trundlebed,
         And by her lord reposed her reverend head.

            FINIS LIBRI SEPTIMI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



    THE EIGHTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    THE peers of the Phaeacian State
    A council call, to consolate
    Ulysses with all means for home.
    The council to a banquet come,
    Invited by the king. Which done,
    Assays for hurling of the stone
    The youths make with the stranger king.
    Demodocus, at feast, doth sing
    Th' adultery of the God of Arms
    With Her that rules in amorous charms;
    And after sings the entercourse
    Of acts about th' Epaean horse.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... The council's frame
    At fleet applied.
    In strifes of game
    Ulysses tried.


    NOW when the rosy-finger'd Morn arose,
         The sacred power Alcinous did dispose
         Did likewise rise; and, like him, left his ease
         The city-razer Laertiades.
         The Council at the navy was design'd;
         To which Alcinous, with the sacred mind,
         Came first of all. On polish'd stones they sate,
         Near to the navy. To increase the state,
         Minerva took the herald's form on her,
         That served Alcinous, studious to prefer
         Ulysses' suit for home. About the town
         She made quick way, and fill'd with the renown
         Of that design the ears of every man,
         Proclaiming thus: "Peers Phaeacensian!
         And men of council, all haste to the court,
         To hear the stranger that made late resort
         To king Alcinous, long time lost at sea,
         And is in person like a Deity."
           This all their powers set up, and spirit instill'd,
         And straight the court and seats with men were fill'd.
         The whole state wonder'd at Laertes' son,
         When they beheld him. Pallas put him on
         A supernatural and heavenly dress,
         Enlarged him with a height, and goodliness
         In breast and shoulders, that he might appear
         Gracious, and grave, and reverend, and bear
         A perfect hand on his performance there
         In all the trials they resolv'd t' impose.
           All met, and gather'd in attention close,
         Alcinous thus bespake them: "Dukes, and lords,
         Hear me digest my hearty thoughts in words.
         This stranger here, whose travels found my court,
         I know not, nor can tell if his resort
         From east or west comes; but his suit is this:
         That to his country earth we would dismiss
         His hither-forced person, and doth bear
         The mind to pass it under every peer;
         Whom I prepare, and stir up, making known
         My free desire of his deduction.
         Nor shall there ever any other man
         That tries the goodness Phaeacensian
         In me, and my court's entertainment, stay,
         Mourning for passage, under least delay.
         Come then, a ship into the sacred seas,
         New-built, now launch we; and from out our prease
         Choose two and fifty youths, of all, the best
         To use an oar. All which see straight impress'd,
         And in their oar-bound seats. Let others hie
         Home to our court, commanding instantly
         The solemn preparation of a feast,
         In which provision may for any guest
         Be made at my charge. Charge of these low things
         I give our youth. You, sceptre-bearing kings,
         Consort me home, and help with grace to use
         This guest of ours; no one man shall refuse.
           Some other of you haste, and call to us
         The sacred singer, grave Demodocus,
         To whom hath God given song that can excite
         The heart of whom he listeth with delight."
         This said, he led. The sceptre-bearers lent
         Their free attendance; and with all speed went
         The herald for the sacred man in song.
         Youths two and fifty, chosen from the throng,
         Went, as was will'd, to the untam'd sea's shore;
         Where come, they launch'd the ship, the mast it bore
         Advanc'd, sails hoised, every seat his oar
         Gave with a leather thong. The deep moist then
         They further reach'd. The dry streets flow'd with men,
         That troop'd up to the king's capacious court,
         Whose porticos were chok'd with the resort,
         Whose walls were hung with men, young, old, thrust there
         In mighty concourse; for whose promis'd cheer
         Alcinous slew twelve sheep, eight white-tooth'd swine,
         Two crook-haunch'd beeves; which flay'd and dress'd, divine
         The show was of so many a jocund guest,
         All set together at so set a feast.
         To whose accomplish'd state the herald then
         The lovely singer led; who past all mean
         The Muse affected, gave him good, and ill,
         His eyes put out, but put in soul at will.
         His place was given him in a chair all grac'd
         With silver studs, and 'gainst a pillar placed;
         Where, as the centre to the state, he rests,
         And round about the circle of the guests.
         The herald on a pin above his head
         His soundful harp hung, to whose height he led
         His hand for taking of it down at will,
         A board set by with food, and forth did fill
         A bowl of wine, to drink at his desire.
         The rest then fell to feast, and, when the fire
         Of appetite was quench'd, the Muse inflam'd
         The sacred singer. Of men highliest fam'd
         He sung the glories, and a poem penn'd,
         That in applause did ample heaven ascend.
         Whose subject was, the stern Contention
         Betwixt Ulysses and great Thetis' son,
         As, at a banquet sacred to the Gods,
         In dreadful language they express'd their odds.
         When Agamemnon sat rejoic'd in soul
         To hear the Greek peers jar in terms so foul;
         For augur Phoebus in presage had told
         The king of men (desirous to unfold
         The war's perplex'd end, and being therefore gone
         In heavenly Pythia to the porch of stone,)
         That then the end of all griefs should begin
         'Twixt Greece, and Troy, when Greece (with strife to win
         That wish'd conclusion) in her kings should jar,
         And plead, if force or wit must end the war.
           This brave Contention did the poet sing,
         Expressing so the spleen of either king,
         That his large purple weed Ulysses held
         Before his face and eyes, since thence distill'd
         Tears uncontain'd; which he obscur'd, in fear
         To let th' observing presence note a tear.
         But, when his sacred song the mere divine
         Had given an end, a goblet crown'd with wine
         Ulysses, drying his wet eyes, did seize,
         And sacrificed to those Gods that would please
         T' inspire the poet with a song so fit
         To do him honour, and renown his wit.
         His tears then stay'd. But when again began,
         By all the kings' desires, the moving man,
         Again Ulysses could not choose but yield
         To that soft passion, which again, withheld,
         He kept so cunningly from sight, that none,
         Except Alcinous himself alone,
         Discern'd him mov'd so much. But he sat next,
         And heard him deeply sigh; which his pretext
         Could not keep hid from him. Yet he conceal'd
         His utterance of it, and would have it held
         From all the rest, brake off the song, and this
         Said to those oar-affecting peers of his:
           "Princes, and peers! We now are satiate
         With sacred song that fits a feast of state,
         With wine and food. Now then to field, and try
         In all kinds our approv'd activity,
         That this our guest may give his friends to know,
         In his return, that we as little owe
         To fights and wrestlings, leaping, speed of race,
         As these our court-rites; and commend our grace
         In all to all superior." Forth he led,
         The peers and people troop'd up to their head.
         Nor must Demodocus be left within;
         Whose harp the herald hung upon the pin,
         His hand in his took, and abroad he brought
         The heavenly poet, out the same way wrought
         That did the princes, and what they would see
         With admiration, with his company
         They wish'd to honour. To the place of game
         These throng'd; and after routs of other came,
         Of all sort, infinite. Of youths that strove,
         Many and strong rose to their trial's love.
         Up rose Acroneus, and Ocyalus,
         Elatreus, Prymneus, and Anchialus,
         Nauteus, Eretmeus, Thoon, Proreus,
         Ponteus, and the strong Amphialus
         Son to Tectonides Polyneus.
         Up rose to these the great Euryalus,
         In action like the Homicide of War.
         Naubolides, that was for person far
         Past all the rest, but one he could not pass,
         Nor any thought improve, Laodamas.
         Up Anabesineus then arose;
         And three sons of the Sceptre-state, and those
         Were Halius, the fore-praised Laodamas,
         And Clytoneus like a God in grace.
         These first the foot-game tried, and from the lists
         Took start together. Up the dust in mists
         They hurl'd about, as in their speed they flew;
         But Clytoneus first of all the crew
         A stitch's length in any fallow field
         Made good his pace; when, where the judges yield
         The prise and praise, his glorious speed arriv'd.
         Next, for the boisterous wrestling game they striv'd;
         At which Euryalus the rest outshone.
         At leap Amphialus. At the hollow stone
         Elatreus excell'd. At buffets, last,
         Laodamas, the king's fair son, surpast.
           When all had striv'd in these assays their fill,
         Laodamas said: "Come friends, let's prove what skill
         This stranger hath attain'd to in our sport.
         Methinks, he must be of the native sort,
         His calves, thighs, hands, and well-knit shoulders show
         That Nature disposition did bestow
         To fit with fact their form. Nor wants he prime.
         But sour affliction, made a mate with time,
         Makes time the more seen. Nor imagine I,
         A worse thing to enforce debility
         Than is the sea, though nature ne'er so strong
         Knits one together." "Nor conceive you wrong,"
         Replied Euryalus, "but prove his blood
         With what you question." In the midst then stood
         Renown'd Laodamas, and prov'd him thus:
           "Come, stranger father, and assay with us
         Your powers in these contentions. If your show
         Be answer'd with your worth, 'tis fit that you
         Should know these conflicts. Nor doth glory stand
         On any worth more, in a man's command,
         Than to be strenuous both of foot and hand.
         Come then, make proof with us, discharge your mind
         Of discontentments; for not far behind
         Comes your deduction, ship is ready now,
         And men, and all things." "Why," said he, "dost thou
         Mock me, Laodamas, and these strifes bind
         My powers to answer? I am more inclin'd
         To cares than conflict. Much sustain'd I have,
         And still am suffering. I come here to crave,
         In your assemblies, means to be dismiss'd,
         And pray both kings and subjects to assist."
           Euryalus an open brawl began,
         And said: "I take you, sir, for no such man
         As fits these honour'd strifes. A number more
         Strange men there are that I would choose before.
         To one that loves to lie a ship-board much,
         Or is the prince of sailors; or to such
         As traffic far and near, and nothing mind
         But freight, and passage, and a foreright wind;
         Or to a victualler of a ship; or men
         That set up all their powers for rampant gain;
         I can compare, or hold you like to be:
         But, for a wrestler, or of quality
         Fit for contentions noble, you abhor
         From worth of any such competitor."
         Ulysses, frowning, answer'd: "Stranger, far
         Thy words are from the fashions regular
         Of kind, or honour. Thou art in thy guise
         Like to a man that authors injuries.
         I see, the Gods to all men give not all
         Manly addiction, wisdom, words that fall,
         Like dice, upon the square still. Some man takes
         Ill form from parents, but God often makes
         That fault of form up with observ'd repair
         Of pleasing speech, that makes him held for fair,
         That makes him speak securely, makes him shine
         In an assembly with a grace divine.
         Men take delight to see how evenly lie
         His words asteep in honey modesty.
         Another, then, hath fashion like a God,
         But in his language he is foul and broad.
         And such art thou. A person fair is given,
         But nothing else is in thee sent from heaven;
         For in thee lurks a base and earthy soul,
         And t' hast compell'd me, with a speech most foul,
         To be thus bitter. I am not unseen
         In these fair strifes, as thy words overween,
         But in the first rank of the best I stand;
         At least I did, when youth and strength of hand
         Made me thus confident, but now am worn
         With woes and labours, as a human born
         To bear all anguish. Suffer'd much I have.
         The war of men, and the inhuman wave,
         Have I driven through at all parts. But with all
         My waste in sufferance, what yet may fall
         In my performance, at these strifes I'll try.
         Thy speech hath mov'd, and made my wrath run high."
           This said, with robe and all, he grasp'd a stone,
         A little graver than was ever thrown
         By these Phaeacians in their wrestling rout,
         More firm, more massy; which, turn'd round about,
         He hurried from him with a hand so strong
         It sung, and flew, and over all the throng,
         That at the others' marks stood, quite it went;
         Yet down fell all beneath it, fearing spent
         The force that drave it flying from his hand,
         As it a dart were, or a walking wand;
         And far past all the marks of all the rest
         His wing stole way; when Pallas straight impress'd
         A mark at fall of it, resembling then
         One of the navy-given Phraeacian men,
         And thus advanc'd Ulysses: "One, though blind,
         O stranger, groping, may thy stone's fall find,
         For not amidst the rout of marks it fell,
         But far before all. Of thy worth think well,
         And stand in all strifes. No Phaeacian here
         This bound can either better or come near."
         Ulysses joy'd to hear that one man yet
         Used him benignly, and would truth abet
         In those contentions; and then thus smooth
         He took his speech down: "Reach me that now, youth,
         You shall, and straight, I think, have one such more,
         And one beyond it too. And now, whose core
         Stands sound and great within him, since ye have
         Thus put my spleen up, come again and brave
         The guest ye tempted, with such gross disgrace,
         At wrestling, buffets, whirlbat, speed of race;
         At all, or either, I except at none,
         But urge the whole state of you; only one,
         I will not challenge in my forced boast,
         And that's Laodamas, for he's mine host.
         And who will fight, or wrangle, with his friend?
         Unwise he is, and base, that will contend
         With him that feeds him, in a foreign place;
         And takes all edge off from his own sought grace.
         None else except I here, nor none despise,
         But wish to know, and prove his faculties,
         That dares appear now. No strife ye can name
         Am I unskill'd in; reckon any game
         Of all that are, as many as there are
         In use with men. For archery I dare
         Affirm myself not mean. Of all a troop
         I'll make the first foe with mine arrow stoop,
         Though with me ne'er so many fellows bend
         Their bows at mark'd men, and affect their end.
         Only was Philoctetes with his bow
         Still my superior, when we Greeks would show
         Our archery against our foes of Troy.
         But all, that now by bread frail life enjoy,
         I far hold my inferiors. Men of old,
         None now alive shall witness me so bold,
         To vaunt equality with, such men as these,
         Oechalian Eurytus, Hercules,
         Who with their bows durst with the Gods contend;
         And therefore caught Eurytus soon his end,
         Nor died at home, in age, a reverend man,
         But by the great incensed Delphian
         Was shot to death, for daring competence
         With him in all an archer's excellence.
         A spear I'll hurl as far as any man
         Shall shoot a shaft. How at a race I can
         Bestir my feet, I only yield to fear,
         And doubt to meet with my superior here.
         So many seas so too much have misused
         My limbs for race, and therefore have diffused
         A dissolution through my loved knees."
           This said, he still'd all talking properties;
         Alcinous only answer'd: "O my guest,
         In good part take we what you have been prest
         With speech to answer. You would make appear
         Your virtues therefore, that will still shine where
         Your only look is. Yet must this man give
         Your worth ill language; when, he does not live
         In sort of mortals (whencesoe'er he springs,
         That judgment hath to speak becoming things)
         That will deprave your virtues. Note then now
         My speech, and what my love presents to you,
         That you may tell heroes, when you come
         To banquet with your wife and birth at home,
         (Mindful of our worth) what deservings Jove
         Hath put on our parts likewise, in remove
         From sire to son, as an inherent grace
         Kind, and perpetual. We must needs give place
         To other countrymen, and freely yield
         We are not blameless in our fights of field,
         Buffets, nor wrestlings; but in speed of feet,
         And all the equipage that fits a fleet,
         We boast us best; for table ever spread
         With neighbour feasts, for garments varied,
         For poesy, music, dancing, baths, and beds.
         And now, Phaeacians, you that bear your heads
         And feet with best grace in enamouring dance,
         Enflame our guest here, that he may advance
         Our worth past all the world's to his home friends,
         As well for the unmatch'd grace that commends
         Your skill in footing of a dance, as theirs
         That fly a race best. And so, all affairs,
         At which we boast us best, he best may try,
         As sea-race, land-race, dance, and poesy.
         Some one with instant speed to court retire,
         And fetch Demodocus's soundful lyre."
           This said the God-graced king; and quick resort
         Pontonous made for that fair harp to court.
           Nine of the lot-choos'd public rulers rose,
         That all in those contentions did dispose,
         Commanding a most smooth ground, and a wide,
         And all the people in fair game aside.
           Then with the rich harp came Pontonous,
         And in the midst took place Demodocus.
         About him then stood forth the choice young men,
         That on man's first youth made fresh entry then,
         Had art to make their natural motion sweet,
         And shook a most divine dance from their feet,
         That twinkled star-like, mov'd as swift, and fine,
         And beat the air so thin, they made it shine.
         Ulysses wonder'd at it, but amaz'd
         He stood in mind to hear the dance so phras'd.
         For, as they danc'd, Demodocus did sing,
         The bright-crown'd Venus' love with Battle's King;
         As first they closely mixed in th' house of fire.
         What worlds of gifts won her to his desire,
         Who then the night-and-day-bed did defile
         Of good king Vulcan. But in little while
         The Sun their mixture saw, and came and told.
         The bitter news did by his ears take hold
         Of Vulcan's heart. Then to his forge he went,
         And in his shrewd mind deep stuff did invent.
         His mighty anvil in the stock he put,
         And forged a net that none could lose or cut,
         That when it had them it might hold them fast.
         Which having finish'd, he made utmost haste
         Up to the dear room where his wife he woo'd,
         And, madly wrath with Mars, he all bestrow'd
         The bed, and bed-posts, all the beam above
         That cross'd the chamber; and a circle strove
         Of his device to wrap in all the room.
         And 'twas as pure, as of a spider's loom
         The woof before 'tis woven. No man nor God
         Could set his eye on it, a sleight so odd
         His art show'd in it. All his craft bespent
         About the bed, he feign'd as if he went
         To well-built Lemnos, his most loved town
         Of all towns earthly; nor left this unknown
         To golden-bridle-using Mars, who kept
         No blind watch over him, but, seeing stept
         His rival so aside, he hasted home
         With fair-wreath'd Venus' love stung, who was come
         New from the court of her most mighty Sire.
         Mars enter'd, wrung her hand, and the retire
         Her husband made to Lemnos told, and said:
         "Now, love, is Vulcan gone, let us to bed,
         He's for the barbarous Sintians." Well appay'd
         Was Venus with it; and afresh assay'd
         Their old encounter. Down they went; and straight
         About them cling'd the artificial sleight
         Of most wise Vulcan; and were so ensnar'd,
         That neither they could stir their course prepar'd
         In any limb about them, nor arise.
         And then they knew, they would no more disguise
         Their close conveyance, but lay, forc'd, stone still.
         Back rush'd the both-foot-cook'd, but straight in skill,
         From his near scout-hole turn'd, nor ever went
         To any Lemnos, but the sure event
         Left Phoebus to discover, who told all.
         Then home hopp'd Vulcan, full of grief and gall,
         Stood in the portal, and cried out so high,
         That all the Gods heard: "Father of the sky
         And every other deathless God," said he,
         "Come all, and a ridiculous object see,
         And yet not sufferable neither. Come,
         And witness how, when still I step from home,
         Lame that I am, Jove's daughter doth profess
         To do me all the shameful offices,
         Indignities, despites, that can be thought;
         And loves this all-things-making-come-to-nought,
         Since he is fair forsooth, foot-sound, and I
         Took in my brain a little, legg'd awry;
         And no fault mine, but all my parent's fault,
         Who should not get, if mock me, with my halt.
         But see how fast they sleep, while I, in moan,
         Am only made an idle looker on.
         One bed their turn serves, and it must be mine;
         I think yet, I have made their self-loves shine.
         They shall no more wrong me, and none perceive;
         Nor will they sleep together, I believe,
         With too hot haste again. Thus both shall lie
         In craft, and force, till the extremity
         Of all the dower I gave her sire (to gain
         A dogged set-fac'd girl, that will not stain
         Her face with blushing, though she shame her head)
         He pays me back. She's fair, but was no maid."
           While this long speech was making, all were come
         To Vulcan's wholly-brazen-founded home,
         Earth-shaking Neptune, useful Mercury,
         And far-shot Phoebus. No She-Deity,
         For shame, would show there. All the give-good Gods
         Stood in the portal, and past periods
         Gave length to laughters, all rejoic'd to see
         That which they said, that no impiety
         Finds good success at th' end. "And now," said one,
         "The slow outgoes the swift. Lame Vulcan, known
         To be the slowest of the Gods, outgoes
         Mars the most swift. And this is that which grows
         To greatest justice: that adult'ry's sport,
         Obtain'd by craft, by craft of other sort
         (And lame craft too) is plagued, which grieves the more,
         That sound limbs turning lame the lame restore."
           This speech amongst themselves they entertain'd,
         When Phoebus thus ask'd Hermes: "Thus enchain'd
         Wouldst thou be Hermes, to be thus disclosed?
         Though with thee golden Venus were reposed?"
           He soon gave that an answer: "O," said he,
         "Thou king of archers, would 'twere thus with me.
         Though thrice so much shame; nay, though infinite
         Were pour'd about me, and that every light,
         In great heaven shining, witness'd all my harms,
         So golden Venus slumber'd in mine arms."
           The Gods again laugh'd; even the Wat'ry State
         Wrung out a laughter, but propitiate
         Was still for Mars, and pray'd the God of Fire
         He would dissolve him, offering the desire
         He made to Jove to pay himself, and said,
         All due debts should be by the Gods repaid.
           "Pay me, no words," said he, "where deeds lend pain,
         Wretched the words are given for wretched men.
         How shall I bind you in th' Immortals' sight,
         If Mars be once loos'd, nor will pay his right?"
           "Vulcan," said he, "if Mars should fly, nor see
         Thy right repaid, it should be paid by me."
           "Your word, so given, I must accept," said he.
         Which said, he loos'd them. Mars then rush'd from sky,
         And stoop'd cold Thrace. The laughing Deity
         For Cyprus was, and took her Paphian state,
         Where she a grove, ne'er cut, had consecrate,
         All with Arabian odours fum'd, and hath
         An altar there, at which the Graces bathe,
         And with immortal balms besmooth her skin,
         Fit for the bliss Immortals solace in;
         Deck'd her in to-be-studied attire,
         And apt to set beholders' hearts on fire.
           This sung the sacred muse, whose notes and words
         The dancers' feet kept as his hands his cords.
         Ulysses much was pleased, and all the crew.
           This would the king have varied with a new
         And pleasing measure, and performed by
         Two, with whom none would strive in dancery;
         And those his sons were, that must therefore dance
         Alone, and only to the harp advance,
         Without the words. And this sweet couple was
         Young Halius, and divine Laodamas;
         Who danc'd a ball dance. Then the rich-wrought ball,
         That Polybus had made, of purple all,
         They took to hand. One threw it to the sky,
         And then danc'd back; the other, capering high,
         Would surely catch it ere his foot touch'd ground,
         And up again advanc'd it, and so found
         The other cause of dance; and then did he
         Dance lofty tricks, till next it came to be
         His turn to catch, and serve the other still.
         When they had kept it up to either's will,
         They then danced ground tricks, oft mix'd hand in hand,
         And did so gracefully their change command,
         That all the other youth that stood at pause,
         With deaf'ning shouts, gave them the great applause.
           Then said Ulysses: "O, past all men here
         Clear, not in power, but in desert as clear,
         You said your dancers did the world surpass,
         And they perform it clear, and to amaze."
           This won Alcinous' heart, and equal prize
         He gave Ulysses, saying: "Matchless wise,
         Princes and rulers, I perceive our guest,
         And therefore let our hospitable best
         In fitting gifts be given him: Twelve chief kings
         There are that order all the glorious things
         Of this our kingdom; and, the thirteenth, I
         Exist, as crown to all. Let instantly
         Be thirteen garments given him, and of gold
         Precious, and fine, a talent. While we hold
         This our assembly, be all fetch'd, and given,
         That to our feast prepar'd, as to his heaven,
         Our guest may enter. And, that nothing be
         Left unperform'd that fits his dignity,
         Euryalus shall here conciliate
         Himself with words and gifts, since past our rate
         He gave bad language." This did all commend
         And give in charge; and every king did send
         His herald for his gift. Euryalus,
         Answering for his part, said: "Alcinous!
         Our chief of all, since you command, I will
         To this our guest by all means reconcile,
         And give him this entirely-metall'd sword,
         The handle massy silver, and the board
         That gives it cover all of ivory,
         New, and in all kinds worth his quality."
           This put he straight into his hand, and said:
         "Frolic, O guest and father; if words fled
         Have been offensive, let swift whirlwinds take
         And ravish them from thought. May all Gods make
         Thy wife's sight good to thee, in quick retreat
         To all thy friends, and best-loved breeding seat,
         Their long miss quitting with the greater joy;
         In whose sweet vanish all thy worst annoy."
           "And frolic thou to all height, friend," said he,
         "Which heaven confirm with wish'd felicity;
         Nor ever give again desire to thee
         Of this sword's use, which with affects so free,
         In my reclaim, thou hast bestow'd on me."
           This said, athwart his shoulders he put on
         The right fair sword; and then did set the sun.
         When all the gifts were brought, which back again
         (With king Alcinous in all the train)
         Were by the honour'd heralds borne to court;
         Which his fair sons took, and from the resort
         Laid by their reverend mother. Each his throne
         Of all the peers (which yet were overshone
         In king Alcinous' command) ascended;
         Whom he to pass as much in gifts contended,
         And to his queen said: "Wife! See brought me here
         The fairest cabinet I have, and there
         Impose a well-cleans'd in, and utter, weed.
         A caldron heat with water, that with speed
         Our guest well bath'd, and all his gifts made sure,
         It may a joyful appetite procure
         To his succeeding feast, and make him hear
         The poet's hymn with the securer ear.
         To all which I will add my bowl of gold,
         In all frame curious, to make him hold
         My memory always dear, and sacrifice
         With it at home to all the Deities."
           Then Arete her maids charg'd to set on
         A well-sized caldron quickly. Which was done,
         Clear water pour'd in, flame made so entire,
         It gilt the brass, and made the water fire.
         In mean space, from her chamber brought the queen
         A wealthy cabinet, where, pure and clean,
         She put the garments, and the gold bestow'd
         By that free state, and then the other vow'd
         By her Alcinous, and said: "Now, guest,
         Make close and fast your gifts, lest, when you rest
         A-ship-board sweetly, in your way you meet
         Some loss, that less may make your next sleep sweet."
           This when Ulysses heard, all sure he made,
         Enclosed and bound safe; for the saving trade
         The reverend-for-her-wisdom, Circe, had
         In foreyears taught him. Then the handmaid bad
         His worth to bathing; which rejoic'd his heart,
         For since he did with his Calypso part,
         He had no hot baths; none had favour'd him,
         Nor been so tender of his kingly limb.
         But all the time he spent in her abode,
         He lived respected as he were a God.
           Cleans'd then and balm'd, fair shirt and robe put on,
         Fresh come from bath, and to the feasters gone,
         Nausicaa, that from the Gods' hands took
         The sovereign beauty of her blessed look,
         Stood by a well-carv'd column of the room,
         And through her eye her heart was overcome
         With admiration of the port impress'd
         In his aspect, and said: "God save you, guest!
         Be cheerful, as in all the future state
         Your home will show you in your better fate.
         But yet, even then, let this remember'd be,
         Your life's price I lent, and you owe it me."
           The varied-in-all-counsels gave reply:
         "Nausicaa! Flower of all this empery!
         So Juno's husband, that the strife for noise
         Makes in the clouds, bless me with strife of joys,
         In the desired day that my house shall show,
         As I, as I to a Goddess there shall vow,
         To thy fair hand that did my being give,
         Which I'll acknowledge every hour I live."
           This said, Alcinous plac'd him by his side.
         Then took they feast, and did in parts divide
         The several dishes, fill'd out wine, and then
         The strived-for-for-his-worth of worthy men,
         And reverenc'd-of-the-state, Demodocus
         Was brought in by the good Pontonous.
         In midst of all the guests they gave him place,
         Against a lofty pillar, when this grace
         The grac'd-with-wisdom did him: From the chine,
         That stood before him, of a white-tooth'd swine,
         Being far the daintiest joint, mixed through with fat,
         He carv'd to him, and sent it where he sat
         By his old friend the herald, willing thus:
         "Herald, reach this to grave Demodocus,
         Say, I salute him, and his worth embrace.
         Poets deserve, past all the human race,
         Reverend respect and honour, since the queen
         Of knowledge, and the supreme worth in men,
         The Muse, informs them, and loves all their race."
           This reach'd the herald to him, who the grace
         Received encouraged; which, when feast was spent,
         Ulysses amplified to this ascent:
           "Demodocus! I must prefer you far,
         Past all your sort, if, or the Muse of war,
         Jove's daughter, prompts you, that the Greeks respects,
         Or if the Sun, that those of Troy affects.
         For I have heard you, since my coming, sing
         The fate of Greece to an admired string.
         How much our suff'rance was, how much we wrought,
         How much the actions rose to when we fought.
         So lively forming, as you had been there,
         Or to some free relater lent your ear.
         Forth then, and sing the wooden horse's frame,
         Built by Epeus, by the martial Dame
         Taught the whole fabric; which, by force of sleight,
         Ulysses brought into the city's height,
         When he had stuff'd it with as many men
         As levell'd lofty Ilion with the plain.
         With all which if you can as well enchant,
         As with expression quick and elegant
         You sung the rest, I will pronounce you clear
         Inspired by God, past all that ever were."
           This said, even stirr'd by God up, he began,
         And to his song fell, past the form of man,
         Beginning where the Greeks aship-board went,
         And every chief had set on fire his tent,
         When th' other kings, in great Ulysses guide,
         In Troy's vast market place the horse did hide,
         From whence the Trojans up to Ilion drew
         The dreadful engine. Where sat all arew
         Their kings about it; many counsels given
         How to dispose it. In three ways were driven
         Their whole distractions. First, if they should feel
         The hollow wood's heart, search'd with piercing steel;
         Or from the battlements drawn higher yet
         Deject it headlong; or that counterfeit
         So vast and novel set on sacred fire,
         Vow'd to appease each anger'd Godhead's ire.
         On which opinion, they, thereafter, saw,
         They then should have resolved; th' unalter'd law
         Of fate presaging, that Troy then should end,
         When th' hostile horse she should receive to friend,
         For therein should the Grecian kings lie hid,
         To bring the fate and death they after did.
           He sung, besides, the Greeks' eruption
         From those their hollow crafts, and horse forgone;
         And how they made depopulation tread
         Beneath her feet so high a city's head.
         In which affair, he sung in other place,
         That of that ambush some man else did race
         The Ilion towers than Laertiades;
         But here he sung, that he alone did seize,
         With Menelaus, the ascended roof
         Of prince Deiphobus, and Mars-like proof
         Made of his valour, a most dreadful fight
         Daring against him; and there vanquish'd quite,
         In little time, by great Minerva's aid,
         All Ilion's remnant, and Troy level laid.
         This the divine expressor did so give
         Both act and passion, that he made it live,
         And to Ulysses' facts did breathe a fire
         So deadly quick'ning, that it did inspire
         Old death with life, and render'd life so sweet,
         And passionate, that all there felt it fleet;
         Which made him pity his own cruelty,
         And put into that ruth so pure an eye
         Of human frailty, that to see a man
         Could so revive from death, yet no way can
         Defend from death, his own quick powers it made
         Feel there death's horrors, and he felt life fade
         In tears his feeling brain swet; for, in things
         That move past utterance, tears ope all their springs.
         Nor are there in the powers that all life bears
         More true interpreters of all than tears.
           And as a lady mourns her sole-loved lord,
         That fall'n before his city by the sword,
         Fighting to rescue from a cruel fate
         His town and children, and in dead estate
         Yet panting seeing him, wraps him in her arms,
         Weeps, shrieks, and pours her health into his arms,
         Lies on him, striving to become his shield
         From foes that still assail him, spears impell'd
         Through back and shoulders, by whose points embrued,
         They raise and lead him into servitude,
         Labour, and languor; for all which the dame
         Eats down her cheeks with tears, and feeds life's flame
         With miserable suff'rance; so this king
         Of tear-swet anguish op'd a boundless spring;
         Nor yet was seen to any one man there
         But king Alcinous, who sat so near
         He could not 'scape him, sighs, so choked, so brake
         From all his tempers; which the king did take
         Both note and grave respect of, and thus spake:
         "Hear me, Phaeacian counsellors and peers,
         And cease Demodocus; perhaps all ears
         Are not delighted with his song, for, ever
         Since the divine Muse sung, our guest hath never
         Contain'd from secret mournings. It may fall,
         That something sung he hath been grieved withal,
         As touching his particular. Forbear,
         That feast may jointly comfort all hearts here,
         And we may cheer our guest up; 'tis our best
         In all due honour. For our reverend guest
         Is all our celebration, gifts, and all,
         His love hath added to our festival.
         A guest, and suppliant too, we should esteem
         Dear as our brother, one that doth but dream
         He hath a soul, or touch but at a mind
         Deathless and manly, should stand so inclined.
         Nor cloak you longer with your curious wit,
         Loved guest, what ever we shall ask of it.
         It now stands on your honest state to tell,
         And therefore give your name, nor more conceal
         What of your parents, and the town that bears
         Name of your native, or of foreigners
         That near us border, you are call'd in fame.
         There's no man living walks without a name,
         Noble nor base, but had one from his birth
         Imposed as fit as to be borne. What earth,
         People, and city, own you, give to know.
         Tell but our ships all, that your way must show.
         For our ships know th' expressed minds of men,
         And will so most intentively retain
         Their scopes appointed, that they never err,
         And yet use never any man to steer,
         Nor any rudders have, as others need.
         They know men's thoughts, and whither tends their speed,
         And there will set them; for you cannot name
         A city to them, nor fat soil, that Fame
         Hath any notice given, but well they know,
         And will fly to them, though they ebb and flow
         In blackest clouds and nights; and never bear
         Of any wrack or rock the slend'rest fear.
         But this I heard my sire Nausithous say
         Long since, that Neptune, seeing us convey
         So safely passengers of all degrees,
         Was angry with us; and upon our seas
         A well-built ship we had, near harbour come
         From safe deduction of some stranger home,
         Made in his flitting billows stick stone still;
         And dimm'd our city, like a mighty hill
         With shade cast round about it. This report,
         The old king made; in which miraculous sort,
         If God had done such things, or left undone,
         At his good pleasure be it. But now, on,
         And truth relate us, both [from] whence you err'd,
         And to what clime of men would be transferr'd,
         With all their fair towns, be they as they are,
         If rude, unjust, and all irregular,
         Or hospitable, bearing minds that please
         The mighty Deity. Which one of these
         You would be set at, say, and you are there.
         And therefore what afflicts you? Why, to hear
         The fate of Greece and Ilion, mourn you so?
         The Gods have done it; as to all they do
         Destine destruction, that from thence may rise
         A poem to instruct posterities.
         Fell any kinsman before Ilion?
         Some worthy sire-in-law, or like-near son,
         Whom next our own blood and self-race we love?
         Or any friend perhaps, in whom did move
         A knowing soul, and no unpleasing thing?
         Since such a good one is no underling
         To any brother; for, what fits true friends,
         True wisdom is, that blood and birth transcends.

            FINIS LIBRI OCTAVI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



    THE NINTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    ULYSSES here is first made known;
    Who tells the stern contention
    His powers did against the Cicons try;
    And thence to the Lotophagi
    Extends his conquest; and from them
    Assays the Cyclop Polypheme,
    And, by the crafts his wits apply,
    He puts him out his only eye.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    The strangely fed
    Lotophagi.
    The Cicons fled.
    The Cyclop's eye.


    ULYSSES thus resolv'd the king's demands:
         "Alcinous, in whom this empire stands,
         You should not of so natural right disherit
         Your princely feast, as take from it the spirit.
         To hear a poet, that in accent brings
         The Gods' breasts down, and breathes them as he sings,
         Is sweet, and sacred; nor can I conceive,
         In any common-weal, what more doth give
         Note of the just and blessed empery,
         Than to see comfort universally
         Cheer up the people, when in every roof
         She gives observers a most human proof
         Of men's contents. To see a neighbour's feast
         Adorn it through; and thereat hear the breast
         Of the divine Muse; men in order set;
         A wine-page waiting; tables crown'd with meat,
         Set close to guests that are to use it skill'd;
         The cup-boards furnish'd, and the cups still fill'd;
         This shows, to my mind, most humanely fair.
         Nor should you, for me, still the heavenly air,
         That stirr'd my soul so; for I love such tears
         As fall from fit notes, beaten through mine ears
         With repetitions of what heaven hath done,
         And break from hearty apprehension
         Of God and goodness, though they show my ill.
         And therefore doth my mind excite me still,
         To tell my bleeding moan; but much more now,
         To serve your pleasure, that to over-flow
         My tears with such cause may by sighs be driven,
         Though ne'er so much plagued I may seem by heaven.
           And now my name; which way shall lead to all
         My miseries after, that their sounds may fall
         Through your ears also, and show (having fled
         So much affliction) first, who rests his head
         In your embraces, when, so far from home,
         I knew not where t' obtain it resting room.
           I am Ulysses Laertiades,
         The fear of all the world for policies,
         For which my facts as high as heaven resound.
         I dwell in Ithaca, earth's most renown'd,
         All over-shadow'd with the shake-leaf hill,
         Tree-famed Neritus; whose near confines fill
         Islands a number, well inhabited,
         That under my observance taste their bread;
         Dulichius, Samos, and the full-of-food
         Zacynthus, likewise graced with store of wood.
         But Ithaca, though in the seas it lie,
         Yet lies she so aloft she casts her eye
         Quite over all the neighbour continent;
         Far northward situate, and, being lent
         But little favour of the morn and sun,
         With barren rocks and cliffs is over-run,
         And yet of hardy youths a nurse of name;
         Nor could I see a soil, where'er I came,
         More sweet and wishful. Yet, from hence was I
         Withheld with horror by the Deity,
         Divine Calypso, in her cavy house,
         Enflamed to make me her sole lord and spouse.
         Circe Ææa too, that knowing dame,
         Whose veins the like affections did enflame,
         Detain'd me likewise. But to neither's love
         Could I be tempted; which doth well approve,
         Nothing so sweet is as our country's earth,
         And joy of those from whom we claim our birth.
         Though roofs far richer we far off possess,
         Yet, from our native, all our more is less.
           To which as I contended, I will tell
         The much-distress-conferring facts that fell
         By Jove's divine prevention, since I set
         From ruin'd Troy my first foot in retreat.
           From Ilion ill winds cast me on the coast
         The Cicons hold, where I employ'd mine host
         For Ismarus, a city built just by
         My place of landing; of which victory
         Made me expugner. I depeopled it,
         Slew all the men, and did their wives remit,
         With much spoil taken; which we did divide,
         That none might need his part. I then applied
         All speed for flight; but my command therein,
         Fools that they were, could no observance win
         Of many soldiers, who, with spoil fed high,
         Would yet fill higher, and excessively
         Fell to their wine, gave slaughter on the shore
         Cloven-footed beeves and sheep in mighty store.
         In mean space, Cicons did to Cicons cry,
         When, of their nearest dwellers, instantly
         Many and better soldiers made strong head,
         That held the continent, and managed
         Their horse with high skill, on which they would fight,
         When fittest cause served, and again alight,
         With soon seen vantage, and on foot contend.
         Their concourse swift was, and had never end;
         As thick and sudden 'twas, as flowers and leaves
         Dark spring discovers, when she light receives.
         And then began the bitter Fate of Jove
         To alter us unhappy, which even strove
         To give us suff'rance. At our fleet we made
         Enforced stand; and there did they invade
         Our thrust-up forces; darts encounter'd darts,
         With blows on both sides; either making parts
         Good upon either, while the morning shone,
         And sacred day her bright increase held on,
         Though much out-match'd in number; but as soon
         As Phoebus westward fell, the Cicons won
         Much hand of us; six proved soldiers fell,
         Of every ship, the rest they did compell
         To seek of Flight escape from Death and Fate.
           Thence sad in heart we sail'd; and yet our state
         Was something cheer'd, that (being o'er-match'd so much
         In violent number) our retreat was such
         As saved so many. Our dear loss the less,
         That they survived, so like for like success.
         Yet left we not the coast, before we call'd
         Home to our country earth the souls exhal'd
         Of all the friends the Cicons overcame.
         Thrice call'd we on them by their several name,
         And then took leave. Then from the angry North
         Cloud-gathering Jove a dreadful storm call'd forth
         Against our navy, cover'd shore and all
         With gloomy vapours. Night did headlong fall
         From frowning heaven. And then hurl'd here and there
         Was all our navy; the rude winds did tear
         In three, in four parts, all their sails; and down
         Driven under hatches were we, prest to drown.
         Up rush'd we yet again, and with tough hand
         (Two days, two nights, entoil'd) we gat near land,
         Labours and sorrows eating up our minds.
         The third clear day yet, to more friendly winds
         We masts advanced, we white sails spread, and sate.
         Forewinds and guides again did iterate
         Our ease and home-hopes; which we clear had reach'd,
         Had not, by chance, a sudden north-wind fetch'd,
         With an extreme sea, quite about again
         Our whole endeavours, and our course constrain
         To giddy round, and with our bow'd sails greet
         Dreadful Maleia, calling back our fleet
         As far forth as Cythera. Nine days more
         Adverse winds toss'd me; and the tenth, the shore,
         Where dwelt the blossom-fed Lotophagi,
         I fetch'd, fresh water took in, instantly
         Fell to our food aship-board, and then sent
         Two of my choice men to the continent
         (Adding a third, a herald) to discover
         What sort of people were the rulers over
         The land next to us. Where, the first they met,
         Were the Lotophagi, that made them eat
         Their country diet, and no ill intent
         Hid in their hearts to them; and yet th' event
         To ill converted it, for, having eat
         Their dainty viands, they did quite forget
         (As all men else that did but taste their feast)
         Both countrymen and country, nor address'd
         Any return t' inform what sort of men
         Made fix'd abode there, but would needs maintain
         Abode themselves there, and eat that food ever.
         I made out after, and was feign to sever
         Th' enchanted knot by forcing their retreat,
         That strived, and wept, and would not leave their meat
         For heaven itself. But, dragging them to fleet,
         I wrapt in sure bands both their hands and feet,
         And cast them under hatches, and away
         Commanded all the rest without least stay,
         Lest they should taste the lote too, and forget
         With such strange raptures their despised retreat.
           All then aboard, we beat the sea with oars,
         And still with sad hearts sail'd by out-way shores,
         Till th' out-law'd Cyclops' land we fetch'd; a race
         Of proud-lived loiterers, that never sow;
         Nor put a plant in earth, nor use a plow,
         But trust in God for all things; and their earth,
         Unsown, unplow'd, gives every offspring birth
         That other lands have; wheat, and barley, vines
         That bear in goodly grapes delicious wines;
         And Jove sends showers for all. No counsels there,
         Nor counsellors, nor laws; but all men bear
         Their heads aloft on mountains, and those steep,
         And on their tops too; and their houses keep
         In vaulty caves, their households govern'd all
         By each man's law, imposed in several,
         Nor wife, nor child awed, but as he thinks good,
         None for another caring. But there stood
         Another little isle, well stored with wood,
         Betwixt this and the entry; neither nigh
         The Cyclops' isle, nor yet far off doth lie.
         Men's want it suffer'd, but the men's supplies
         The goats made with their inarticulate cries.
         Goats beyond number this small island breeds,
         So tame, that no access disturbs their feeds,
         No hunters, that the tops of mountains scale,
         And rub through woods with toil, seek them at all.
         Nor is the soil with flocks fed down, nor plow'd,
         Nor ever in it any seed was sow'd.
         Nor place the neighbour Cyclops their delights
         In brave vermilion-prow-deck'd ships; nor wrights
         Useful, and skilful in such works as need
         Perfection to those traffics that exceed
         Their natural confines, to fly out and see
         Cities of men, and take in mutually
         The prease of others; to themselves they live,
         And to their island that enough would give
         A good inhabitant; and time of year
         Observe to all things art could order there.
         There, close upon the sea, sweet meadows spring,
         That yet of fresh streams want no watering
         To their soft burthens, but of special yield.
         Your vines would be there; and your common field
         But gentle work make for your plow, yet bear
         A lofty harvest when you came to shear;
         For passing fat the soil is. In it lies
         A harbour so opportune, that no ties,
         Halsers, or gables need, nor anchors cast.
         Whom storms put in there are with stay embraced,
         Or to their full wills safe, or winds aspire
         To pilots' uses their more quick desire.
         At entry of the haven, a silver ford
         Is from a rock-impressing fountain pour'd,
         All set with sable poplars. And this port
         Were we arrived at, by the sweet resort
         Of some God guiding us, for 'twas a night
         So ghastly dark all port was past our sight,
         Clouds hid our ships, and would not let the moon
         Afford a beam to us, the whole isle won
         By not an eye of ours. None thought the blore,
         That then was up, shov'd waves against the shore,
         That then to an unmeasured height put on;
         We still at sea esteem'd us, till alone
         Our fleet put in itself. And then were strook
         Our gather'd sails; our rest ashore we took,
         And day expected. When the morn gave fire,
         We rose, and walk'd, and did the isle admire;
         The Nymphs, Jove's daughters, putting up a herd
         Of mountain goats to us, to render cheer'd
         My fellow soldiers. To our fleet we flew,
         Our crooked bows took, long-piled darts, and drew
         Ourselves in three parts out; when, by the grace
         That God vouchsafed, we made a gainful chace.
         Twelve ships we had, and every ship had nine
         Fat goats allotted [it], ten only mine.
         Thus all that day, even till the sun was set,
         We sat and feasted, pleasant wine and meat
         Plenteously taking; for we had not spent
         Our ruddy wine aship-board, supplement
         Of large sort each man to his vessel drew,
         When we the sacred city overthrew
         That held the Cicons. Now then saw we near
         The Cyclops' late-praised island, and might hear
         The murmur of their sheep and goats, and see
         Their smokes ascend. The sun then set, and we,
         When night succeeded, took our rest ashore.
         And when the world the morning's favour wore,
         I call'd my friends to council, charging them
         To make stay there, while I took ship and stream,
         With some associates, and explored what men
         The neighbour isle held; if of rude disdain,
         Churlish and tyrannous, or minds bewray'd
         Pious and hospitable. Thus much said,
         I boarded, and commanded to ascend
         My friends and soldiers, to put off, and lend
         Way to our ship. They boarded, sat, and beat
         The old sea forth, till we might see the seat
         The greatest Cyclop held for his abode,
         Which was a deep cave, near the common road
         Of ships that touch'd there, thick with laurels spread,
         Where many sheep and goats lay shadowed;
         And, near to this, a hall of torn-up stone,
         High built with pines, that heaven and earth attone,
         And lofty-fronted oaks; in which kept house
         A man in shape immane, and monsterous,
         Fed all his flocks alone, nor would afford
         Commerce with men, but had a wit abhorr'd,
         His mind his body answering. Nor was he
         Like any man that food could possibly
         Enhance so hugely, but, beheld alone,
         Show'd like a steep hill's top, all overgrown
         With trees and brambles; little thought had I
         Of such vast objects. When, arrived so nigh,
         Some of my loved friends I made stay aboard,
         To guard my ship, and twelve with me I shored,
         The choice of all. I took besides along
         A goat-skin flagon of wine, black and strong,
         That Maro did present, Evantheus' son,
         And priest to Phoebus, who had mansion
         In Thracian Ismarus (the town I took)
         He gave it me, since I (with reverence strook
         Of his grave place, his wife and children's good)
         Freed all of violence. Amidst a wood,
         Sacred to Phoebus, stood his house; from whence
         He fetch'd me gifts of varied excellence;
         Seven talents of fine gold; a bowl all framed
         Of massy silver; but his gift most famed
         Was twelve great vessels, fill'd with such rich wine
         As was incorruptible and divine.
         He kept it as his jewel, which none knew
         But he himself, his wife, and he that drew.
         It was so strong, that never any fill'd
         A cup, where that was but by drops instill'd,
         And drunk it off, but 'twas before allay'd
         With twenty parts in water; yet so sway'd
         The spirit of that little, that the whole
         A sacred odour breath'd about the bowl.
         Had you the odour smelt and scent it cast,
         It would have vex'd you to forbear the taste.
         But then, the taste gain'd too, the spirit it wrought
         To dare things high set up an end my thought.
           Of this a huge great flagon full I bore,
         And, in a good large knapsack, victuals store;
         And long'd to see this heap of fortitude,
         That so illiterate was and upland rude
         That laws divine nor human he had learn'd.
         With speed we reach'd the cavern; nor discern'd
         His presence there, his flocks he fed at field.
           Ent'ring his den, each thing beheld did yield
         Our admiration; shelves with cheeses heap'd;
         Sheds stuff'd with lambs and goats, distinctly kept,
         Distinct the biggest, the more mean distinct,
         Distinct the youngest. And in their precinct,
         Proper and placeful, stood the troughs and pails,
         In which he milk'd; and what was given at meals,
         Set up a creaming; in the evening still
         All scouring bright as dew upon the hill.
           Then were my fellows instant to convey
         Kids, cheeses, lambs, aship-board, and away
         Sail the salt billow. I thought best not so,
         But better otherwise; and first would know,
         What guest-gifts he would spare me. Little knew
         My friends on whom they would have prey'd. His view
         Prov'd after, that his inwards were too rough
         For such bold usage. We were bold enough
         In what I suffer'd; which was there to stay,
         Make fire and feed there, though bear none away.
         There sat we, till we saw him feeding come,
         And on his neck a burthen lugging home,
         Most highly huge, of sere-wood, which the pile
         That fed his fire supplied all supper-while.
         Down by his den he threw it, and up rose
         A tumult with the fall. Afraid, we close
         Withdrew ourselves, while he into a cave
         Of huge receipt his high-fed cattle drave,
         All that he milk'd; the males he left without
         His lofty roofs, that all bestrow'd about
         With rams and buck-goats were. And then a rock
         He lift aloft, that damm'd up to his flock
         The door they enter'd; 'twas so hard to wield,
         That two and twenty waggons, all four-wheel'd,
         (Could they be loaded, and have teams that were
         Proportion'd to them) could not stir it there.
         Thus making sure, he kneel'd and milk'd his ewes,
         And braying goats, with all a milker's dues;
         Then let in all their young. Then quick did dress
         His half milk up for cheese, and in a press
         Of wicker press'd it; put in bowls the rest,
         To drink and eat, and serve his supping feast.
           All works dispatch'd thus, he began his fire;
         Which blown, he saw us, and did thus inquire:
           'Ho! guests! What are ye? Whence sail ye these seas?
         Traffic, or rove ye, and like thieves oppress
         Poor strange adventurers, exposing so
         Your souls to danger, and your lives to woe?'
           This utter'd he, when fear from our hearts took
         The very life, to be so thunder-strook
         With such a voice, and such a monster see;
         But thus I answer'd: 'Erring Grecians, we
         From Troy were turning homewards, but by force
         Of adverse winds, in far diverted course,
         Such unknown ways took, and on rude seas toss'd,
         As Jove decreed, are cast upon this coast.
         Of Agamemnon, famous Atreus' son,
         We boast ourselves the soldiers; who hath won
         Renown that reacheth heaven, to overthrow
         So great a city, and to ruin so
         So many nations. Yet at thy knees lie
         Our prostrate bosoms, forced with prayers to try
         If any hospitable right, or boon
         Of other nature, such as have been won
         By laws of other houses, thou wilt give.
         Reverence the Gods, thou great'st of all that live.
         We suppliants are; and hospitable Jove
         Pours wreak on all whom prayers want power to move,
         And with their plagues together will provide
         That humble guests shall have their wants supplied.'
           He cruelly answer'd: 'O thou fool,' said he,
         'To come so far, and to importune me
         With any God's fear, or observed love!
         We Cyclops care not for your goat-fed Jove,
         Nor other Bless'd ones; we are better far.
         To Jove himself dare I bid open war,
         To thee, and all thy fellows, if I please.
         But tell me, where's the ship, that by the seas
         Hath brought thee hither? If far off, or near,
         Inform me quickly.' These his temptings were;
         But I too much knew not to know his mind,
         And craft with craft paid, telling him the wind
         (Thrust up from sea by Him that shakes the shore)
         Had dash'd our ships against his rocks, and tore
         Her ribs in pieces close upon his coast,
         And we from high wrack saved, the rest were lost.'
           He answer'd nothing, but rush'd in, and took
         Two of my fellows up from earth, and strook
         Their brains against it. Like two whelps they flew
         About his shoulders, and did all embrue
         The blushing earth. No mountain lion tore
         Two lambs so sternly, lapp'd up all their gore
         Gush'd from their torn-up bodies, limb by limb
         (Trembling with life yet) ravish'd into him.
         Both flesh and marrow-stuffed bones he eat,
         And even th' uncleansed entrails made his meat.
         We, weeping, cast our hands to heaven, to view
         A sight so horrid. Desperation flew,
         With all our after lives, to instant death,
         In our believed destruction. But when breath
         The fury of his appetite had got,
         Because the gulf his belly reach'd his throat,
         Man's flesh, and goat's milk, laying layer on layer,
         Till near choked up was all the pass for air,
         Along his den, amongst his cattle, down
         He rush'd, and streak'd him. When my mind was grown
         Desperate to step in, draw my sword, and part
         His bosom where the strings about the heart
         Circle the liver, and add strength of hand.
         But that rash thought, more stay'd, did countermand,
         For there we all had perish'd, since it past
         Our powers to lift aside a log so vast,
         As barr'd all outscape; and so sigh'd away
         The thought all night, expecting active day.
         Which come, he first of all his fire enflames,
         Then milks his goats and ewes, then to their dams
         Lets in their young, and, wondrous orderly,
         With manly haste dispatch'd his houswifery.
         Then to his breakfast, to which other two
         Of my poor friends went; which eat, out then go
         His herds and fat flocks, lightly putting by
         The churlish bar, and closed it instantly;
         For both those works with ease as much he did,
         As you would ope and shut your quiver lid.
           With storms of whistlings then his flock he drave
         Up to the mountains; and occasion gave
         For me to use my wits, which to their height
         I strived to screw up, that a vengeance might
         By some means fall from thence, and Pallas now
         Afford a full ear to my neediest vow.
         This then my thoughts preferr'd: A huge club lay
         Close by his milk-house, which was now in way
         To dry and season, being an olive-tree
         Which late he fell'd, and, being green, must be
         Made lighter for his manage. 'Twas so vast,
         That we resembled it to some fit mast,
         To serve a ship of burthen that was driven
         With twenty oars, and had a bigness given
         To bear a huge sea. Full so thick, so tall,
         We judg'd this club; which I, in part, hew'd small,
         And cut a fathom off. The piece I gave
         Amongst my soldiers, to take down, and shave;
         Which done, I sharpen'd it at top, and then,
         Harden'd in fire, I hid it in the den
         Within a nasty dunghill reeking there,
         Thick, and so moist it issued everywhere.
         Then made I lots cast by my friends to try
         Whose fortune served to dare the bored out eye
         Of that man-eater; and the lot did fall
         On four I wish'd to make my aid of all,
         And I the fifth made, chosen like the rest.
           Then came the even, and he came from the feast
         Of his fat cattle, drave in all, nor kept
         One male abroad; if, or his memory slept
         By God's direct will, or of purpose was
         His driving in of all then, doth surpass
         My comprehension. But he closed again
         The mighty bar, milk'd, and did still maintain
         All other observation as before.
         His work all done, two of my soldiers more
         At once he snatch'd up, and to supper went.
         Then dared I words to him, and did present
         A bowl of wine, with these words: 'Cyclop! take
         A bowl of wine, from my hand, that may make
         Way for the man's flesh thou hast eat, and show
         What drink our ship held; which in sacred vow
         I offer to thee to take ruth on me
         In my dismission home. Thy rages be
         Now no more sufferable. How shall men,
         Mad and inhuman that thou art, again
         Greet thy abode, and get thy actions grace,
         If thus thou ragest, and eat'st up their race.'
           He took, and drunk, and vehemently joy'd
         To taste the sweet cup; and again employ'd
         My flagon's powers, entreating more, and said:
         'Good guest, again afford my taste thy aid,
         And let me know thy name, and quickly now,
         That in thy recompense I may bestow
         A hospitable gift on thy desert,
         And such a one as shall rejoice thy heart.
         For to the Cyclops too the gentle earth
         Bears generous wine, and Jove augments her birth,
         In store of such, with showers; but this rich wine
         Fell from the river, that is mere divine,
         Of nectar and ambrosia.' This again
         I gave him, and again; nor could the fool abstain,
         But drunk as often. When the noble juice
         Had wrought upon his spirit, I then gave use
         To fairer language, saying: 'Cyclop! now,
         As thou demand'st, I'll tell thee my name, do thou
         Make good thy hospitable gift to me.
         My name is No-Man; No-Man each degree
         Of friends, as well as parents, call my name.'
         He answer'd, as his cruel soul became:
         'No-Man! I'll eat thee last of all thy friends;
         And this is that in which so much amends
         I vow'd to thy deservings, thus shall be
         My hospitable gift made good to thee.'
         This said, he upwards fell, but then bent round
         His fleshy neck; and Sleep, with all crowns crown'd,
         Subdued the savage. From his throat brake out
         My wine, with man's flesh gobbets, like a spout,
         When, loaded with his cups, he lay and snored;
         And then took I the club's end up, and gored
         The burning coal-heap, that the point might heat;
         Confirm'd my fellow's minds, lest Fear should let
         Their vow'd assay, and make them fly my aid.
         Straight was the olive-lever, I had laid
         Amidst the huge fire to get hardening, hot,
         And glow'd extremely, though 'twas green; which got
         From forth the cinders, close about me stood
         My hardy friends; but that which did the good
         Was God's good inspiration, that gave
         A spirit beyond the spirit they used to have;
         Who took the olive spar, made keen before,
         And plunged it in his eye, and up I bore,
         Bent to the top close, and help'd pour it in,
         With all my forces. And as you have seen
         A ship-wright bore a naval beam, he oft
         Thrusts at the auger's froofe, works still aloft,
         And at the shank help others, with a cord
         Wound round about to make it sooner bored,
         All plying the round still; so into his eye
         The fiery stake we labour'd to imply.
         Out gush'd the blood that scalded, his eye-ball
         Thrust out a flaming vapour, that scorch'd all
         His brows and eye-lids, his eye-strings did crack,
         As in the sharp and burning rafter brake.
         And as a smith to harden any tool,
         Broad axe, or mattock, in his trough doth cool
         The red-hot substance, that so fervent is
         It makes the cold wave straight to seethe and hiss;
         So sod and hiss'd his eye about the stake.
         He roar'd withal, and all his cavern brake
         In claps like thunder. We did frighted fly,
         Dispers'd in corners. He from forth his eye
         The fixed stake pluck'd; after which the blood
         Flow'd freshly forth; and, mad, he hurl'd the wood
         About his hovel. Out he then did cry
         For other Cyclops, that in caverns by
         Upon a windy promontory dwell'd;
         Who, hearing how impetuously he yell'd,
         Rush'd every way about him, and inquired,
         What ill afflicted him, that he exspired

         Such horrid clamours, and in sacred Night
         To break their sleeps so? Ask'd him, if his fright
         Came from some mortal that his flocks had driven?
         Or if by craft, or might, his death were given?
         He answer'd from his den: 'By craft, nor might,
         No-Man hath given me death.' They then said right,
         If no man hurt thee, and thyself alone,
         That which is done to thee by Jove is done;
         And what great Jove inflicts no man can fly.
         Pray to thy Father yet, a Deity,
         And prove, from him if thou canst help acquire.'
           Thus spake they, leaving him; when all on fire
         My heart with joy was, that so well my wit
         And name deceived him; whom now pain did split,
         And groaning up and down he groping tried
         To find the stone, which found, he put aside;
         But in the door sat, feeling if he could
         (As his sheep issued) on some man lay hold;
         Esteeming me a fool, that could devise
         No stratagem to 'scape his gross surprise.
         But I, contending what I could invent
         My friends and me from death so eminent
         To get deliver'd, all my wiles I wove
         (Life being the subject) and did this approve:
         Fat fleecy rams, most fair, and great, lay there,
         That did a burden like a violet bear.
         These, while this learn'd-in-villany did sleep,
         I yoked with osiers cut there, sheep to sheep,
         Three in a rank, and still the mid sheep bore
         A man about his belly, the two more
         March'd on his each side for defence. I then,
         Choosing myself the fairest of the den,
         His fleecy belly under-crept, embrac'd
         His back, and in his rich wool wrapt me fast
         With both my hands, arm'd with as fast a mind.
         And thus each man hung, till the morning shin'd;
         Which come, he knew the hour, and let abroad
         His male-flocks first, the females unmilk'd stood
         Bleating and braying, their full bags so sore
         With being unemptied, but their shepherd more
         With being unsighted; which was cause his mind
         Went not a milking. He, to wreak inclin'd,
         The backs felt, as they pass'd, of those male dams,
         Gross fool! believing, we would ride his rams!
         Nor ever knew that any of them bore
         Upon his belly any man before.
         The last ram came to pass him, with his wool
         And me together loaded to the full,
         For there did I hang; and that ram he stay'd,
         And me withal had in his hands, my head
         Troubled the while, not causelessly, nor least.
         This ram he groped, and talk'd to: 'Lazy beast!
         Why last art thou now? Thou hast never used
         To lag thus hindmost, but still first hast bruised
         The tender blossom of a flower, and held
         State in thy steps, both to the flood and field,
         First still at fold at even, now last remain?
         Dost thou not wish I had mine eye again,
         Which that abhorr'd man No-Man did put out,
         Assisted by his execrable rout,
         When he had wrought me down with wine? But he
         Must not escape my wreak so cunningly.
         I would to heaven thou knew'st, and could but speak,
         To tell me where he lurks now! I would break
         His brain about my cave, strew'd here and there,
         To ease my heart of those foul ills, that were
         Th' inflictions of a man I prized at nought.'
          Thus let he him abroad; when I, once brought
         A little from his hold, myself first losed,
         And next my friends. Then drave we, and disposed,
         His straight-legg'd fat fleece-bearers over land,
         Even till they all were in my ship's command;
         And to our loved friends show'd our pray'd-for sight,
         Escaped from death. But, for our loss outright
         They brake in tears; which with a look I stay'd,
         And bade them take our boot in. They obey'd,
         And up we all went, sat, and used our oars.
         But having left as far the savage shores
         As one might hear a voice, we then might see
         The Cyclop at the haven; when instantly
         I stay'd our oars, and this insultance used:
         'Cyclop! thou shouldst not have so much abused
         Thy monstrous forces, to oppose their least
         Against a man immartial, and a guest,
         And eat his fellows. Thou mightst know there were
         Some ills behind, rude swain, for thee to bear,
         That fear'd not to devour thy guests, and break
         All laws of humans. Jove sends therefore wreak,
         And all the Gods, by me.' This blew the more
         His burning fury; when the top he tore
         From off a huge rock, and so right a throw
         Made at our ship, that just before the prow
         It overflew and fell, miss'd mast and all
         Exceeding little; but about the fall
         So fierce a wave it raised, that back it bore
         Our ship so far, it almost touch'd the shore.
         A bead-hook then, a far-extended one,
         I snatch'd up, thrust hard, and so set us gone
         Some little way; and straight commanded all
         To help me with their oars, on pain to fall
         Again on our confusion. But a sign
         I with my head made, and their oars were mine
         In all performance. When we off were set,
         (Then first, twice further) my heart was so great,
         It would again provoke him, but my men
         On all sides rush'd about me, to contain,
         And said: 'Unhappy! why will you provoke
         A man so rude, that with so dead a stroke,
         Given with his rock-dart, made the sea thrust back
         Our ship so far, and near hand forced our wrack?
         Should he again but hear your voice resound,
         And any word reach, thereby would be found
         His dart's direction, which would, in his fall,
         Crush piece-meal us, quite split our ship and all;
         So much dart wields the monster.' Thus urged they
         Impossible things, in fear; but I gave way
         To that wrath which so long I held depress'd,
         By great necessity conquer'd, in my breast:
           'Cyclop! if any ask thee, who imposed
         Th' unsightly blemish that thine eye enclosed,
         Say that Ulysses, old Laertes' son,
         Whose seat is Ithaca, and who hath won
         Surname of city-racer, bored it out.'
           At this, he bray'd so loud, that round about
         He drave affrighted echos through the air,
         And said: 'O beast! I was premonish'd fair,
         By aged prophecy, in one that was
         A great and good man, this should come to pass;
         And how 'tis proved now! Augur Telemus,
         Surnamed Eurymides (that spent with us
         His age in augury, and did exceed
         In all presage of truth) said all this deed
         Should this event take, author'd by the hand
         Of one Ulysses, who I thought was mann'd
         With great and goodly personage, and bore
         A virtue answerable; and this shore
         Should shake with weight of such a conqueror;
         When now a weakling came, a dwarfy thing,
         A thing of nothing; who yet wit did bring,
         That brought supply to all, and with his wine
         Put out the flame where all my light did shine.
         Come, land again, Ulysses! that my hand
         May guest-rites give thee, and the great command,
         That Neptune hath at sea, I may convert
         To the deduction where abides thy heart,
         With my solicitings, whose son I am,
         And whose fame boasts to bear my father's name.
         Nor think my hurt offends me, for my sire
         Can soon repose in it the visual fire,
         At his free pleasure; which no power beside
         Can boast, of men, or of the Deified.'
           I answer'd: 'Would to God I could compel
         Both life and soul from thee, and send to hell
         Those spoils of nature! Hardly Neptune then
         Could cure thy hurt, and give thee all again.'
           Then flew fierce vows to Neptune, both his hands
         To star-born heaven cast: 'O thou that all lands
         Gird'st in thy ambient circle, and in air
         Shak'st the curl'd tresses of thy sapphire hair,
         If I be thine, or thou mayst justly vaunt
         Thou art my father, hear me now, and grant
         That this Ulysses, old Laertes' son,
         That dwells in Ithaca, and name hath won
         Of city-ruiner, may never reach
         His natural region. Or if to fetch
         That, and the sight of his fair roofs and friends,
         Be fatal to him, let him that amends
         For all his miseries, long time and ill,
         Smart for, and fail of; nor that fate fulfill,
         Till all his soldiers quite are cast away
         In others' ships. And when, at last, the day
         Of his sole-landing shall his dwelling show,
         Let Detriment prepare him wrongs enow.'
           Thus pray'd he Neptune; who, his sire, appear'd,
         And all his prayer to every syllable heard.
         But then a rock, in size more amplified
         Than first, he ravish'd to him, and implied
         A dismal strength in it, when, wheel'd about,
         He sent it after us; nor flew it out
         From any blind aim, for a little pass
         Beyond our fore-deck from the fall there was,
         With which the sea our ship gave back upon,
         And shrunk up into billows from the stone,
         Our ship again repelling near as near
         The shore as first. But then our rowers were,
         Being warn'd, more arm'd, and stronglier stemm'd the flood
         That bore back on us, till our ship made good
         The other island, where our whole fleet lay,
         In which our friends lay mourning for our stay,
         And every minute look'd when we should land.
         Where, now arrived, we drew up to the sand,
         The Cyclops' sheep dividing, that none there
         Of all our privates might be wrung, and bear
         Too much on power. The ram yet was alone
         By all my friends made all my portion
         Above all others; and I made him then
         A sacrifice for me and all my men
         To cloud-compelling Jove that all commands,
         To whom I burn'd the thighs; but my sad hands
         Received no grace from him, who studied how
         To offer men and fleet to overthrow.
           All day, till sun-set, yet, we sat and eat,
         And liberal store took in of wine and meat.
         The sun then down, and place resign'd to shade,
         We slept. Morn came, my men I raised, and made
         All go aboard, weigh anchor, and away.
         They boarded, sat, and beat the aged sea;
         And forth we made sail, sad for loss before,
         And yet had comfort since we lost no more.

            FINIS LIBRI NONI HOM. ODYSS.








    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



    THE TENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    ULYSSES now relates to us
    The grace he had with Æolus,
    Great Guardian of the hollow Winds;
    Which in a leather bag he binds,
    And gives Ulysses; all but one,
    Which Zephyr was, who fill'd alone
    Ulysses' sails. The bag once seen,
    While he slept, by Ulysses' men,
    They thinking it did gold enclose,
    To find it, all the winds did loose,
    Who back flew to their Guard again.
    Forth sail'd he; and did next attain
    To where the Læstrygonians dwell.
    Where he eleven ships lost, and fell
    On the Ææan coast, whose shore
    He sends Eurylochus t' explore,
    Dividing with him half his men.
    Who go, and turn no more again,
    All, save Eurylochus, to swine
    By Circe turn'd. Their stays incline
    Ulysses to their search; who got
    Of Mercury an antidote,
    Which moly was, 'gainst Circe's charms,
    And so avoids his soldiers' harms.
    A year with Circe all remain,
    And then their native forms regain.
    On utter shores a time they dwell,
    While Ithacus descends to hell.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... Great Æolus,
    And Circe, friends
    Finds Ithacus;
    And hell descends.


    TO the Æolian island we attain'd,
         That swum about still on the sea, where reign'd
         The God-lov'd Æolus Hippotades.
         A wall of steel it had; and in the seas
         A wave-beat-smooth rock moved about the wall.
         Twelve children in his house imperial
         Were born to him; of which six daughters were,
         And six were sons, that youth's sweet flower did bear.
         His daughters to his sons he gave as wives;
         Who spent in feastful comforts all their lives,
         Close seated by their sire and his grave spouse.
         Past number were the dishes that the house
         Made ever savour; and still full the hall
         As long as day shined; in the night-time, all
         Slept with their chaste wives, each his fair carved bed
         Most richly furnish'd; and this life they led.
           We reach'd the city and fair roofs of these,
         Where, a whole month's time, all things that might please
         The king vouchsafed us; of great Troy inquired,
         The Grecian fleet, and how the Greeks retired.
         To all which I gave answer as behoved.
           The fit time come when I dismission moved,
         He nothing would deny me, but address'd
         My pass with such a bounty, as might best
         Teach me contentment; for he did enfold
         Within an ox-hide, flayed at nine years old,
         All th' airy blasts that were of stormy kinds.
         Saturnius made him Steward of his Winds,
         And gave him power to raise and to assuage.
         And these he gave me, curb'd thus of their rage,
         Which in a glittering silver band I bound,
         And hung up in my ship, enclosed so round
         That no egression any breath could find;
         Only he left abroad the Western Wind,
         To speed our ships, and us with blasts secure.
         But our securities made all unsure;
         Nor could he consummate our course alone,
         When all the rest had got egression;
         Which thus succeeded: Nine whole days and nights
         We sail'd in safety; and the tenth, the lights
         Borne on our country earth we might descry,
         So near we drew; and yet even then fell I,
         Being overwatch'd, into a fatal sleep,
         For I would suffer no man else to keep
         The foot that ruled my vessel's course, to lead
         The faster home. My friends then Envy fed
         About the bag I hung up, and supposed
         That gold and silver I had there enclosed,
         As gift from Æolus, and said: 'O heaven!
         What grace and grave price is by all men given
         To our commander! Whatsoever coast
         Or town he comes to, how much he engrost
         Of fair and precious prey, and brought from Troy!
         We the same voyage went, and yet enjoy
         In our return these empty hands for all.
         This bag, now, Æolus was so liberal
         To make a guest-gift to him; let us try
         Of what consists the fair-bound treasury,
         And how much gold and silver it contains.'
         Ill counsel present approbation gains.
         They oped the bag, and out the vapours brake,
         When instant tempest did our vessel take,
         That bore us back to sea, to mourn anew
         Our absent country. Up amazed I flew,
         And desperate things discoursed; if I should cast
         Myself to ruin in the seas, or taste
         Amongst the living more moan, and sustain?
         Silent, I did so, and lay hid again
         Beneath the hatches, while an ill wind took
         My ships back to Æolia, my men strook
         With woe enough. We pump'd and landed then,
         Took food, for all this; and of all my men
         I took a herald to me, and away
         Went to the court of Æolus, where they
         Were feasting still; he, wife, and children, set
         Together close. We would not at their meat
         Thrust in; but humbly on the threshold sat.
         He then, amazed, my presence wonder'd at,
         And call'd to me: 'Ulysses! How thus back
         Art thou arrived here? What foul spirit brake
         Into thy bosom, to retire thee thus?
         We thought we had deduction curious
         Given thee before, to reach thy shore and home;
         Did it not like thee?' I, even overcome
         With worthy sorrow, answer'd: 'My ill men
         Have done me mischief, and to them hath been
         My sleep th' unhappy motive; but do you,
         Dearest of friends, deign succour to my vow.
         Your powers command it.' Thus endeavour'd I
         With soft speech to repair my misery.
         The rest with ruth sat dumb. But thus spake he:
         'Avaunt, and quickly quit my land of thee,
         Thou worst of all that breathe. It fits not me
         To convoy, and take in, whom Heavens expose.
         Away, and with thee go the worst of woes,
         That seek'st my friendship, and the Gods thy foes.'
           Thus he dismiss'd me sighing. Forth we sail'd,
         At heart afflicted. And now wholly fail'd
         The minds my men sustain'd, so spent they were
         With toiling at their oars, and worse did bear
         Their growing labours; and they caused their grought
         By self-will'd follies; nor now ever thought
         To see their country more. Six nights and days
         We sail'd; the seventh we saw fair Lamos raise
         Her lofty towers, the Læstrigonian state
         That bears her ports so far disterminate;
         Where shepherd shepherd calls out, he at home
         Is call'd out by the other that doth come
         From charge abroad, and then goes he to sleep,
         The other issuing; he whose turn doth keep
         The night observance hath his double hire,
         Since day and night in equal length expire
         About that region, and the night's watch weigh'd
         At twice the day's ward, since the charge that's laid
         Upon the nights-man (besides breach of sleep)
         Exceeds the days-man's; for one oxen keep,
         The other sheep. But when the haven we found,
         (Exceeding famous, and environ'd round
         With one continuate rock, which so much bent
         That both ends almost met, so prominent
         They were, and made the haven's mouth passing strait)
         Our whole fleet in we got; in whole receit
         Our ships lay anchor'd close. Nor needed we
         Fear harm on any stays, Tranquillity
         So purely sat there, that waves great nor small
         Did ever rise to any height at all.
         And yet would I no entry make, but stay'd
         Alone without the haven, and thence survey'd,
         From out a lofty watch-tower raised there,
         The country round about; nor anywhere
         The work of man or beast appear'd to me,
         Only a smoke from earth break I might see.
         I then made choice of two, and added more,
         A herald for associate, to explore
         What sort of men lived there. They went, and saw
         A beaten way, through which carts used to draw
         Wood from the high hills to the town, and met
         A maid without the port, about to get
         Some near spring-water. She the daughter was
         Of mighty Læstrigonian Antiphas,
         And to the clear spring call'd Artacia went,
         To which the whole town for their water sent.
         To her they came, and ask'd who govern'd there,
         And what the people whom he order'd were?
         She answer'd not, but led them through the port,
         As making haste to show her father's court.
         Where enter'd, they beheld, to their affright,
         A woman like a mountain-top in height,
         Who rush'd abroad, and from the counsel place
         Call'd home her horrid husband Antiphas.
         Who, deadly minded, straight he snatch'd up one,
         And fell to supper. Both the rest were gone;
         And to the fleet came. Antiphas a cry
         Drave through the city; which heard, instantly
         This way and that innumerable sorts,
         Not men, but giants, issued through the ports,
         And mighty flints from rocks tore, which they threw
         Amongst our ships; through which an ill noise flew
         Of shiver'd ships, and life-expiring men,
         That were, like fishes, by the monsters slain,
         And borne to sad feast. While they slaughter'd these,
         That were engaged in all th' advantages
         The close-mouth'd and most dead-calm haven could give,
         I, that without lay, made some means to live,
         My sword drew, cut my gables, and to oars
         Set all my men; and, from the plagues those shores
         Let fly amongst us, we made haste to fly,
         My men close working as men loth to die.
         My ship flew freely off; but theirs that lay
         On heaps in harbours could enforce no way
         Through these stern fates that had engaged them there.
         Forth our sad remnant sail'd, yet still retain'd
         The joys of men, that our poor few remain'd.
           Then to the isle Ææa we attain'd,
         Where fair-hair'd, dreadful, eloquent Circe reign'd,
         Ææta's sister both by dame and sire,
         Both daughters to Heaven's man-enlightning Fire,
         And Perse, whom Oceanus begat.
         The ship-fit port here soon we landed at,
         Some God directing us. Two days, two nights,
         We lay here pining in the fatal spights
         Of toil and sorrow; but the next third day
         When fair Aurora had inform'd, quick way
         I made out of my ship, my sword and lance
         Took for my surer guide, and made advance
         Up to a prospect; I assay to see
         The works of men, or hear mortality
         Expire a voice. When I had climb'd a height,
         Rough and right hardly accessible, I might
         Behold from Circe's house, that in a grove
         Set thick with trees stood, a bright vapour move.
         I then grew curious in my thought to try
         Some fit inquiry, when so spritely fly
         I saw the yellow smoke; but my discourse
         A first retiring to my ship gave force,
         To give my men their dinner, and to send
         (Before th' adventure of myself) some friend.
         Being near my ship, of one so desolate
         Some God had pity, and would recreate
         My woes a little, putting up to me
         A great and high-palm'd hart, that (fatally,
         Just in my way, itself to taste a flood)
         Was then descending; the sun heat had sure
         Importuned him, besides the temperature
         His natural heat gave. Howsoever, I
         Made up to him, and let my javelin fly,
         That struck him through the mid-part of his chine,
         And made him, braying, in the dust confine
         His flying forces. Forth his spirit flew;
         When I stept in, and from the death's wound drew
         My shrewdly-bitten lance; there let him lie
         Till I, of cut-up osiers, did imply
         A withe a fathom long, with which his feet
         I made together in a sure league meet,
         Stoop'd under him, and to my neck I heaved
         The mighty burden, of which I received
         A good part on my lance, for else I could
         By no means with one hand alone uphold
         (Join'd with one shoulder) such a deathful load.
         And so, to both my shoulders, both hands stood
         Needful assistants; for it was a deer
         Goodly-well-grown. When (coming something near
         Where rode my ships) I cast it down, and rear'd
         My friends with kind words; whom by name I cheer'd,
         In note particular, and said: 'See friends,
         We will not yet to Pluto's house; our ends
         Shall not be hasten'd, though we be declined
         In cause of comfort, till the day designed
         By Fate's fix'd finger. Come, as long as food
         Or wine lasts in our ship, let's spirit our blood,
         And quit our care and hunger both in one.'
           This said, they frolick'd, came, and look'd upon
         With admiration the huge-bodied beast;
         And when their first-served eyes had done their feast,
         They wash'd, and made a to-be-strived-for meal
         In point of honour. On which all did dwell
         The whole day long. And, to our venison's store,
         We added wine till we could wish no more.
           Sun set, and darkness up, we slept, till light
         Put darkness down; and then did I excite
         My friends to counsel, uttering this: 'Now, friends,
         Afford unpassionate ear; though ill Fate lends
         So good cause to your passion, no man knows
         The reason whence and how the darkness grows;
         The reason how the morn is thus begun;
         The reason how the man-enlight'ning sun
         Dives under earth; the reason how again
         He rears his golden head. Those counsels, then,
         That pass our comprehension, we must leave
         To him that knows their causes; and receive
         Direction from him in our acts, as far
         As he shall please to make them regular,
         And stoop them to our reason. In our state
         What then behoves us? Can we estimate,
         With all our counsels, where we are? Or know
         (Without instruction, past our own skills) how,
         Put off from hence, to steer our course the more?
         I think we cannot. We must then explore
         These parts for information; in which way
         We thus far are: Last morn I might display
         (From off a high-rais'd cliff) an island lie
         Girt with th' unmeasured sea, and is so nigh
         That in the midst I saw the smoke arise
         Through tufts of trees. This rests then to advise,
         Who shall explore this?' This struck dead their hearts,
         Rememb'ring the most execrable parts
         That Læstrigonian Antiphas had play'd,
         And that foul Cyclop that their fellows bray'd
         Betwixt his jaws; which moved them so, they cried.
         But idle tears had never wants supplied.
         I in two parts divided all, and gave
         To either part his captain. I must have
         The charge of one; and one of God-like look,
         Eurylochus, the other. Lots we shook,
         Put in a casque together, which of us
         Should lead th' attempt; and 'twas Eurylochus.
         He freely went, with two and twenty more;
         All which took leave with tears; and our eyes wore
         The same wet badge of weak humanity.
         These in a dale did Circe's house descry,
         Of bright stone built, in a conspicuous way.
         Before her gates hill-wolves, and lions, lay;
         Which with her virtuous drugs so tame she made,
         That wolf nor lion would one man invade
         With any violence, but all arose,
         Their huge long tails wagg'd, and in fawns would close,
         As loving dogs, when masters bring them home
         Relics of feast, in all observance come,
         And soothe their entries with their fawns and bounds,
         All guests still bringing some scraps for their hounds;
         So, on these men, the wolves and lions ramp'd,
         Their horrid paws set up. Their spirits were damp'd
         To see such monstrous kindness, stay'd at gate,
         And heard within the Goddess elevate
         A voice divine, as at her web she wrought,
         Subtle, and glorious, and past earthly thought,
         As all the housewiferies of Deities are.
         To hear a voice so ravishingly rare,
         Polites (one exceeding dear to me,
         A prince of men, and of no mean degree
         In knowing virtue, in all acts whose mind
         Discreet cares all ways used to turn, and wind)
         Was yet surprised with it, and said: 'O friends,
         Some one abides within here, that commends
         The place to us, and breathes a voice divine,
         As she some web wrought, or her spindle's twine
         She cherish'd with her song; the pavement rings
         With imitation of the tunes she sings.
         Some woman, or some Goddess, 'tis. Assay
         To see with knocking.' Thus said he, and they
         Both knock'd, and call'd; and straight her shining gates
         She open'd, issuing, bade them in to cates.
         Led, and unwise, they follow'd; all but one,
         Which was Eurylochus, who stood alone
         Without the gates, suspicious of a sleight.
         They enter'd, she made sit; and her deceit
         She cloak'd with thrones, and goodly chairs of state;
         Set herby honey, and the delicate
         Wine brought from Smyrna, to them; meal and cheese;
         But harmful venoms she commix'd with these,
         That made their country vanish from their thought.
         Which eat, she touch'd them with a rod that wrought
         Their transformation far past human wonts;
         Swine's snouts, swine's bodies, took they, bristles, grunts,
         But still retain'd the souls they had before,
         Which made them mourn their bodies' change the more.
         She shut them straight in sties, and gave them meat,
         Oak-mast, and beech, and cornel fruit, they eat,
         Grovelling like swine on earth, in foulest sort.
         Eurylochus straight hasted the report
         Of this his fellows' most remorseful fate,
         Came to the ships, but so excruciate
         Was with his woe, he could not speak a word,
         His eyes stood full of tears, which show'd how stored
         His mind with moan remain'd. We all admired,
         Ask'd what had chanced him, earnestly desired
         He would resolve us. At the last, our eyes
         Enflamed in him his fellows' memories,
         And out his grief burst thus: 'You will'd; we went
         Through those thick woods you saw; when a descent
         Show'd us a fair house, in a lightsome ground,
         Where, at some work, we heard a heavenly sound
         Breathed from a Goddess', or a woman's, breast.
         They knock'd, she oped her bright gates; each her guest
         Her fair invitement made; nor would they stay,
         Fools that they were, when she once led the way.
         I enter'd not, suspecting some deceit.
         When all together vanish'd, nor the sight
         Of any one (though long I look'd) mine eye
         Could any way discover.' Instantly,
         My sword and bow reach'd, I bad show the place,
         When down he fell, did both my knees embrace,
         And pray'd with tears thus: 'O thou kept of God,
         Do not thyself lose, nor to that abode
         Lead others rashly; both thyself, and all
         Thou ventur'st thither, I know well, must fall
         In one sure ruin. With these few then fly;
         We yet may shun the others' destiny.'
           I answer'd him: 'Eurylochus! Stay thou,
         And keep the ship then, eat and drink; I now
         Will undertake th' adventure; there is cause
         In great Necessity's unalter'd laws.'
         This said, I left both ship and seas, and on
         Along the sacred valleys all alone
         Went in discovery, till at last I came
         Where of the main-medicine-making Dame
         I saw the great house; where encounter'd me,
         The golden-rod-sustaining Mercury,
         Even entering Circe's doors. He met me in
         A young man's likeness, of the first-flower'd chin,
         Whose form hath all the grace of one so young.
         He first call'd to me, then my hand he wrung,
         And said: 'Thou no-place-finding-for-repose,
         Whither, alone, by these hill-confines, goes
         Thy erring foot? Th' art entering Circe's house,
         Where, by her med'cines, black, and sorcerous,
         Thy soldiers all are shut in well-arm'd sties,
         And turn'd to swine. Art thou arrived with prize
         Fit for their ransoms? Thou com'st out no more,
         If once thou ent'rest, like thy men before
         Made to remain here. But I'll guard thee free,
         And save thee in her spite. Receive of me
         This fair and good receipt; with which once arm'd,
         Enter her roofs, for th' art to all proof charm'd
         Against the ill day. I will tell thee all
         Her baneful counsel: With a festival
         She'll first receive thee, but will spice thy bread
         With flowery poisons; yet unaltered
         Shall thy firm form be, for this remedy
         Stands most approved 'gainst all her sorcery,
         Which thus particularly shun: When she
         Shall with her long rod strike thee, instantly
         Draw from thy thigh thy sword, and fly on her
         As to her slaughter. She, surprised with fear
         And love, at first, will bid thee to her bed.
         Nor say the Goddess nay, that welcomed
         Thou may'st with all respect be, and procure
         Thy fellows' freedoms. But before, make sure
         Her favours to thee; and the great oath take
         With which the blessed Gods assurance make
         Of all they promise; that no prejudice
         (By stripping thee of form, and faculties)
         She may so much as once attempt on thee.'
         This said, he gave his antidote to me,
         Which from the earth he pluck'd, and told me all
         The virtue of it, with what Deities call
         The name it bears; and Moly they impose
         For name to it. The root is hard to loose
         From hold of earth by mortals; but God's power
         Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower
         As white as milk. And thus flew Mercury
         Up to immense Olympus, gliding by
         The sylvan island. I made back my way
         To Circe's house, my mind of my assay
         Much thought revolving. At her gates I stay'd
         And call'd; she heard, and her bright doors display'd,
         Invited, led; I follow'd in, but traced
         With some distraction. In a throne she placed
         My welcome person; of a curious frame
         'Twas, and so bright I sat as in a flame;
         A foot-stool added. In a golden bowl
         She then suborn'd a potion, in her soul
         Deform'd things thinking; for amidst the wine
         She mix'd her man-transforming medicine;
         Which when she saw I had devour'd, she then
         No more observ'd me with her soothing vein,
         But struck me with her rod, and to her sty
         Bad, out, away, and with thy fellows lie.
         I drew my sword, and charged her, as I meant
         To take her life. When out she cried, and bent
         Beneath my sword her knees, embracing mine,
         And, full of tears, said: 'Who? Of what high line
         Art thou the issue? Whence? What shores sustain
         Thy native city? I amazed remain
         That, drinking these my venoms, th' art not turn'd.
         Never drunk any this cup but he mourn'd
         In other likeness, if it once had pass'd
         The ivory bounders of his tongue and taste.
         All but thyself are brutishly declined.
         Thy breast holds firm yet, and unchanged thy mind.
         Thou canst be therefore none else but the man
         Of many virtues, Ithacensian,
         Deep-soul'd, Ulysses, who, I oft was told,
         By that sly God that bears the rod of gold,
         Was to arrive here in retreat from Troy.
         Sheathe then thy sword, and let my bed enjoy
         So much a man, that when the bed we prove,
         We may believe in one another's love.'
           I then: 'O Circe, why entreat'st thou me
         To mix in any human league with thee,
         When thou my friends hast beasts turn'd; and thy bed
         Tender'st to me, that I might likewise lead
         A beast's life with thee, soften'd, naked stripp'd,
         That in my blood thy banes may more be steep'd?
         I never will ascend thy bed, before,
         I may affirm, that in heaven's sight you swore
         The great oath of the Gods, that all attempt
         To do me ill is from your thoughts exempt.'
           I said, she swore, when, all the oath-rites said,
         I then ascended her adorned bed,
         But thus prepared: Four handmaids served her there,
         That daughters to her silver fountains were,
         To her bright-sea-observing sacred floods,
         And to her uncut consecrated woods.
         One deck'd the throne-tops with rich cloths of state,
         And did with silks the foot-pace consecrate.
         Another silver tables set before
         The pompous throne, and golden dishes' store
         Served in with several feast. A third fill'd wine.
         The fourth brought water, and made fuel shine
         In ruddy fires beneath a womb of brass.
         Which heat, I bath'd; and odorous water was
         Disperpled lightly on my head and neck,
         That might my late heart-hurting sorrows check
         With the refreshing sweetness; and, for that,
         Men sometimes may be something delicate.
         Bath'd, and adorn'd, she led me to a throne
         Of massy silver, and of fashion
         Exceeding curious. A fair foot-stool set,
         Water apposed, and every sort of meat
         Set on th' elaborately-polish'd board,
         She wish'd my taste employ'd; but not a word
         Would my ears taste of taste; my mind had food
         That must digest; eye meat would do me good.
         Circe (observing that I put no hand
         To any banquet, having countermand
         From weightier cares the light cates could excuse)
         Bowing her near me, these wing'd words did use:
           'Why sits Ulysses like one dumb, his mind
         Lessening with languors? Nor to food inclin'd,
         Nor wine? Whence comes it? Out of any fear
         Of more illusion? You must needs forbear
         That wrongful doubt, since you have heard me swear.'
           'O Circe!' I replied, 'what man is he,
         Awed with the rights of true humanity,
         That dares taste food or wine, before he sees
         His friends redeem'd from their deformities?
         If you be gentle, and indeed incline
         To let me taste the comfort of your wine,
         Dissolve the charms that their forced forms enchain,
         And show me here my honour'd friends like men.'
           This said, she left her throne, and took her rod,
         Went to her sty, and let my men abroad,
         Like swine of nine years old. They opposite stood,
         Observed their brutish form, and look'd for food;
         When, with another medicine, every one
         All over smear'd, their bristles all were gone,
         Produced by malice of the other bane,
         And every one, afresh, look'd up a man,
         Both younger than they were, of stature more,
         And all their forms much goodlier than before.
         All knew me, cling'd about me, and a cry
         Of pleasing mourning flew about so high
         The horrid roof resounded; and the queen
         Herself was moved to see our kind so keen,
         Who bad me now bring ship and men ashore,
         Our arms, and goods in caves hid, and restore
         Myself to her, with all my other men.
         I granted, went, and oped the weeping vein
         In all my men; whose violent joy to see
         My safe return was passing kindly free
         Of friendly tears, and miserably wept.
         You have not seen young heifers (highly kept,
         Fill'd full of daisies at the field, and driven
         Home to their hovels, all so spritely given
         That no room can contain them, but about
         Bace by the dams, and let their spirits out
         In ceaseless bleating) of more jocund plight
         Than my kind friends, even crying out with sight
         Of my return so doubted; circled me
         With all their welcomes, and as cheerfully
         Disposed their rapt minds, as if there they saw
         Their natural country, cliffy Ithaca,
         And even the roofs where they were bred and born,
         And vow'd as much, with tears: 'O your return
         As much delights us as in you had come
         Our country to us, and our natural home.
         But what unhappy fate hath reft our friends?'
         I gave unlook'd for answer, that amends
         Made for their mourning, bad them first of all
         Our ship ashore draw, then in caverns stall
         Our foody cattle, hide our mutual prize,
         'And then,' said I, 'attend me, that your eyes,
         In Circe's sacred house, may see each friend
         Eating and drinking banquets out of end.'
           They soon obey'd; all but Eurylochus,
         Who needs would stay them all, and counsell'd thus:
           'O wretches! whither will ye? Why are you
         Fond of your mischiefs, and such gladness show
         For Circe's house, that will transform ye all
         To swine, or wolves, or lions? Never shall
         Our heads get out, if once within we be,
         But stay compell'd by strong necessity.
         So wrought the Cyclop, when t' his cave our friends
         This bold one led on, and brought all their ends
         By his one indiscretion. I for this
         Thought with my sword (that desperate head of his
         Hewn from his neck) to gash upon the ground
         His mangled body, though my blood was bound
         In near alliance to him. But the rest
         With humble suit contain'd me, and request,
         That I would leave him with my ship alone,
         And to the sacred palace lead them on.'
           I led them; nor Eurylochus would stay
         From their attendance on me, our late fray
         Struck to his heart so. But mean time, my men,
         In Circe's house, were all, in several bain,
         Studiously sweeten'd, smug'd with oil, and deck'd
         With in and out weeds, and a feast secret
         Served in before them; at which close we found
         They all were set, cheer'd, and carousing round.
         When mutual sight had, and all thought on, then
         Feast was forgotten, and the moan again
         About the house flew, driven with wings of joy.
         But then spake Circe: ' Now, no more annoy.
         I know myself what woes by sea, and shore,
         And men unjust have plagued enough before
         Your injured virtues. Here then feast as long,
         And be as cheerful, till ye grow as strong
         As when ye first forsook your country earth.
         Ye now fare all like exiles; not a mirth,
         Flash'd in amongst ye, but is quench'd again
         With still-renew'd tears, though the beaten vein
         Of your distresses should, methink, be now
         Benumb with suff'rance.' We did well allow
         Her kind persuasions, and the whole year stay'd
         In varied feast with her. When, now array'd
         The world was with the spring, and orby hours
         Had gone the round again through herbs and flowers,
         The months absolved in order, till the days
         Had run their full race in Apollo's rays,
         My friends remember'd me of home, and said,
         If ever fate would sign my pass, delay'd
         It should be now no more. I heard them well,
         Yet that day spent in feast, till darkness fell,
         And sleep his virtues through our vapours shed.
         When I ascended sacred Circe's bed,
         Implored my pass, and her performed vow
         Which now my soul urged, and my soldiers now
         Afflicted me with tears to get them gone.
         All these I told her, and she answer'd these:
         'Much skill'd Ulysses Laertiades!
         Remain no more against your wills with me,
         But take your free way; only this must be
         Perform'd before you steer your course for home:
         You must the way to Pluto overcome,
         And stern Persephone, to form your pass,
         By th' aged Theban soul Tiresias,
         The dark-brow'd prophet, whose soul yet can see
         Clearly, and firmly; grave Persephone,
         Even dead, gave him a mind, that he alone
         Might sing truth's solid wisdom, and not one
         Prove more than shade in his comparison.'
           This broke my heart; I sunk into my bed,
         Mourn'd, and would never more be comforted
         With light, nor life. But having now express'd
         My pains enough to her in my unrest,
         That so I might prepare her ruth, and get
         All I held fit for an affair so great,
         I said: 'O Circe, who shall steer my course
         To Pluto's kingdom? Never ship had force
         To make that voyage.' The divine-in-voice
         Said: 'Seek no guide, raise you your mast, and hoise
         Your ship's white sails, and then sit you at peace,
         The fresh North Spirit shall waft ye through the seas.
         But, having past the ocean, you shall see
         A little shore, that to Persephone
         Puts up a consecrated wood, where grows
         Tall firs, and sallows that their fruits soon loose.
         Cast anchor in the gulfs, and go alone
         To Pluto's dark house, where, to Acheron
         Cocytus' runs, and Pyriphlegethon,
         Cocytus born of Styx, and where a rock
         Of both the met floods bears the roaring shock.
         The dark heroe, great Tiresias,
         Now coming near, to gain propitious pass,
         Dig of a cubit every way a pit,
         And pour to all that are deceas'd in it
         A solemn sacrifice. For which, first take
         Honey and wine, and their commixtion make;
         Then sweet wine neat; and thirdly water pour;
         And lastly add to these the whitest flour.
         Then vow to all the weak necks of the dead
         Offerings a number; and, when thou shalt tread
         The Ithacensian shore, to sacrifice
         A heifer never-tamed, and most of prize,
         A pile of all thy most esteemed goods
         Enflaming to the dear streams of their bloods;
         And, in secret rites, to Tiresias vow
         A ram coal-black at all parts, that doth flow
         With fat and fleece, and all thy flocks doth lead.
         When the all-calling nation of the dead
         Thou thus hast pray'd to, offer on the place
         A ram and ewe all black; being turn'd in face
         To dreadful Erebus, thyself aside
         The flood's shore walking. And then, gratified
         With flocks of souls of men and dames deceas'd
         Shall all thy pious rites be. Straight address'd
         See then the offering that thy fellows slew,
         Flay'd, and imposed in fire; and all thy crew
         Pray to the state of either Deity,
         Grave Pluto, and severe Persephone.
         Then draw thy sword, stand firm, nor suffer one
         Of all the faint shades of the dead and gone
         T' approach the blood, till thou hast heard their king,
         The wise Tiresias; who thy offering
         Will instantly do honour, thy home ways,
         And all the measure of them by the seas,
         Amply unfolding.' This the Goddess, told;
         And then the Morning in her throne of gold
         Survey'd the vast world; by whose orient light
         The Nymph adorn'd me with attires as bright,
         Her own hands putting on both shirt and weed,
         Robes fine, and curious, and upon my head
         An ornament that glitter'd like a flame,
         Girt me in gold; and forth betimes I came
         Amongst my soldiers, roused them all from sleep,
         And bad them now no more observance keep
         Of ease, and feast, but straight a-shipboard fall,
         For now the Goddess had inform'd me all.
         Their noble spirits agreed; nor yet so clear
         Could I bring all off, but Elpenor there
         His heedless life left. He was youngest man
         Of all my company, and one that wan
         Least fame for arms, as little for his brain;
         Who (too much steep'd in wine, and so made fain
         To get refreshing by the cool of sleep,
         Apart his fellows, plunged in vapours deep,
         And they as high in tumult of their way)
         Suddenly waked and (quite out of the stay
         A sober mind had given him) would descend
         A huge long ladder, forward, and an end
         Fell from the very roof, full pitching on
         The dearest joint his head was placed upon,
         Which, quite dissolved, let loose his soul to hell.
         I to the rest, and Circe's means did tell
         Of our return, as crossing clean the hope
         I gave them first, and said: 'You think the scope
         Of our endeavours now is straight for home;
         No; Circe otherwise design'd, whose doom
         Enjoin'd us first to greet the dreadful house
         Of austere Pluto and his glorious spouse,
         To take the counsel of Tiresias,
         The reverend Theban, to direct our pass.'
           This brake their hearts, and grief made tear their hair.
         But grief was never good at great affair;
         It would have way yet. We went woful on
         To ship and shore, where was arrived as soon
         Circe unseen, a black ewe and a ram
         Binding for sacrifice, and, as she came,
         Vanish'd again unwitness'd by our eyes;
         Which grieved not us, nor check'd our sacrifice,
         For who would see God, loath to let us see,
         This way, or that bent; still his ways are free.

            FINIS DECIMI LIBRI HOM. ODYSS.





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    CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD



    Chapman, George, trans. (1559?-1634). The Odysseys of Homer, vol. 1. 1857.



    THE ELEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    ULYSSES' way to Hell appears;
    Where he the grave Tiresias hears;
    Enquires his own and others' fates;
    His mother sees, and th' after states
    In which were held by sad decease
    Heroes, and Heroesses,
    A number, that at Troy waged war;
    As Ajax that was still at jar
    With Ithacus, for th' arms he lost;
    And with the great Achilles' ghost.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    .... Ulysses here
    Invokes the dead.
    The lives appear
    Hereafter led.


    ARRIVED now at our ship, we launch'd, and set
         Our mast up, put forth sail, and in did get
         Our late-got cattle. Up our sails, we went,
         My wayward fellows mourning now th' event.
         A good companion yet, a foreright wind,
         Circe (the excellent utterer of her mind)
         Supplied our murmuring consorts with, that was
         Both speed and guide to our adventurous pass.
         All day our sails stood to the winds, and made
         Our voyage prosp'rous. Sun then set, and shade
         All ways obscuring, on the bounds we fell
         Of deep Oceanus, where people dwell
         Whom a perpetual cloud obscures outright,
         To whom the cheerful sun lends never light,
         Nor when he mounts the star-sustaining heaven,
         Nor when he stoops earth, and sets up the even,
         But night holds fix'd wings, feather'd all with banes,
         Above those most unblest Cimmerians.
         Here drew we up our ship, our sheep withdrew,
         And walk'd the shore till we attain'd the view
         Of that sad region Circe had foreshow'd;
         And then the sacred offerings to be vow'd
         Eurylochus and Persimedes bore.
         When I my sword drew, and earth's womb did gore
         Till I a pit digg'd of a cubit round,
         Which with the liquid sacrifice we crown'd,
         First honey mix'd with wine, then sweet wine neat,
         Then water pour'd in, last the flour of wheat.
         Much I importuned then the weak-neck'd dead,
         And vow'd, when I the barren soil should tread
         Of cliffy Ithaca, amidst my hall
         To kill a heifer, my clear best of all,
         And give in off'ring, on a pile composed
         Of all the choice goods my whole house enclosed.
         And to Tiresias himself, alone,
         A sheep coal-black, and the selectest one
         Of all my flocks. When to the Powers beneath,
         The sacred nation that survive with death,
         My prayers and vows had done devotions fit,
         I took the off'rings, and upon the pit
         Bereft their lives. Out gush'd the sable blood,
         And round about me fled out of the flood
         The souls of the deceas'd. There cluster'd then
         Youths, and their wives, much-suffering aged men,
         Soft tender virgins that but new came there
         By timeless death, and green their sorrows were.
         There men at arms, with armours all embrew'd,
         Wounded with lances, and with faulchions hew'd,
         In numbers, up and down the ditch, did stalk,
         And threw unmeasured cries about their walk,
         So horrid that a bloodless fear surprised
         My daunted spirits. Straight then I advised
         My friends to flay the slaughter'd sacrifice,
         Put them in fire, and to the Deities,
         Stern Pluto and Persephone, apply
         Exciteful prayers. Then drew I from my thigh
         My well-edged sword, stept in, and firmly stood
         Betwixt the prease of shadows and the blood,
         And would not suffer any one to dip
         Within our offering his unsolid lip,
         Before Tiresias that did all controul.
         The first that press'd in was Elpenor's soul,
         His body in the broad-way'd earth as yet
         Unmourn'd, unburied by us, since we swet
         With other urgent labours. Yet his smart
         I wept to see, and rued it from my heart,
         Enquiring how he could before me be
         That came by ship? He, mourning, answer'd me:
         'In Circe's house, the spite some spirit did bear,
         And the unspeakable good liquor there,
         Hath been my bane; for, being to descend
         A ladder much in height, I did not tend
         My way well down, but forwards made a proof
         To tread the rounds, and from the very roof
         Fell on my neck, and brake it; and this made
         My soul thus visit this infernal shade.
         And here, by them that next thyself are dear,
         Thy wife, and father, that a little one
         Gave food to thee, and by thy only son
         At home behind thee left, Telemachus,
         Do not depart by stealth, and leave me thus,
         Unmourn'd, unburied, lest neglected I
         Bring on thyself th' incensed Deity.
         I know that, sail'd from hence, thy ship must touch
         On th' isle Ææa; where vouchsafe thus much,
         Good king, that, landed, thou wilt instantly
         Bestow on me thy royal memory
         To this grace, that my body, arms and all,
         May rest consumed in fiery funeral;
         And on the foamy shore a sepulchre
         Erect to me, that after times may hear
         Of one so hapless. Let me these implore,
         And fix upon my sepulchre the oar
         With which alive I shook the aged seas,
         And had of friends the dear societies.'
           I told the wretched soul I would fulfill
         And execute to th' utmost point his will;
         And, all the time we sadly talk'd, I still
         My sword above the blood held, when aside
         The idol of my friend still amplified
         His plaint, as up and down the shades he err'd.
         Then my deceased mother's soul appear'd,
         Fair daughter of Autolycus, the great,
         Grave Anticlæa, whom, when forth I set
         For sacred Ilion, I had left alive.
         Her sight much moved me, and to tears did drive
         My note of her decease; and yet not she
         (Though in my ruth she held the highest degree)
         Would I admit to touch the sacred blood,
         Till from Tiresias I had understood
         What Circe told me. At the length did land
         Theban Tiresias' soul, and in his hand
         Sustain'd a golden sceptre, knew me well,
         And said: 'O man unhappy, why to hell
         Admitt'st thou dark arrival, and the light
         The sun gives leav'st, to have the horrid sight
         Of this black region, and the shadows here?
         Now sheathe thy sharp sword, and the pit forbear,
         That I the blood may taste, and then relate
         The truth of those acts that affect thy fate.'
           I sheath'd my sword, and left the pit, till he,
         The black blood tasting, thus instructed me:
         'Renown'd Ulysses! All unask'd I know
         That all the cause of thy arrival now
         Is to enquire thy wish'd retreat for home;
         Which hardly God will let thee overcome,
         Since Neptune still will his opposure try,
         With all his laid-up anger, for the eye
         His loved son lost to thee. And yet through all
         Thy suffering course (which must be capital)
         If both thine own affections, and thy friends,
         Thou wilt contain, when thy access ascends
         The three-fork'd island, having 'scaped the seas,
         Where ye shall find fed on the flowery leas
         Fat flocks, and oxen, which the sun doth own,
         To whom are all things as well heard as shown,
         And never dare one head of those to slay,
         But hold unharmful on your wished way,
         Though through enough affliction, yet secure
         Your Fates shall land ye; but presage says sure,
         If once ye spoil them, spoil to all thy friends,
         Spoil to thy fleet, and if the justice ends
         Short of thyself, it shall be long before,
         And that length forced out with infliction's store,
         When, losing all thy fellows, in a sail
         Of foreign built (when most thy Fates prevail
         In thy deliv'rance) thus th' event shall sort:
         Thou shalt find shipwrack raging in thy port,
         Proud men thy goods consuming, and thy wife
         Urging with gifts; give charge upon thy life.
         But all these wrongs revenge shall end to thee,
         And force, or cunning, set with slaughter free
         Thy house of all thy spoilers. Yet again
         Thou shalt a voyage make, and come to men
         That know no sea, nor ships, nor oars that are
         Wings to a ship, nor mix with any fare
         Salt's savoury vapour. Where thou first shalt land,
         This clear-given sign shall let thee understand,
         That there those men remain: Assume ashore
         Up to thy royal shoulder a ship oar,
         With which, when thou shalt meet one on the way
         That will in county admiration say
         What dost thou with that wan upon thy neck?
         There fix that wan thy oar, and that shore deck
         With sacred rites to Neptune; slaughter there
         A ram, a bull, and (who for strength doth bear
         The name of husband to a herd) a boar.
         And, coming home, upon thy natural shore,
         Give pious hecatombs to all the Gods,
         Degrees observed. And then the periods
         Of all thy labours in the peace shall end
         Of easy death; which shall the less extend
         His passion to thee, that thy foe, the Sea,
         Shall not enforce it, but Death's victory
         Shall chance in only-earnest-pray-vow'd age,
         Obtain'd at home, quite emptied of his rage,
         Thy subjects round about thee, rich and blest.
         And here hath Truth summ'd up thy vital rest.'
           I answer'd him: 'We will suppose all these
         Decreed in Deity; let it likewise please
         Tiresias to resolve me, why so near
         The blood and me my mother's soul doth bear,
         And yet nor word, nor look, vouchsafe her son?
         Doth she not know me?' 'No,' said he, 'nor none
         Of all these spirits, but myself alone,
         Knows anything till he shall taste the blood.
         But whomsoever you shall do that good,
         He will the truth of all you wish unfold;
         Who you envy it to will all withhold.'
           Thus said the kingly soul, and made retreat
         Amidst the inner parts of Pluto's seat,
         When he had spoke thus by divine instinct.
         Still I stood firm, till to the blood's precinct
         My mother came, and drunk; and then she knew
         I was her son, had passion to renew
         Her natural plaints, which thus she did pursue:
         'How is it, O my son, that you alive
         This deadly-darksome region underdive?
         'Twixt which, and earth, so many mighty seas,
         And horrid currents, interpose their prease,
         Oceanus in chief? Which none (unless
         More help'd than you) on foot now can transgress.
         A well-built ship he needs that ventures there.
         Com'st thou from Troy but now, enforced to err
         All this time with thy soldiers? Nor hast seen,
         Ere this long day, thy country, and thy queen?'
           I answer'd: 'That a necessary end
         To this infernal state made me contend;
         That from the wise Tiresias Theban soul
         I might an oracle involv'd unroll;
         For I came nothing near Achaia yet,
         Nor on our loved earth happy foot had set,
         But, mishaps suffering, err'd from coast to coast,
         Ever since first the mighty Grecian host
         Divine Atrides led to Ilion,
         And I his follower to set war upon
         The rapeful Trojans; and so pray'd she would
         The fate of that ungentle death unfold,
         That forced her thither; if some long disease,
         Or that the spleen of her that arrows please,
         Diana, envious of most eminent dames,
         Had made her th' object of her deadly aims?
         My father's state and sons I sought, if they
         Kept still my goods? Or they became the prey
         Of any other, holding me no more
         In power of safe return? Or if my store
         My wife had kept together with her son?
         If she her first mind held, or had been won
         By some chief Grecian from my love and bed?'
           All this she answer'd: 'That affliction fed
         On her blood still at home, and that to grief
         She all the days and darkness of her life
         In tears had consecrate. That none possest
         My famous kingdom's throne, but th' interest
         My son had in it still he held in peace,
         A court kept like a prince, and his increase
         Spent in his subjects' good, administ'ring laws
         With justice, and the general applause
         A king should merit, and all call'd him king.
         My father kept the upland, labouring,
         And shunn'd the city, used no sumptuous beds,
         Wonder'd-at furnitures, nor wealthy weeds,
         But in the winter strew'd about the fire
         Lay with his slaves in ashes, his attire
         Like to a beggar's; when the summer came,
         And autumn all fruits ripen'd with his flame,
         Where grape-charged vines made shadows most abound,
         His couch with fall'n leaves made upon the ground,
         And here lay he, his sorrow's fruitful state
         Increasing as he faded for my fate;
         And now the part of age that irksome is
         Lay sadly on him. And that life of his
         She led, and perish'd in; not slaughter'd by
         The Dame that darts lov'd, and her archery;
         Nor by disease invaded, vast and foul,
         That wastes the body, and sends out the soul
         With shame and horror; only in her moan,
         For me and my life, she consum'd her own.
           She thus, when I had great desire to prove
         My arms the circle where her soul did move.
         Thrice proved I, thrice she vanish'd like a sleep,
         Or fleeting shadow, which struck much more deep
         The wounds my woes made, and made ask her why
         She would my love to her embraces fly,
         And not vouchsafe that even in hell we might
         Pay pious Nature her unalter'd right,
         And give Vexation here her cruel fill?
         Should not the Queen here, to augment the ill
         Of every suff'rance, which her office is,
         Enforce thy idol to afford me this?
           'O son,' she answer'd, 'of the race of men
         The most unhappy, our most equal Queen
         Will mock no solid arms with empty shade,
         Nor suffer empty shades again t' invade
         Flesh, bones, and nerves; nor will defraud the fire
         Of his last dues, that, soon as spirits expire
         And leave the white bone, are his native right,
         When, like a dream, the soul assumes her flight.
         The light then of the living with most haste,
         O son, contend to. This thy little taste
         Of this state is enough; and all this life
         Will make a tale fit to be told thy wife.'
           This speech we had; when now repair'd to me
         More female spirits, by Persephone
         Driven on before her. All th' heroes' wives,
         And daughters, that led there their second lives,
         About the black blood throng'd. Of whom yet more
         My mind impell'd me to inquire, before
         I let them altogether taste the gore,
         For then would all have been dispersed, and gone
         Thick as they came. I, therefore, one by one
         Let taste the pit, my sword drawn from my thigh,
         And stand betwixt them made, when, severally,
         All told their stocks. The first, that quench'd her fire,
         Was Tyro, issued of a noble sire.
         She said she sprung from pure Salmoneus' bed,
         And Cretheus, son of Æolus, did wed;
         Yet the divine flood Enipeus loved,
         Who much the most fair stream of all floods moved.
         Near whose streams Tyro walking, Neptune came,
         Like Enipeus, and enjoy'd the dame.
         Like to a hill, the blue and snaky flood
         Above th' immortal and the mortal stood,
         And hid them both, as both together lay,
         Just where his current falls into the sea.
         Her virgin waist dissolved, she slumber'd then;
         But when the God had done the work of men,
         Her fair hand gently wringing, thus he said:
         'Woman! rejoice in our combined bed,
         For when the year hath run his circle round
         (Because the Gods' loves must in fruit abound)
         My love shall make, to cheer thy teeming moans,
         Thy one dear burden bear two famous sons;
         Love well, and bring them up. Go home, and see
         That, though of more joy yet I shall be free,
         Thou dost not tell, to glorify thy birth;
         Thy love is Neptune, shaker of the earth.'
         This said, he plunged into the sea; and she,
         Begot with child by him, the light let see
         Great Pelias, and Neleus, that became
         In Jove's great ministry of mighty fame.
         Pelias in broad Iolcus held his throne,
         Wealthy in cattle; th' other royal son
         Ruled sandy Pylos. To these issue more
         This queen of women to her husband bore,
         Æson, and Pheres, and Amythaon
         That for his fight on horseback stoop'd to none.
           Next her, I saw admir'd Antiope,
         Asopus' daughter, who (as much as she
         Boasted attraction of great Neptune's love)
         Boasted to slumber in the arms of Jove,
         And two sons, likewise at one burden bore
         To that her all-controlling paramour,
         Amphion, and fair Zethus; that first laid
         Great Thebes' foundations, and strong walls convey'd
         About her turrets, that seven ports enclosed.
         For though the Thebans much in strength reposed,
         Yet had not they the strength to hold their own,
         Without the added aids of wood and stone.
           Alcmena next I saw, that famous wife
         Was to Amphytrio, and honour'd life
         Gave to the lion-hearted Hercules,
         That was of Jove's, embrace the great increase.
           I saw, besides, proud Creon's daughter there,
         Bright Megara, that nuptial yoke did wear
         With Jove's great son, who never field did try
         But bore to him the sower of victory.
           The mother then of Oedipus I saw,
         Fair Epicasta, that, beyond all law,
         Her own son married, ignorant of kind,
         And he, as darkly taken in his mind,
         His mother wedded, and his father slew.
         Whose blind act Heaven exposed at length to view,
         And he in all-loved Thebes the supreme state
         With much moan managed, for the heavy fate
         The Gods laid on him. She made violent flight
         To Pluto's dark house from the loathed light,
         Beneath a steep beam strangled with a cord,
         And left her son, in life, pains as abhorr'd
         As all the Furies pour'd on her in hell.
         Then saw I Chloris, that did so excell
         In answering beauties, that each part had all.
         Great Neleus married her, when gifts not small
         Had won her favour, term'd by name of dower.
         She was of all Amphion's seed the flower;
         Amphion, call'd Iasides, that then
         Ruled strongly, Myniæan Orchomen,
         And now his daughter ruled the Pylian throne,
         Because her beauty's empire overshone.
         She brought her wife-awed husband, Neleus,
         Nestor much honour'd, Periclymenus,
         And Chromius, sons with sovereign virtues graced;
         But after brought a daughter that surpass'd,
         Rare-beautied Pero, so for form exact
         That Nature to a miracle was rack'd
         In her perfections, blazed with th' eyes of men;
         That made of all the country's hearts a chain,
         And drew them suitors to her. Which her sire
         Took vantage of, and, since he did aspire
         To nothing more than to the broad-brow'd herd
         Of oxen, which the common fame so rear'd,
         Own'd by Iphiclus, not a man should be
         His Pero's husband, that from Phylace
         Those never-yet-driven oxen could not drive.
         Yet these a strong hope held him to achieve,
         Because a prophet, that had never err'd,
         Had said, that only he should be preferr'd
         To their possession. But the equal fate
         Of God withstood his stealth; inextricate
         Imprisoning bands, and sturdy churlish swains
         That were the herdsmen, who withheld with chains
         The stealth attempter; which was only he
         That durst abet the act with prophecy,
         None else would undertake it, and he must;
         The king would needs a prophet should be just.
         But when some days and months expired were,
         And all the hours had brought about the year,
         The prophet did so satisfy the king
         (Iphiclus, all his cunning questioning)
         That he enfranchised him; and, all worst done,
         Jove's counsel made th' all-safe conclusion.
           Then saw I Leda, link'd in nuptial chain
         With Tyndarus, to whom she did sustain
         Sons much renown'd for wisdom; Castor one,
         That past for use of horse comparison;
         And Pollux, that excell'd in whirlbat fight;
         Both these the fruitful earth bore, while the light
         Of life inspired them; after which, they found
         Such grace with Jove, that both lived under ground,
         By change of days; life still did one sustain,
         While th' other died; the dead then lived again,
         The living dying; both of one self date
         Their lives and deaths made by the Gods and Fate.
           Iphimedia after Leda came,
         That did derive from Neptune too the name
         Of father to two admirable sons.
         Life yet made short their admirations,
         Who God-opposed Otus had to name,
         And Ephialtes far in sound of fame.
         The prodigal earth so fed them, that they grew
         To most huge stature, and had fairest hue
         Of all men, but Orion, under heaven.
         At nine years old nine cubits they were driven
         Abroad in breadth, and sprung nine fathoms high.
         They threaten'd to give battle to the sky,
         And all th' Immortals. They were setting on
         Ossa upon Olympus, and upon
         Steep Ossa leavy Pelius, that even
         They might a highway make with lofty heaven;
         And had perhaps perform'd it, had they lived
         Till they were striplings; but Jove's son deprived
         Their limbs of life, before th' age that begins
         The flower of youth, and should adorn their chins.
           Phædra and Procris, with wise Minos' flame,
         Bright Ariadne, to the offering came.
         Whom whilome Theseus made his prise from Crete,
         That Athens' sacred soil might kiss her feet,
         But never could obtain her virgin flower,
         Till, in the sea-girt Dia, Dian's power
         Detain'd his homeward haste, where (in her fane,
         By Bacchus witness'd) was the fatal wane
         Of her prime glory. Mæra, Clymene,
         I witness'd there; and loath'd Eriphyle,
         That honour'd gold more than she loved her spouse.
           But, all th' heroesses in Pluto's house
         That then encounter'd me, exceeds my might
         To name or number, and ambrosian night
         Would quite be spent, when now the formal hours
         Present to sleep our all-disposed powers,
         If at my ship, or here. My home-made vow
         I leave for fit grace to the Gods and you."
           This said; the silence his discourse had made
         With pleasure held still through the house's shade,
         When white-arm'd Arete this speech began:
         "Phæacians! How appears to you this man,
         So goodly person'd, and so match'd with mind?
         My guest he is, but all you stand combin'd
         In the renown he doth us. Do not then
         With careless haste dismiss him, nor the main
         Of his dispatch to one so needy maim,
         The Gods' free bounty gives us all just claim
         To goods enow." This speech, the oldest man
         Of any other Phæacensian,
         The grave heroe, Echineus, gave
         All approbation, saying: "Friends! ye have
         The motion of the wise queen in such words
         As have not miss'd the mark, with which accords
         My clear opinion. But Alcinous,
         In word and work must be our rule." He thus;
         And then Alcinous said: "This then must stand,
         If while I live I rule in the command
         Of this well-skill'd-in-navigation state:
         Endure then, guest, though most importunate
         Be your affects for home. A little stay
         If your expectance bear, perhaps it may
         Our gifts make more complete. The cares of all
         Your due deduction asks; but principal
         I am therein the ruler." He replied:
         "Alcinous, the most duly glorified
         With rule of all of all men, if you lay
         Commandment on me of a whole year's stay,
         So all the while your preparations rise,
         As well in gifts as time, ye can devise
         No better wish for me; for I shall come
         Much fuller handed, and more honour'd, home,
         And dearer to my people, in whose loves
         The richer evermore the better proves."
           He answer'd: "There is argued in your sight
         A worth that works not men for benefit,
         Like prollers or impostors; of which crew,
         The gentle black earth feeds not up a few,
         Here and there wanderers, blanching tales and lies,
         Of neither praise, nor use. You move our eyes
         With form, our minds with matter, and our ears
         With elegant oration, such as bears
         A music in the order'd history
         It lays before us. Not Demodocus
         With sweeter strains hath used to sing to us
         All the Greek sorrows, wept out in your own.
         But say: Of all your worthy friends, were none
         Objected to your eyes that consorts were
         To Ilion with you, and served destiny there?
         This night is passing long, unmeasur'd, none
         Of all my household would to bed yet; on,
         Relate these wondrous things. Were I with you,
         If you would tell me but your woes, as now,
         Till the divine Aurora show'd her head,
         I should in no night relish thought of bed."
           "Most eminent king," said he, "times all must keep,
         There's time to speak much, time as much to sleep,
         But would you hear still, I will tell you still,
         And utter more, more miserable ill
         Of friends than yet, that scaped the dismal wars,
         And perish'd homewards, and in household jars
         Waged by a wicked woman. The chaste Queen,
         No sooner made these lady ghosts unseen,
         Here and there flitting, but mine eye-sight won
         The soul of Agamemnon, Atreus' son,
         Sad, and about him all his train of friends,
         That in Ægisthus' house endured their ends
         With his stern fortune. Having drunk the blood,
         He knew me instantly, and forth a flood
         Of springing tears gush'd; out he thrust his hands,
         With will t' embrace me, but their old commands
         Flow'd not about him, nor their weakest part.
         I wept to see, and moan'd him from my heart,
         And ask'd: 'O Agamemnon! King of men!
         What sort of cruel death hath render'd slain
         Thy royal person? Neptune in thy fleet
         Heaven and his hellish billows making meet,
         Rousing the winds? Or have thy men by land
         Done thee this ill, for using thy command,
         Past their consents, in diminution
         Of those full shares their worths by lot had won
         Of sheep or oxen? Or of any town,
         In covetous strife, to make their rights thine own
         In men or women prisoners?' He replied:
         'By none of these in any right I died,
         But by Ægisthus and my murderous wife
         (Bid to a banquet at his house) my life
         Hath thus been reft me, to my slaughter led
         Like to an ox pretended to be fed.
         So miserably fell I, and with me
         My friends lay massacred, as when you see
         At any rich man's nuptials, shot, or feast,
         About his kitchen white-tooth'd swine lie drest.
         The slaughters of a world of men thine eyes,
         Both private, and in prease of enemies,
         Have personally witness'd; but this one
         Would all thy parts have broken into moan,
         To see how strew'd about our cups and cates,
         As tables set with feast, so we with fates,
         All gash'd and slain lay, all the floor embrued
         With blood and brain. But that which most I rued,
         Flew from the heavy voice that Priam's seed,
         Cassandra, breath'd, whom, she that wit doth feed
         With baneful crafts, false Clytemnestra, slew,
         Close sitting by me; up my hands I threw
         From earth to heaven, and tumbling on my sword
         Gave wretched life up; when the most abhorr'd,
         By all her sex's shame, forsook the room,
         Nor deign'd, though then so near this heavy home,
         To shut my lips, or close my broken eyes.
         Nothing so heap'd is with impieties,
         As such a woman that would kill her spouse
         That married her a maid. When to my house
         I brought her, hoping of her love in heart,
         To children, maids, and slaves. But she (in th' art
         Of only mischief hearty) not alone
         Cast on herself this foul aspersion,
         But loving dames, hereafter, to their lords
         Will bear, for good deeds, her bad thoughts and words.'
           'Alas,' said I, 'that Jove should hate the lives
         Of Atreus' seed so highly for their wives!
         For Menelaus' wife a number fell,
         For dangerous absence thine sent thee to hell.'
           'For this,' he answer'd, 'be not thou more kind
         Than wise to thy wife. Never all thy mind
         Let words express to her. Of all she knows,
         Curbs for the worst still, in thyself repose.
         But thou by thy wife's wiles shalt lose no blood,
         Exceeding wise she is, and wise in good.
         Icarius' daughter, chaste Penelope,
         We left a young bride, when for battle we
         Forsook the nuptial peace, and at her breast
         Her first child sucking, who, by this hour, blest,
         Sits in the number of surviving men.
         And his bliss she hath, that she can contain,
         And her bliss thou hast, that she is so wise.
         For, by her wisdom, thy returned eyes
         Shall see thy son, and he shall greet his sire
         With fitting welcomes; when in my retire,
         My wife denies mine eyes my son's dear sight,
         And, as from me, will take from him the light,
         Before she adds one just delight to life,
         Or her false wit one truth that fits a wife.
         For her sake therefore let my harms advise,
         That though thy wife be ne'er so chaste and wise,
         Yet come not home to her in open view,
         With any ship or any personal show,
         But take close shore disguised, nor let her know,
         For 'tis no world to trust a woman now.
         But what says Fame? Doth my son yet survive,
         In Orchomen, or Pylos? Or doth live
         In Sparta with his uncle? Yet I see
         Divine Orestes is not here with me.'
           I answer'd, asking: 'Why doth Atreus' son
         Enquire of me, who yet arrived where none
         Could give to these news any certain wings?
         And 'tis absurd to tell uncertain things.'
           Such sad speech past us; and as thus we stood,
         With kind tears rendering unkind fortunes good,
         Achilles' and Patroclus' soul appear'd,
         And his soul, of whom never ill was heard,
         The good Antilochus, and the soul of him
         That all the Greeks past both for force and limb
         Excepting the unmatch'd Æacides,
         Illustrious Ajax. But the first of these
         That saw, acknowledged, and saluted me,
         Was Thetis' conquering son, who (heavily
         His state here taking) said: 'Unworthy breath!
         What act yet mightier imagineth
         Thy vent'rous spirit? How dost thou descend
         These under regions, where the dead man's end
         Is to be look'd on, and his foolish shade?'
           I answer'd him: 'I was induced t' invade
         These under parts, most excellent of Greece,
         To visit wise Tiresias, for advice
         Of virtue to direct my voyage home
         To rugged Ithaca; since I could come
         To note in no place, where Achaia stood,
         And so lived ever, tortured with the blood
         In man's vain veins. Thou therefore, Thetis' son,
         Hast equall'd all, that ever yet have won
         The bliss the earth yields, or hereafter shall.
         In life thy eminence was ador'd of all,
         Even with the Gods; and now, even dead, I see
         Thy virtues propagate thy empery
         To a renew'd life of command beneath;
         So great Achilles triumphs over death.'
         This comfort of him this encounter found:
         'Urge not my death to me, nor rub that wound,
         I rather wish to live in earth a swain,
         Or serve a swain for hire, that scarce can gain
         Bread to sustain him, than, that life once gone,
         Of all the dead sway the imperial throne.
         But say, and of my son some comfort yield,
         If he goes on in first fights of the field,
         Or lurks for safety in the obscure rear?
         Or of my father if thy royal ear
         Hath been advertised, that the Phthian throne
         He still commands, as greatest Myrmidon?
         Or that the Phthian and Thessalian rage
         (Now feet and hands are in the hold of age)
         Despise his empire? Under those bright rays,
         In which heaven's fervour hurls about the days,
         Must I no more shine his revenger now,
         Such as of old the Ilion overthrow
         Witness'd my anger, th' universal host
         Sending before me to this shady coast,
         In fight for Grecia. Could I now resort,
         (But for some small time) to my father's court,
         In spirit and power as then, those men should find
         My hands inaccessible, and of fire my mind,
         That durst with all the numbers they are strong
         Unseat his honour, and suborn his wrong.'
           This pitch still flew his spirit, though so low,
         And this I answer'd thus: 'I do not know
         Of blameless Peleus any least report,
         But of your son, in all the utmost sort,
         I can inform your care with truth, and thus:
           From Scyros princely Neoptolemus
         By fleet I convey'd to the Greeks, where he
         Was chief, at both parts, when our gravity
         Retired to council, and our youth to fight.
         In council still so fiery was Conceit
         In his quick apprehension of a cause,
         That first he ever spake, nor past the laws
         Of any grave stay, in his greatest haste.
         None would contend with him, that counsell'd last,
         Unless illustrious Nestor, he and I
         Would sometimes put a friendly contrary
         On his opinion. In our fights, the prease
         Of great or common, he would never cease,
         But far before fight ever. No man there,
         For force, he forced. He was slaughterer
         Of many a brave man in most dreadful fight.
         But one and other whom he reft of light,
         In Grecian succour, I can neither name,
         Nor give in number. The particular fame
         Of one man's slaughter yet I must not pass;
         Eurypylus Telephides he was,
         That fell beneath him, and with him the falls
         Of such huge men went, that they show'd like whales
         Rampired about him. Neoptolemus
         Set him so sharply, for the sumptuous
         Favours of mistresses he saw him wear;
         For past all doubt his beauties had no peer
         Of all that mine eyes noted, next to one,
         And that was Memnon, Tithon's Sun-like son.
         Thus far, for fight in public, may a taste
         Give of his eminence. How far surpast
         His spirit in private, where he was not seen,
         Nor glory could be said to praise his spleen,
         This close note I excerpted. When we sat
         Hid in Epeus' horse, no optimate
         Of all the Greeks there had the charge to ope
         And shut the stratagem but I. My scope
         To note then each man's spirit in a strait
         Of so much danger, much the better might
         Be hit by me, than others, as, provoked,
         I shifted place still, when, in some I smoked
         Both privy tremblings, and close vent of tears,
         In him yet not a soft conceit of theirs
         Could all my search see, either his wet eyes
         Ply'd still with wipings, or the goodly guise,
         His person all ways put forth, in least part,
         By any tremblings, show'd his touch'd-at heart.
         But ever he was urging me to make
         Way to their sally, by his sign to shake
         His sword hid in his scabbard, or his lance
         Loaded with iron, at me. No good chance
         His thoughts to Troy intended. In th' event,
         High Troy depopulate, he made ascent
         To his fair ship, with prise and treasure store,
         Safe, and no touch away with him he bore
         Of far-off hurl'd lance, or of close-fought sword,
         Whose wounds for favours war doth oft afford,
         Which he (though sought) miss'd in war's closest wage.
         In close fights Mars doth never fight, but rage.'
           This made the soul of swift Achilles tread
         A march of glory through the herby mead,
         For joy to hear me so renown his son;
         And vanish'd stalking. But with passion
         Stood th' other souls struck, and each told his bane.
         Only the spirit Telamonian
         Kept far off, angry for the victory
         I won from him at fleet; though arbitry
         Of all a court of war pronounced it mine,
         And Pallas' self. Our prise were th' arms divine
         Of great Æacides, proposed t' our fames
         By his bright Mother, at his funeral games.
         I wish to heaven I ought not to have won;
         Since for those arms so high a head so soon
         The base earth cover'd, Ajax, that of all
         The host of Greece had person capital,
         And acts as eminent, excepting his
         Whose arms those were, in whom was nought amiss.
         I tried the great soul with soft words, and said:
         'Ajax! Great son of Telamon, array'd
         In all our glories! What! not dead resign
         Thy wrath for those curst arms? The Powers divine
         In them forged all our banes, in thine own one,
         In thy grave fall our tower was overthrown.
         We mourn, for ever maim'd, for thee as much
         As for Achilles; nor thy wrong doth touch,
         In sentence, any but Saturnius' doom;
         In whose hate was the host of Greece become
         A very horror; who express'd it well
         In signing thy fate with this timeless hell.
         Approach then, king of all the Grecian merit,
         Repress thy great mind, and thy flamy spirit,
         And give the words I give thee worthy ear.'
           All this no word drew from him, but less near
         The stern soul kept; to other souls he fled,
         And glid along the river of the dead.
         Though anger moved him, yet he might have spoke,
         Since I to him. But my desires were strook
         With sight of other souls. And then I saw
         Minos, that minister'd to Death a law,
         And Jove's bright son was. He was set, and sway'd
         A golden sceptre; and to him did plead
         A sort of others, set about his throne,
         In Pluto's wide-door'd house; when straight came on
         Mighty Orion, who was hunting there
         The herds of those beasts he had slaughter'd here
         In desert hills on earth. A club he bore,
         Entirely steel, whose virtues never wore.
           Tityus I saw, to whom the glorious earth
         Open'd her womb, and gave unhappy birth.
         Upwards, and flat upon the pavement, lay
         His ample limbs, that spread in their display
         Nine acres' compass. On his bosom sat
         Two vultures, digging, through his caul of fat,
         Into his liver with their crooked beaks;
         And each by turns the concrete entrail breaks
         (As smiths their steel beat) set on either side.
         Nor doth he ever labour to divide
         His liver and their beaks, nor with his hand
         Offer them off, but suffers by command
         Of th' angry Thund'rer, off'ring to enforce
         His love Latona, in the close recourse
         She used to Pytho through the dancing land,
         Smooth Panopæus. I saw likewise stand,
         Up to the chin, amidst a liquid lake,
         Tormented Tantalus, yet could not slake
         His burning thirst. Oft as his scornful cup
         Th' old man would taste, so oft 'twas swallow'd up,
         And all the black earth to his feet descried,
         Divine power (plaguing him) the lake still dried.
         About his head, on high trees, clust'ring, hung
         Pears, apples, granates, olives ever young,
         Delicious figs, and many fruit trees more
         Of other burden; whose alluring store
         When th' old soul strived to pluck, the winds from sight,
         In gloomy vapours, made them vanish quite.
           There saw I Sisyphus in infinite moan,
         With both hands heaving up a massy stone,
         And on his tip-toes racking all his height,
         To wrest up to a mountain-top his freight;
         When prest to rest it there, his nerves quite spent,
         Down rush'd the deadly quarry, the event
         Of all his torture new to raise again;
         To which straight set his never-rested pain.
         The sweat came gushing out from every pore,
         And on his head a standing mist he wore,
         Reeking from thence, as if a cloud of dust
         Were raised about it. Down with these was thrust
         The idol of the force of Hercules,
         But his firm self did no such fate oppress,
         He feasting lives amongst th' Immortal States,
         White-ankled Hebe and himself made mates
         In heavenly nuptials. Hebe, Jove's dear race,
         And Juno's whom the golden sandals grace.
         About him flew the clamours of the dead
         Like fowls, and still stoop'd cuffing at his head.
         He with his bow, like Night, stalk'd up and down,
         His shaft still nock'd, and hurling round his frown
         At those vex'd hoverers, aiming at them still,
         And still, as shooting out, desire to still.
         A horrid bawdrick wore he thwart his breast,
         The thong all gold, in which were forms imprest,
         Where art and miracle drew equal breaths,
         In bears, boars, lions, battles, combats, deaths.
         Who wrought that work did never such before,
         Nor so divinely will do ever more.
         Soon as he saw, he knew me, and gave speech:
         'Son of Laertes, high in wisdom's reach,
         And yet unhappy wretch, for in this heart,
         Of all exploits achieved by thy desert,
         Thy worth but works out some sinister fate,
         As I in earth did. I was generate
         By Jove himself, and yet past mean opprest
         By one my far inferior, whose proud hest
         Impos'd abhorred labours on my hand.
         Of all which one was, to descend this strand,
         And hale the dog from thence. He could not think
         An act that danger could make deeper sink.
         And yet this depth I drew, and fetch'd as high,
         As this was low, the dog. The Deity
         Of sleight and wisdom, as of downright power,
         Both stoop'd, and raised, and made me conqueror.'
           This said, he made descent again as low
         As Pluto's court; when I stood firm, for show
         Of more heroes of the times before,
         And might perhaps have seen my wish of more,
         (As Theseus and Pirithous, derived
         From roots of Deity) but before th' achieved
         Rare sight of these, the rank-soul'd multitude
         In infinite flocks rose, venting sounds so rude,
         That pale Fear took me, lest the Gorgon's head
         Rush'd in amongst them, thrust up, in my dread,
         By grim Persephone. I therefore sent
         My men before to ship, and after went.
         Where, boarded, set, and launch'd, th' ocean wave
         Our oars and forewinds speedy passage gave.

            FINIS LIBRI UNDECIMI HOM. ODYSS.




    THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEYS.

    THE ARGUMENT.
    HE shows from Hell his safe retreat
    To th' isle Ææa, Circe's seat;
    And how he scap'd the Sirens' calls,
    With th' erring rocks, and waters' falls,
    That Scylla and Charybdis break;
    The Sun's stolen herds; and his sad wreak
    Both of Ulysses' ship and men,
    His own head 'scaping scarce the pain.
    ANOTHER ARGUMENT.
    The rocks that err'd.
    The Sirens' call.
    The Sun's stolen herd.
    The soldiers' fall.


    OUR ship now past the straits of th' ocean flood,
         She plow'd the broad sea's billows, and made good
         The isle Ææa, where the palace stands
         Of th' early riser with the rosy hands,
         Active Aurora, where she loves to dance,
         And where the Sun doth his prime beams advance.
           When here arrived, we drew her up to land,
         And trod ourselves the re-saluted sand,
         Found on the shore fit resting for the night,
         Slept, and expected the celestial light.
           Soon as the white-and-red-mix'd-finger'd Dame
         Had gilt the mountains with her saffron flame,
         I sent my men to Circe's house before,
         To fetch deceas'd Elpenor to the shore.
           Straight swell'd the high banks with fell'd heaps of trees,
         And, full of tears, we did due exsequies
         To our dead friend. Whose corse consum'd with fire,
         And honour'd arms, whose sepulchre entire,
         And over that a column raised, his oar,
         Curiously carved, to his desire before,
         Upon the top of all his tomb we fixed.
         Of all rites fit his funeral pile was mix'd.
           Nor was our safe ascent from Hell concealed
         From Circe's knowledge; nor so soon revealed
         But she was with us, with her bread and food,
         And ruddy wine, brought by her sacred brood
         Of woods and fountains. In the midst she stood,
         And thus saluted us: 'Unhappy men,
         That have, inform'd with all your senses, been
         In Pluto's dismal mansion! You shall die
         Twice now, where others, that Mortality
         In her fair arms holds, shall but once decease.
         But eat and drink out all conceit of these,
         And this day dedicate to food and wine,
         The following night to sleep. When next shall shine
         The cheerful morning, you shall prove the seas.
         Your way, and every act ye must address,
         My knowledge of their order shall design,
         Lest with your own bad counsels ye incline
         Events as bad against ye, and sustain,
         By sea and shore, the woful ends that reign
         In wilful actions.' Thus did she advise,
         And, for the time, our fortunes were so wise
         To follow wise directions. All that day
         We sat and feasted. When his lower way
         The Sun had enter'd, and the Even the high,
         My friends slept on their gables; she and I
         (Led by her fair hand to a place apart,
         By her well-sorted) did to sleep convert
         Our timid powers; when all things Fate let fall
         In our affair she asked; I told her all.
         To which she answer'd: 'These things thus took end.
         And now to those that I inform attend,
         Which you rememb'ring, God himself shall be
         The blessed author of your memory.
            First to the Sirens ye shall come, that taint
         The minds of all men, whom they can acquaint
         With their attractions. Whomsoever shall,
         For want of knowledge moved, but hear the call
         Of any Siren, he will so despise
         Both wife and children, for their sorceries,
         That never home turns his affection's stream,
         Nor they take joy in him, nor he in them.
         The Sirens will so soften with their song
         (Shrill, and in sensual appetite so strong)
         His loose affections, that he gives them head.
         And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,
         And round about it runs a hedge or wall
         Of dead men's bones, their wither'd skins and all
         Hung all along upon it; and these men
         Were such as they had fawn'd into their fen,
         And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.
         Sail by them therefore, thy companions
         Beforehand causing to stop every ear
         With sweet soft wax, so close that none may hear
         A note of all their charmings. Yet may you,
         If you affect it, open ear allow
         To try their motion; but presume not so
         To trust your judgment, when your senses go
         So loose about you, but give straight command
         To all your men, to bind you foot and hand
         Sure to the mast, that you may safe approve
         How strong in instigation to their love
         Their rapting tunes are. If so much they move,
         That, spite of all your reason, your will stands
         To be enfranchised both of feet and hands,
         Charge all your men before to slight your charge,
         And rest so far from fearing to enlarge
         That much more sure they bind you. When your friends
         Have outsail'd these, the danger that transcends
         Rests not in any counsel to prevent,
         Unless your own mind finds the tract and bent
         Of that way that avoids it. I can say
         That in your course there lies a twofold way,
         The right of which your own, taught, present wit,
         And grace divine, must prompt. In general yet
         Let this inform you: Near these Sirens' shore
         Move two steep rocks, at whose feet lie and roar
         The black sea's cruel billows; the bless'd Gods
         Call them the Rovers. Their abhorr'd abodes
         No bird can pass; no not the doves, whose fear
         Sire Jove so loves that they are said to bear
         Ambrosia to him, can their ravine 'scape,
         But one of them falls ever to the rape
         Of those sly rocks; yet Jove another still
         Adds to the rest, that so may ever fill
         The sacred number. Never ship could shun
         The nimble peril wing'd there, but did run
         With all her bulk, and bodies of her men,
         To utter ruin. For the seas retain
         Not only their outrageous æsture there,
         But fierce assistants of particular fear,
         And supernatural mischief, they expire,
         And those are whirlwinds of devouring fire
         Whisking about still. Th' Argive ship alone,
         Which bore the care of all men, got her gone,
         Come from Areta. Yet perhaps even she
         Had wrack'd at those rocks, if the Deity,
         That lies by Jove's side, had not lent her hand
         To their transmission; since the man, that mann'd
         In chief that voyage, she in chief did love.
         Of these two spiteful rocks, the one doth shove
         Against the height of heaven her pointed brow.
         A black cloud binds it round, and never show
         Lends to the sharp point; not the clear blue sky
         Lets ever view it, not the summer's eye,
         Not fervent autumn's. None that death could end
         Could ever scale it, or, if up, descend,
         Though twenty hands and feet he had for hold,
         A polish'd ice-like glibness doth enfold
         The rock so round, whose midst a gloomy cell
         Shrouds so far westward that it sees to hell.
         From this keep you as far, as from his bow
         An able young man can his shaft bestow.
         For here the whuling Scylla shrouds her face,
         That breathes a voice at all parts no more base
         Than are a newly-kitten'd kitling's cries,
         Herself a monster yet of boundless size,
         Whose sight would nothing please a mortal's eyes,
         No nor the eyes of any God, if he
         (Whom nought should fright) fell foul on her, and she
         Her full shape show'd. Twelve foul feet bear about
         Her ugly bulk. Six huge long necks look out
         Of her rank shoulders; every neck doth let
         A ghastly head out; every head three set,
         Thick thrust together, of abhorred teeth,
         And every tooth stuck with a sable death.
           She lurks in midst of all her den, and streaks
         From out a ghastly whirlpool all her necks;
         Where, gloting round her rock, to fish she falls;
         And up rush dolphins, dogfish; somewhiles whales,
         If got within her when her rapine feeds;
         For ever-groaning Amphitrite breeds
         About her whirlpool an unmeasured store.
         No sea-man ever boasted touch of shore
         That there touch'd with his ship, but still she fed
         Of him and his; a man for every head
         Spoiling his ship of. You shall then descry
         The other humbler rock, that moves so nigh
         Your dart may mete the distance. It receives
         A huge wild fig-tree, curl'd with ample leaves,
         Beneath whose shades divine Charybdis sits,
         Supping the black deeps. Thrice a day her pits
         She drinking all dry, and thrice a day again
         All up she belches, baneful to sustain.
         When she is drinking, dare not near her draught,
         For not the force of Neptune, if once caught,
         Can force your freedom. Therefore in your strife
         To 'scape Charybdis labour all for life
         To row near Scylla, for she will but have
         For her six heads six men; and better save
         The rest, than all make off'rings to the wave.'
           This need she told me of my loss, when I
         Desired to know, if that Necessity,
         When I had 'scaped Charybdis' outrages,
         My powers might not revenge, though not redress?
         She answer'd: 'O unhappy! art thou yet
         Enflamed with war, and thirst to drink thy sweat?
         Not to the Gods give up both arms and will?
         She deathless is, and that immortal ill
         Grave, harsh, outrageous, not to be subdued,
         That men must suffer till they be renew'd.
         Nor lives there any virtue that can fly
         The vicious outrage of their cruelty.
         Shouldst thou put arms on, and approach the rock,
         I fear six more must expiate the shock.
         Six heads six men ask still. Hoise sail, and fly,
         And, in thy flight, aloud on Cratis cry
         (Great Scylla's mother, who exposed to light
         The bane of men) and she will do such right
         To thy observance, that she down will tread
         Her daughter's rage, nor let her show a head.
           From thenceforth then, for ever past her care,
         Thou shalt ascend the isle triangular,
         Where many oxen of the Sun are fed,
         And fatted flocks. Of oxen fifty head
         In every herd feed, and their herds are seven;
         And of his fat flocks is their number even.
         Increase they yield not, for they never die.
         There every shepherdess a Deity.
         Fair Phaethusa, and Lampetie,
         The lovely Nymphs are that their guardians be,
         Who to the daylight's lofty-going Flame
         Had gracious birthright from the heavenly Dame,
         Still young Neæra; who (brought forth and bred)
         Far off dismiss'd them, to see duly fed
         Their father's herds and flocks in Sicily.
         These herds and flocks if to the Deity
         Ye leave, as sacred things, untouch'd, and on
         Go with all fit care of your home, alone,
         (Though through some suff'rance) you yet safe shall land
         In wished Ithaca. But if impious hand
         You lay on those herds to their hurts, I then
         Presage sure ruin to thy ship and men.
         If thou escap'st thyself, extending home
         Thy long'd-for landing, thou shalt loaded come
         With store of losses, most exceeding late,
         And not consorted with a saved mate.'
           This said, the golden-throned Aurora rose,
         She her way went, and I did mine dispose
         Up to my ship, weigh'd anchor, and away.
         When reverend Circe helped us to convey
         Our vessel safe, by making well inclined
         A seaman's true companion, a forewind,
         With which she fill'd our sails; when, fitting all
         Our arms close by us, I did sadly fall
         To grave relation what concern'd in fate
         My friends to know, and told them that the state
         Of our affairs' success, which Circe had
         Presaged to me alone, must yet be made
         To one nor only two known, but to all;
         That, since their lives and deaths were left to fall
         In their elections, they might life elect,
         And give what would preserve it fit effect.
           I first inform'd them, that we were to fly
         The heavenly-singing Sirens' harmony,
         And flower-adorned meadow; and that I
         Had charge to hear their song, but fetter'd fast
         In bands, unfavour'd, to th' erected mast,
         From whence, if I should pray, or use command,
         To be enlarged, they should with much more band
         Contain my strugglings. This I simply told
         To each particular, nor would withhold
         What most enjoin'd mine own affection's stay,
         That theirs the rather might be taught t' obey.
           In mean time flew our ships, and straight we fetch'd
         The Siren's isle; a spleenless wind so stretch'd
         Her wings to waft us, and so urged our keel.
         But having reach'd this isle, we could not feel
         The least gasp of it, it was stricken dead,
         And all the sea in prostrate slumber spread,
         The Sirens' devil charm'd all. Up then flew
         My friends to work, struck sail, together drew,
         And under hatches stow'd them, sat, and plied
         The polish'd oars, and did in curls divide
         The white-head waters. My part then came on:
         A mighty waxen cake I set upon,
         Chopp'd it in fragments with my sword, and wrought
         With strong hand every piece, till all were soft.
         The great power of the sun, in such a beam
         As then flew burning from his diadem,
         To liquefaction help'd us. Orderly
         I stopp'd their ears; and they as fair did ply
         My feet and hands with cords, and to the mast
         With other halsers made me soundly fast.
           Then took they seat, and forth our passage strook,
         The foamy sea beneath their labour shook.
           Row'd on, in reach of an erected voice,
         The Sirens soon took note, without our noise,
         Tuned those sweet accents that made charms so strong,
         And these learn'd numbers made the Sirens' song:
           Come here, thou worthy of a world of praise,
         That dost so high the Grecian glory raise,
         Ulysses! stay thy ship, and that song hear
         That none past ever but it bent his ear,
         But left him ravish'd, and instructed more
         By us, than any ever heard before.
         For we know all things whatsoever were
         In wide Troy labour'd; whatsoever there
         The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd
         By those high issues that the Gods ordain'd.
         And whatsoever all the earth can show
         T' inform a knowledge of desert, we know.
           This they gave accent in the sweetest strain
         That ever open'd an enamour'd vein.
         When my constrain'd heart needs would have mine ear
         Yet more delighted, force way forth, and hear.
         To which end I commanded with all sign
         Stern looks could make (for not a joint of mine
         Had power to stir) my friends to rise, and give
         My limbs free way. They freely strived to drive
         Their ship still on. When, far from will to loose,
         Eurylochus, and Perimedes rose
         To wrap me surer, and oppress'd me more
         With many a halser than had use before.
         When, rowing on without the reach of sound,
         My friends unstopp'd their ears, and me unbound,
         And that isle quite we quitted. But again
         Fresh fears employ'd us. I beheld a main
         Of mighty billows, and a smoke ascend,
         A horrid murmur hearing. Every friend
         Astonish'd sat; from every hand his oar
         Fell quite forsaken; with the dismal roar
         Were all things there made echoes; stone still stood
         Our ship itself, because the ghastly flood
         Took all men's motions from her in their own.
         I through the ship went, labouring up and down
         My friends' recover'd spirits. One by one
         I gave good words, and said: That well were known
         These ills to them before, I told them all,
         And that these could not prove more capital
         Than those the Cyclops block'd us up in, yet
         My virtue, wit, and heaven-help'd counsels set
         Their freedoms open. I could not believe
         But they remember'd it, and wish'd them give
         My equal care and means now equal trust.
         The strength they had for stirring up they must
         Rouse and extend, to try if Jove had laid
         His powers in theirs up, and would add his aid
         To 'scape even that death. In particular then,
         I told our pilot, that past other men
         He most must bear firm spirits, since he sway'd
         The continent that all our spirits convey'd,
         In his whole guide of her. He saw there boil
         The fiery whirlpools that to all our spoil
         Inclosed a rock, without which he must steer,
         Or all our ruins stood concluded there.
           All heard me and obey'd, and little knew
         That, shunning that rock, six of them should rue
         The wrack another hid. For I conceal'd
         The heavy wounds, that never would be heal'd,
         To be by Scylla open'd; for their fear
         Would then have robb'd all of all care to steer,
         Or stir an oar, and made them hide beneath,
         When they and all had died an idle death.
         But then even I forgot to shun the harm
         Circe forewarn'd; who will'd I should not arm,
         Nor show myself to Scylla, lest in vain
         I ventured life. Yet could not I contain,
         But arm'd at all parts, and two lances took,
         Up to the foredeck went, and thence did look
         That rocky Scylla would have first appear'd,
         And taken my life with the friends I fear'd.
           From thence yet no place could afford her sight,
         Though through the dark rock mine eye threw her light,
         And ransack'd all ways. I then took a strait
         That gave myself, and some few more, receipt
         'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis; whence we saw
         How horridly Charybdis' throat did draw
         The brackish sea up, which when all abroad
         She spit again out, never caldron sod
         With so much fervour, fed with all the store
         That could enrage it; all the rock did roar
         With troubled waters; round about the tops
         Of all the steep crags flew the foamy drops.
         But when her draught the sea and earth dissunder'd,
         The troubled bottoms turn'd up, and she thunder'd,
         Far under shore the swart sands naked lay.
         Whose whole stern sight the startled blood did fray
         From all our faces. And while we on her
         Our eyes bestow'd thus to our ruin's fear,
         Six friends had Scylla snatch'd out of our keel,
         In whom most loss did force and virtue feel.
         When looking to my ship, and lending eye
         To see my friends' estates, their heels turn'd high,
         And hands cast up, I might discern, and hear
         Their calls to me for help, when now they were
         To try me in their last extremities.
         And as an angler med'cine for surprise
         Of little fish sits pouring from the rocks,
         From out the crook'd horn of a fold-bred ox,
         And then with his long angle hoists them high
         Up to the air, then slightly hurls them by,
         When helpless sprawling on the land they lie;
         So easily Scylla to her rock had rapt
         My woeful friends, and so unhelp'd entrapt
         Struggling they lay beneath her violent rape,
         Who in their tortures, desperate of escape,
         Shriek'd as she tore, and up their hands to me
         Still threw for sweet life. I did never see,
         In all my suff'rance ransacking the seas,
         A spectacle so full of miseries.
           Thus having fled these rocks (these cruel dames
         Scylla, Charybdis) where the King of flames
         Hath offerings burn'd to him our ship put in,
         The island that from all the earth doth win
         The epithet 'Faultless', where the broad-of-head
         And famous oxen for the Sun are fed,
         With many fat flocks of that high-gone God.
         Set in my ship, mine ear reach'd where we rode
         The bellowing of oxen, and the bleat
         Of fleecy sheep, that in my memory's seat
         Put up the forms that late had been impress'd
         By dread Ææan Circe, and the best
         Of souls and prophets, the blind Theban seer,
         The wise Tiresias, who was grave decreer
         Of my return's whole means; of which this one
         In chief he urg'd--that I should always shun
         The island of the man-delighting Sun.
         When, sad at heart for our late loss, I pray'd
         My friends to hear fit counsel (though dismay'd
         With all ill fortunes) which was given to me
         By Circe's and Tiresias' prophecy,--
         That I should fly the isle where was ador'd
         The Comfort of the world, for ills abhorr'd
         Were ambush'd for us there; and therefore will'd
         They should put off and leave the isle. This kill'd
         Their tender spirits; when Eurylochus
         A speech that vex'd me utter'd, answering thus:
           'Cruel Ulysses! Since thy nerves abound
         In strength, the more spent, and no toils confound
         Thy able limbs, as all beat out of steel,
         Thou ablest us too, as unapt to feel
         The teeth of Labour and the spoil of Sleep,
         And therefore still wet waste us in the deep,
         Nor let us land to eat, but madly now
         In night put forth, and leave firm land to strow
         The sea with errors. All the rabid flight
         Of winds that ruin ships are bred in night.
         Who is it that can keep off cruel Death,
         If suddenly should rush out th' angry breath
         Of Notus, or the eager-spirited West,
         That cuff ships dead, and do the Gods their best?
         Serve black Night still with shore, meat, sleep, and ease.
         And offer to the Morning for the seas.'
           This all the rest approved, and then knew I
         That past all doubt the Devil did apply
         His slaught'rous works. Nor would they be withheld;
         I was but one, nor yielded but compell'd.
         But all that might contain them I assay'd,
         A sacred oath on all their powers I laid,
         That if with herds or any richest flocks
         We chanc'd t' encounter, neither sheep nor ox
         We once should touch, nor (for that constant ill
         That follows folly) scorn advice and kill,
         But quiet sit us down and take such food
         As the immortal Circe had bestow'd.
           They swore all this in all severest sort;
         And then we anchor'd in the winding port
         Near a fresh river, where the long'd-for shore
         They all flew out to, took in victuals store,
         And, being full, thought of their friends, and wept
         Their loss by Scylla, weeping till they slept.
           In Night's third part, when stars began to stoop,
         The Cloud-assembler put a tempest up.
         A boist'rous spirit he gave it, drave out all
         His flocks of clouds, and let such darkness fall
         That Earth and Seas, for fear, to hide were driven,
         For with his clouds he thrust out Night from heaven.
           At Morn we drew our ships into a cave,
         In which the Nymphs that Phoebus' cattle drave
         Fair dancing-rooms had, and their seats of state.
         I urged my friends then, that, to shun their fate,
         They would observe their oath, and take the food
         Our ship afforded, nor attempt the blood
         Of those fair herds and flocks, because they were
         The dreadful God's that all could see and hear.
           They stood observant, and in that good mind
         Had we been gone; but so adverse the wind
         Stood to our passage, that we could not go.
         For one whole month perpetually did blow
         Impetuous Notus, not a breath's repair
         But his and Eurus' ruled in all the air.
         As long yet as their ruddy wine and bread
         Stood out amongst them, so long not a head
         Of all those oxen fell in any strife
         Amongst those students for the gut and life;
         But when their victuals fail'd they fell to prey,
         Necessity compell'd them then to stray
         In rape of fish and fowl; whatever came
         In reach of hand or hook, the belly's flame
         Afflicted to it. I then fell to prayer,
         And (making to a close retreat repair,
         Free from both friends and winds) I wash'd my hands,
         And all the Gods besought, that held commands
         In liberal heaven, to yield some mean to stay
         Their desperate hunger, and set up the way
         Of our return restrain'd. The Gods, instead
         Of giving what I pray'd for--power of deed--
         A deedless sleep did on my lids distill,
         For mean to work upon my friends their fill.
         For whiles I slept there waked no mean to curb
         Their headstrong wants; which he that did disturb
         My rule in chief at all times, and was chief
         To all the rest in counsel to their grief,
         Knew well, and of my present absence took
         His fit advantage, and their iron strook
         At highest heat. For, feeling their desire
         In his own entrails, to allay the fire
         That Famine blew in them, he thus gave way
         To that affection: 'Hear what I shall say,
         Though words will staunch no hunger, every death
         To us poor wretches that draw temporal breath
         You know is hateful; but, all know, to die
         The death of Famine is a misery
         Past all death loathsome. Let us, therefore, take
         The chief of this fair herd, and offerings make
         To all the Deathless that in broad heaven live,
         And in particular vow, if we arrive
         In natural Ithaca, to straight erect
         A temple to the Haughty in aspect,
         Rich and magnificent, and all within
         Deck it with relics many and divine.
         If yet he stands incens'd, since we have slain
         His high-brow'd herd, and, therefore, will sustain
         Desire to wrack our ship, he is but one,
         And all the other Gods that we atone
         With our divine rites will their suffrage give
         To our design'd return, and let us live.
         If not, and all take part, I rather crave
         To serve with one sole death the yawning wave,
         Than in a desert island lie and sterve,
         And with one pin'd life many deaths observe.'
           All cried 'He counsels nobly,' and all speed
         Made to their resolute driving; for the feed
         Of those coal-black, fair, broad-brow'd, sun-loved beeves
         Had place close by our ships. They took the lives
         Of sence, most eminent; about their fall
         Stood round, and to the States Celestial
         Made solemn vows; but other rites their ship
         Could not afford them, they did, therefore, strip
         The curl'd-head oak of fresh young leaves, to make
         Supply of service for their barley-cake.
         And on the sacredly enflamed, for wine,
         Pour'd purest water, all the parts divine
         Spitting and roasting; all the rites beside
         Orderly using. Then did light divide
         My low and upper lids; when, my repair
         Made near my ship, I met the delicate air
         Their roast exhaled; out instantly I cried,
         And said: 'O Jove, and all ye Deified,
         Ye have oppress'd me with a cruel sleep,
         While ye conferr'd on me a loss as deep
         As Death descends to. To themselves alone
         My rude men left ungovern'd, they have done
         A deed so impious, I stand well assured,
         That you will not forgive though ye procured.'
           Then flew Lampetie with the ample robe
         Up to her father with the golden globe,
         Ambassadress t' inform him that my men
         Had slain his oxen. Heart-incensed then,
         He cried: 'Revenge me, Father, and the rest
         Both ever-living and for ever blest!
         Ulysses' impious men have drawn the blood
         Of those my oxen that it did me good
         To look on, walking all my starry round,
         And when I trod earth all with meadows crown'd.
         Without your full amends I'll leave heaven quite,
         Dis and the dead adorning with my light.'
           The Cloud-herd answer'd: 'Son! Thou shalt be ours,
         And light those mortals in that mine of flowers!
         My red-hot flash shall graze but on their ship,
         And eat it, burning, in the boiling deep.'
           This by Calypso I was told, and she
         Informed it from the verger Mercury.
           Come to our ship, I chid and told by name
         Each man how impiously he was to blame.
         But chiding got no peace, the beeves were slain!
         When straight the Gods forewent their following pain
         With dire ostents. The hides the flesh had lost
         Crept all before them. As the flesh did roast,
         It bellow'd like the ox itself alive.
         And yet my soldiers did their dead beeves drive
         Through all these prodigies in daily feasts.
         Six days they banqueted and slew fresh beasts;
         And when the seventh day Jove reduced the wind
         That all the month raged, and so in did bind
         Our ship and us, was turn'd and calmed, and we
         Launch'd, put up masts, sails hoised, and to sea.
           The island left so far that land nowhere
         But only sea and sky had power t' appear,
         Jove fixed a cloud above our ship, so black
         That all the sea it darken'd. Yet from wrack
         She ran a good free time, till from the West
         Came Zephyr ruffling forth, and put his breast
         Out in a singing tempest, so most vast
         It burst the gables that made sure our mast;
         Our masts came tumbling down, our cattle down
         Rush'd to the pump, and by our pilot's crown
         The main-mast pass'd his fall, pash'd all his skull,
         And all this wrack but one flaw made at full;
         Off from the stern the sternsman diving fell,
         And from his sinews flew his soul to hell.
         Together all this time Jove's thunder chid,
         And through and through the ship his lightning glid,
         Till it embraced her round; her bulk was fill'd
         With nasty sulphur, and her men were kill'd,
         Tumbled to sea, like sea-mews swum about,
         And there the date of their return was out.
           I toss'd from side to side still, till all broke
         Her ribs were with the storm, and she did choke
         With let-in surges; for the mast torn down
         Tore her up piecemeal, and for me to drown
         Left little undissolved. But to the mast
         There was a leather thong left, which I cast
         About it and the keel, and so sat tost
         With baneful weather, till the West had lost
         His stormy tyranny. And then arose
         The South, that bred me more abhorred woes;
         For back again his blasts expell'd me quite
         On ravenous Charybdis. All that night
         I totter'd up and down, till Light and I
         At Scylla's rock encounter'd, and the nigh
         Dreadful Charybdis. As I drave on these,
         I saw Charybdis supping up the seas,
         And had gone up together, if the tree
         That bore the wild figs had not rescued me;
         To which I leap'd, and left my keel, and high
         Chamb'ring upon it did as close imply
         My breast about it as a reremouse could;
         Yet might my feet on no stub fasten hold
         To ease my hands, the roots were crept so low
         Beneath the earth, and so aloft did grow
         The far-spread arms that, though good height I gat,
         I could not reach them. To the main bole flat
         I, therefore, still must cling; till up again
         She belch'd my mast, and after that amain
         My keel came tumbling. So at length it chanced
         To me, as to a judge that long advanced
         To judge a sort of hot young fellows' jars,
         At length time frees him from their civil wars,
         When glad he riseth and to dinner goes;
         So time, at length, released with joys my woes,
         And from Charybdis' mouth appear'd my keel.
         To which, my hand now loos'd and now my heel,
         I altogether with a huge noise dropp'd,
         Just in her midst fell, where the mast was propp'd,
         And there row'd off with owers of my hands.
         God and man's Father would not from her sands
         Let Scylla see me, for I then had died
         That bitter death that my poor friends supplied.
           Nine days at sea I hover'd; the tenth night
         In th' isle Ogygia, where, about the bright
         And right renown'd Calypso, I was cast
         By power of Deity; where I lived embraced
         With love and feasts. But why should I relate
         Those kind occurrents? I should iterate
         What I in part to your chaste queen and you
         So late imparted. And, for me to grow
         A talker over of my tale again,
         Were past my free contentment to sustain."

            FINIS DUODECIMI LIBRI HOM. ODYSS.

            Opus novem dierum.

            ...