THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses (shipp’d, but in the even,
With all the presents he was given,
And sleeping then) is set next morn
In full scope of his wish’d return,
And treads unknown his country-shore,
Whose search so many winters wore.
The ship (returning, and arriv’d
Against the city) is depriv’d
Of form, and, all her motion gone,
Transform’d by Neptune to a stone.
Ulysses (let to know the strand
Where the Phæacians made him land)
Consults with Pallas, for the life
Of ev’ry wooer of his wife.
His gifts she hides within a cave,
And him into a man more grave,
All hid in wrinkles, crookéd, gray,
Transform’d; who so goes on his way.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Νυ̑.

Phæacia
Ulysses leaves;
Whom Ithaca,
Unwares, receives.

He said; and silence all their tongues contain’d,
In admiration, when with pleasure chain’d
Their ears had long been to him. At last brake
Alcinous silence, and in this sort spake
To th’ Ithacensian, Laertes’ son:
“O Ithacus! However over-run
With former suff’rings in your way for home,
Since ’twas, at last, your happy fate to come
To my high-roof’d and brass-foundation’d house,
I hope, such speed and pass auspicious
Our loves shall yield you, that you shall no more
Wander, nor suffer, homewards, as before.
You then, whoever that are ever grac’d
With all choice of authoriz’d pow’r to taste
Such wine with me as warms the sacred rage,
And is an honorary giv’n to age,1
With which ye likewise hear divinely sing,
In honour’s praise, the poet of the king,
I move, by way of my command, to this:
That where in an elaborate chest there lies
A present for our guest, attires of price,
And gold engrav’n with infinite device,
I wish that each of us should add beside
A tripod, and a caldron, amplified
With size, and metal of most rate, and great;
For we, in council of taxation met,
Will from our subjects gain their worth again;
Since ’tis unequal one man should sustain
A charge so weighty, being the grace of all,
Which borne by many is a weight but small.”
Thus spake Alcinous, and pleas’d the rest;
When each man clos’d with home and sleep his feast.
But when the colour-giving light arose,
All to the ship did all their speeds dispose,2
And wealth, that honest men makes, brought with them.3
All which ev’n he that wore the diadem
Stow’d in the ship himself, beneath the seats
The rowers sat in, stooping, lest their lets
In any of their labours he might prove.
Then home he turn’d, and after him did move
The whole assembly to expected feast.
Among whom he a sacrifice addrest,
And slew an ox, to weather-wielding Jove,
Beneath whose empire all things are, and move.
The thighs then roasting, they made glorious cheer
Delighted highly; and amongst them there
The honour’d-of-the-people us’d his voice,
Divine Demodocus. Yet, through this choice
Of cheer and music, had Ulysses still
An eye directed to the Eastern hill,
To see Him rising that illustrates all;
For now into his mind a fire did fall
Of thirst for home. And as in hungry vow
To needful food a man at fixéd plow
(To whom the black ox all day long hath turn’d
The stubborn fallows up, his stomach burn’d
With empty heat and appetite to food,
His knees afflicted with his spirit-spent blood)
At length the long-expected sunset sees,
That he may sit to food, and rest his knees;
So to Ulysses set the friendly light
The sun afforded, with as wish’d a sight.
Who straight bespake that oar-affecting State,
But did in chief his speech appropriate
To him by name, that with their rule was crown’d.
“Alcinous, of all men most renown’d,
Dismiss me with as safe pass as you vow
(Your off’ring past) and may the Gods to you
In all contentment use as full a hand;
For now my landing here and stay shall stand
In all perfection with my heart’s desire,
Both my so safe deduction to aspire,
And loving gifts; which may the Gods to me
As blest in use make as your acts are free,
Ev’n to the finding firm in love, and life,
With all desir’d event, my friends, and wife.
When, as myself shall live delighted there,
May you with your wives rest as happy here,
Your sons and daughters, in particular state,
With ev’ry virtue render’d consummate;
And, in your gen’ral empire, may ill never
Approach your land, but good your good quit ever.”
This all applauded, and all jointly cried:
“Dismiss the stranger! He hath dignified
With fit speech his dismission.” Then the king
Thus charg’d the herald: “Fill for offering
A bowl of wine; which through the whole large house
Dispose to all men, that, propitious
Our father Jove made with our pray’rs, we may
Give home our guest in full and wishéd way.”
This said, Pontonous commix’d a bowl
Of such sweet wine as did delight the soul.
Which making sacred to the blessed Gods,
That hold in broad heav’n their supreme abodes,
God-like Ulysses from his chair arose,
And in the hands of th’ empress did impose
The all-round cup; to whom, fair spoke, he said:
“Rejoice, O queen, and be your joys repaid
By heav’n, for me, till age and death succeed;
Both which inflict their most unwelcome need
On men and dames alike. And, first, for me,
I must from hence, to both: Live you here free,
And ever may all living blessings spring,
Your joy in children, subjects, and your king.”
This said, divine Ulysses took his way;
Before whom the unalterable sway
Of king Alcinous’ virtue did command
A herald’s fit attendance to the strand,
And ship appointed. With him likewise went
Handmaids, by Arete’s injunction sent.
One bore an out and in-weed, fair and sweet,
The other an embroider’d cabinet,
The third had bread to bear, and ruddy wine;
All which, at sea and ship arriv’d, resign
Their freight conferr’d. With fair attendants then,
The sheets and bedding of the man of men,
Within a cabin of the hollow keel,
Spread, and made soft, that sleep might sweetly seel
His restful eyes, he enter’d, and his bed
In silence took. The rowers orderéd
Themselves in sev’ral seats, and then set gone
The ship, the gable from the hollow stone
Dissolv’d and weigh’d-up, all, together, close
Then beat the sea. His lids in sweet repose
Sleep bound so fast, it scarce gave way to breath
Inexcitable, most dear, next of all to death.
And as amids a fair field four brave horse
Before a chariot stung into their course
With fervent lashes of the smarting scourge,
That all their fire blows high, and makes them urge
To utmost speed the measure of their ground;
So bore the ship aloft her fiery bound;
About whom rush’d the billows black and vast,
In which the sea-roars burst. As firm as fast
She ply’d her course yet; nor her wingéd speed
The falcon-gentle could for pace exceed;
So cut she through the waves, and bore a man
Even with the Gods in counsels, that began
And spent his former life in all misease,
Battles of men, and rude waves of the seas,
Yet now securely slept, forgetting all.
And when heav’n’s brightest star, that first doth call
The early morning out, advanc’d her head,
Then near to Ithaca the billow-bred
Phræcian ship approach’d. There is a port,
That th’ aged sea-God Phorcys makes his fort,
Whose earth the Ithacensian people own,
In which two rocks inaccessible are grown
Far forth into the sea, whose each strength binds
The boist’rous waves in from the high-flown winds
On both the out-parts so, that all within
The well-built ships, that once their harbour win
In his calm bosom, without anchor rest,
Safe, and unstirr’d. From forth the haven’s high crest
Branch the well-brawn’d arms of an olive-tree;
Beneath which runs a cave from all sun free,
Cool, and delightsome, sacred to th’ access
Of Nymphs whose surnames are the Naiadés;
In which flew humming bees, in which lay thrown
Stone cups, stone vessels, shittles all of stone,
With which the Nymphs their purple mantles wove,
In whose contexture art and wonder strove;
In which pure springs perpetually ran;
To which two entries were; the one for man,
On which the North breath’d; th’ other for the Gods,
On which the South; and that bore no abodes
For earthy men, but only deathless feet
Had there free way. This port these men thought meet
To land Ulysses, being the first they knew,
Drew then their ship in, but no further drew
Than half her bulk reach’d, by such cunning hand
Her course was manag’d. Then her men took land,
And first brought forth Ulysses, bed, and all
That richly furnish’d it, he still in thrall
Of all-subduing sleep. Upon the sand
They set him softly down; and then the strand
They strew’d with all the goods he had, bestow’d
By the renown’d Phæacians, since he show’d
So much Minerva. At the olive root
They drew them then in heap, most far from foot
Of any traveller, lest, ere his eyes
Resum’d their charge, they might be others’ prise.
These then turn’d home; nor was the sea’s Supreme
Forgetful of his threats, for Polypheme
Bent at divine Ulysses, yet would prove
(Ere their performance) the decree of Jove.
“Father! no more the Gods shall honour me,
Since men despise me, and those men that see
The light in lineage of mine own lov’d race.4
I vow’d Ulysses should, before the grace
Of his return, encounter woes enow
To make that purchase dear; yet did not vow
Simply against it, since thy brow had bent
To his reduction, in the fore-consent
Thou hadst vouchsaf’d it; yet, before my mind
Hath full pow’r on him, the Phæacians find
Their own minds’ satisfaction with his pass,
So far from suff’ring what my pleasure was,
That ease and softness now is habited
In his secure breast, and his careless head
Return’d in peace of sleep to Ithaca,
The brass and gold of rich Phæacia
Rocking his temples, garments richly wov’n,
And worlds of prise, more than was ever strov’n
From all the conflicts he sustain’d at Troy,
If safe he should his full share there enjoy.”
The Show’r-dissolver answer’d: “What a speech
Hath pass’d thy palate, O thou great in reach
Of wrackful empire! Far the Gods remain
From scorn of thee, for ’twere a work of pain
To prosecute with ignominies one
That sways our ablest and most ancient throne.
For men, if any so beneath in pow’r
Neglect thy high will, now, or any hour
That moves hereafter, take revenge to thee,
Soothe all thy will, and be thy pleasure free.”
“Why then,” said he, “thou blacker of the fumes
That dim the sun, my licens’d pow’r resumes
Act from thy speech; but I observe so much
And fear thy pleasure, that, I dare not touch
At any inclination of mine own,
Till thy consenting influence be known.
But now this curious-built Phæacian ship,
Returning from her convoy, I will strip
Of all her fleeting matter, and to stone
Transform and fix it, just when she hath gone
Her full time home, and jets before their prease
In all her trim, amids the sable seas,
That they may cease to convoy strangers still,
When they shall see so like a mighty hill
Their glory stick before their city’s grace,
And my hands cast a mask before her face.”5
“O friend,” said Jove, “it shows to me the best
Of all earth’s objects, that their whole prease, drest
In all their wonder, near their town shall stand,
And stare upon a stone, so near the land,
So like a ship, and dam up all their lights,
As if a mountain interpos’d their sights.”
When Neptune heard this, he for Scheria went,
Whence the Phæacians took their first descent.
Which when he reach’d, and, in her swiftest pride,
The water-treader by the city’s side
Came cutting close, close he came swiftly on,
Took her in violent hand, and to a stone
Turn’d all her sylvan substance; all below
Firm’d her with roots, and left her. This strange show
When the Phæacians saw, they stupid stood,
And ask’d each other, who amids the flood
Could fix their ship so in her full speed home,
And quite transparent make her bulk become?
Thus talk’d they; but were far from knowing how
These things had issue. Which their king did show,
And said: “O friends, the ancient prophecies
My father told to me, to all our eyes
Are now in proof. He said, the time would come,
When Neptune, for our safe conducting home
All sorts of strangers, out of envy fir’d,
Would meet our fairest ship as she retir’d,
And all the goodly shape and speed we boast
Should like a mountain stand before us lost
Amids the moving waters; which we see
Perform’d in full end to our prophecy.
Hear then my counsel, and obey me then:
Renounce henceforth our convoy home of men,
Whoever shall hereafter greet our town;
And to th’ offended Deity’s renown
Twelve chosen oxen let us sacred make,
That he may pity us, and from us take
This shady mountain. They, in fear, obey’d,
Slew all the beeves, and to the Godhead pray’d,
The dukes and princes all ensphering round
The sacred altar; while whose tops were crown’d,
Divine Ulysses, on his country’s breast
Laid bound in sleep, now rose out of his rest,
Nor (being so long remov’d) the region knew.
Besides which absence yet, Minerva threw
A cloud about him, to make strange the more
His safe arrival, lest upon his shore
He should make known his face, and utter all
That might prevent th’ event that was to fall.
Which she prepar’d so well, that not his wife,
Presented to him, should perceive his life,
No citizen, no friend, till righteous fate
Upon the Wooer’s wrongs were consummate.
Through which cloud all things show’d now to the king
Of foreign fashion; the enflow’réd spring
Amongst the trees there, the perpetual waves,
The rocks, that did more high their foreheads raise
To his wrapt eye than naturally they did,
And all the haven, in which a man seem’d hid
From wind and weather, when storms loudest chid.
He therefore, being risen, stood and view’d
His country-earth; which, not perceiv’d, he rued,
And, striking with his hurl’d-down hands his thighs,
He mourn’d, and said: “O me! Again where lies
My desert way? To wrongful men and rude,
And with no laws of human right endued?
Or are they human, and of holy minds?
What fits my deed with these so many kinds
Of goods late giv’n? What with myself will floods
And errors do? I would to God, these goods
Had rested with their owners, and that I
Had fall’n on kings of more regality,
To grace out my return, that lov’d indeed,
And would have giv’n me consorts of fit speed
To my distresses’ ending! But, as now
All knowledge flies me where I may bestow
My labour’d purchase, here they shall not stay,
Lest what I car’d for others make their prey.
O Gods! I see the great Phæacians then
Were not all just and understanding men,
That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended,
Assuring me my country should see ended
My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts.
O Jove! Great Guardian of poor suppliants,
That others sees, and notes too, shutting in
All in thy plagues that most presume on sin,
Revenge me on them. Let me number now
The goods they gave, to give my mind to know
If they have stol’n none in their close retreat.”
The goodly caldrons then, and tripods, set
In sev’ral ranks from out the heap, he told,
His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold,
And nothing lack’d; and yet this man did mourn
The but suppos’d miss of his home-return,
And creeping to the shore with much complaint;
Minerva (like a shepherd, young, and quaint,6
As king sons are, a double mantle cast
Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac’d
With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart)
Appear’d to him, whose sight rejoic’d his heart,
To whom he came, and said: “O friend! Since first
I meet your sight here, be all good the worst
That can join our encounter. Fare you fair,
Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,
But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.
As to a God I offer pray’rs to thee,
And low access make to thy lovéd knee.
Say truth, that I may know, what country then,
What common people live here, and what men?
Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,
Being near the sea, to some rich continent?”
She answer’d: “Stranger, whatsoe’er you are,
Y’are either foolish, or come passing far,
That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,
For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble,
But passing many know it; and so many,
That of all nations there abides not any,
From where the morning rises and the sun,
To where the even and night their courses run,
But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough,
And so for use of horse unapt enough,
Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,7
Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,
And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great,
The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat.
It feeds a goat and ox well, being still
Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill
With heav’n’s continual show’rs; and wooded so,
It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.
And therefore, Stranger, the extended name
Of this dominion makes access by fame
From this extreme part of Achaia
As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.”
This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land
Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand
He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high,
That other end he put to his reply
Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad
His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d
A veil on truth; for evermore did wind
About his bosom a most crafty mind,
Which thus his words show’d: “I have far at sea,
In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,
Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,
With these my fortunes; whose whole value more
I left in Crete amongst my children there,
From whence I fly for being the slaughterer
Of royal Idomen’s most-lovéd son,
Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run
Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew,
Because he would deprive me of my due
In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so
(The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe
Of mind and body in the wars of men.
Nor did I gratify his father then
With any service, but, as well as he
Sway’d in command of other soldiery,
So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,
When gloomy night the cope of heav’n did dim,
And no man knew; but, we lodg’d close, he came,
And I put out to him his vital flame.
Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword,
I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard
A ship of the renown’d Phœnician state;
When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate,
Obtain’d my pass of men in her command;
Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land
Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,
Where the Epeïans in great empire shine.
But force of weather check’d that course to them,
Though (loth to fail me) to their most extreme
They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence,
We err’d, and put in here, with much expence
Of care and labour; and in dead of night,
When no man there serv’d any appetite
So much as with the memory of food,
Though our estates exceeding needy stood.
But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep
My weary pow’rs invaded, and from ship
They fetching these my riches, with just hand
About me laid them, while upon the sand
Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they
(Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,
Left sad alone.” The Goddess laugh’d, and took
His hand in hers, and with another look
(Assuming then the likeness of a dame,
Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame
Of virtuous housewif’ries) she answer’d thus:
“He should be passing-sly, and covetous
Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee8
In any craft, though any God should be
Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.
Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate9
In over-reaches! Not secure thy state
Without these wiles, though on thy native shore
Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store
Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth
Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth
Is known to either. Thou of men art far,
For words and counsels, the most singular,
But I above the Gods in both may boast
My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost
The knowledge ev’n of me, the Seed of Jove,
Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove
In all thy labours their extremes, and stood
Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good
Known to the good Phæacians, and receiv’d.
And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d
Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me
The close reserving of these goods for thee,
Which the renown’d Phæacian states bestow’d
At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d
With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace
I now will amplify, and tell what case
Thy household stands in, utt’ring all those pains
That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.
Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give
To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,
But silent suffer over all again
Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.”
“Goddess,” said he, “unjust men, and unwise,
That author injuries and vanities,
By vanities and wrongs should rather be
Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,
Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n,
That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n
Up to all domage those poor few that strive
To imitate it, and like the Deities live?
But where you wonder that I know you not
Through all your changes, that skill is not got
By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face
Is still distinguish’d by thy free-giv’n grace;
And therefore, truly to acknowledge thee
In thy encounters, is a mastery
In men most-knowing; for to all men thou
Tak’st sev’ral likeness. All men think they know
Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view
Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few,
Through all thy changes to discern thee right
Asks chief love to thee, and inspiréd light.
But this I surely know, that, some years past,
I have been often with thy presence grac’d,
All time the sons of Greece wag’d war at Troy;
But when Fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy
Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town,
Our ships all boarded, and when God had blown
Our fleet in sunder, I could never see
The Seed of Jove, nor once distinguish thee
Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.
But only in my proper spirit involv’d,
Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d
Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace
By open speech confirm’d me, in a place
Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou
Didst give me guide, and all their city show;
And that was the renown’d Phæacian earth.
Now then, ev’n by the Author of thy birth,
Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies
My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes
Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch
At some far shore, and that thy wit is such
Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same
Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?”
“I see,” said she, “thou wilt be ever thus
In ev’ry worldly good incredulous,
And therefore have no more the pow’r to see
Frail life more plagued with infelicity
In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.
Another man, that so long miseries
Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d
To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d
In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire
What states they hold, affects not thy desire,
Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be
A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee
In loving tears, that then the sight may prove
A full reward for either’s mutual love.
But I would never credit in you both
Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth
Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,
I knew as well, should make returnless ends;
Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so
To stand their safeguard, since so high did go
His wrath for thy extinction of the eye
Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why
I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground
Thy credit on my words: This haven is own’d
By th’ agéd sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow
This is the olive with the ample bough,
And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave
That to the Fount-Nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave,
As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run
The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done
Hundreds of off’rings to the Naiades,
Here Mount Neritus shakes his curléd tress
Of shady woods.” This said, she clear’d the cloud
That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d
His country to him. Glad he stood with sight
Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight;
And instantly to all the Nymphs he paid
(With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said:
“Ye Nymphs the Naiades, great Seed of Jove,
I had conceit that never more should move
Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,
And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice
Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more
I pay your names in off’rings as before;
Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent,
The mighty Pillager, with life convent
My person home, and to my sav’d decease
Of my lov’d son’s sight add the sweet increase.”
“Be confident,” said Pallas, “nor oppress
Thy spirits with care of these performances,
But these thy fortunes let us straight repose
In this divine cave’s bosom, that may close
Reserve their value; and we then may see
How best to order other acts to thee.”
Thus enter’d she the light-excluding cave,
And through it sought some inmost nook to save
The gold, the great brass, and robes richly-wrought,
Giv’n to Ulysses. All which in he brought,
Laid down in heap; and she impos’d a stone
Close to the cavern’s mouth. Then sat they on
The sacred olive’s root, consulting how
To act th’ insulting Wooers’ overthrow;
When Pallas said: “Examine now the means
That best may lay hands on the impudence
Of those proud Wooers, that have now three years
Thy roof’s rule sway’d, and been bold offerers
Of suit and gifts to thy renownéd wife,
Who for thy absence all her desolate life
Dissolves in tears till thy desir’d return;
Yet all her Wooers, while she thus doth mourn,
She holds in hope, and ev’ry one affords
(In fore-sent message) promise; but her words
Bear other utt’rance than her heart approves.”
“O Gods,” said Ithacus, “it now behoves
My fate to end me in the ill decease
That Agamemnon underwent, unless
You tell me, and in time; their close intents.
Advise then means to the reveng’d events
We both resolve on. Be thyself so kind
To stand close to me, and but such a mind
Breathe in my bosom, as when th’ Ilion tow’rs
We tore in cinders. O if equal pow’rs
Thou wouldst enflame amidst my nerves as then,
I could encounter with three hundred men,
Thy only self, great Goddess, had to friend,
In those brave ardors thou wert wont t’ extend!”
“I will be strongly with thee,” answer’d she,
“Nor must thou fail, but do thy part with me.
When both whose pow’rs combine, I hope the bloods
And brains of some of these that waste thy goods
Shall strew thy goodly pavements. Join we then:
I first will render thee unknown to men,
And on thy solid lineaments make dry
Thy now smooth skin; thy bright-brown curls imply
In hoary mattings; thy broad shoulders clothe
In such a cloak as ev’ry eye shall lothe;
Thy bright eyes blear and wrinkle; and so change
Thy form at all parts, that thou shalt be strange
To all the Wooers, thy young son, and wife.
But to thy herdsman first present thy life,
That guards thy swine, and wisheth well to thee,
That loves thy son and wife Penelopé.
Thy search shall find him set aside his herd,
That are with taste-delighting acorns rear’d,
And drink the dark-deep water of the spring,
Bright Arethusa, the most nourishing
Raiser of herds. There stay, and, taking seat
Aside thy herdsman, of the whole state treat
Of home-occurrents, while I make access
To fair-dame-breeding Sparta for regress
Of lov’d Telemachus, who went in quest
Of thy lov’d fame, and liv’d the welcome guest
Of Menelaus.” The much-knower said:
“Why wouldst not thou, in whose grave breast is bred
The art to order all acts, tell in this
His error to him? Let those years of his
Amids the rude seas wander, and sustain
The woes there raging, while unworthy men
Devour his fortunes?” “Let not care extend
Thy heart for him,” said she, “myself did send
His person in thy search; to set his worth,
By good fame blown, to such a distance forth.
Nor suffers he in any least degree
The grief you fear, but all variety
That Plenty can yield in her quiet’st fare,
In Menelaus’ court, doth sit and share.
In whose return from home, the Wooers yet
Lay bloody ambush, and a ship have set
To sea, to intercept his life before
He touch again his birth’s attempted shore.
All which, my thoughts say, they shall never do,
But rather, that the earth shall overgo
Some one at least of these love-making men,
By which thy goods so much impair sustain.”
Thus using certain secret words to him,
She touch’d him with her rod; and ev’ry limb
Was hid all-over with a wither’d skin;
His bright eyes blear’d; his brow-curls white and thin;
And all things did an agéd man present.
Then, for his own weeds, shirt and coat, all-rent,
Tann’d, and all-sootiéd with noisome smoke,
She put him on; and, over all, a cloke
Made of a stag’s huge hide, of which was worn
The hair quite off; a scrip, all-patch’d and torn,
Hung by a cord, oft broke and knit again;
And with a staff did his old limbs sustain.
Thus having both consulted of th’ event,
They parted both; and forth to Sparta went
The gray-eyed Goddess, to see all things done
That appertain’d to wise Ulysses’ son.
THE END OF THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

1 Γερούσιος οι͒νος, quod pro honorario senibus datur. And because the word so Englished hath no other to express it, sounding well, and helping our language, it is here used.
2 Intending in chief the senators, with every man’s addition of gift.
3 Εὐήνορα χαλκὸν, bene honestos faciens æs.
4 The Phæacians were descended originally from Neptune.
5 Αμϕικαλύπτω, superinjicio aliquid tanquam tegmen seu operimentum.
6 Minerva like a shepherd (such as kings’ sons used at those times to be) appears to Ulysses.
7 Λυπρὸς, velut tristis, jejunaque naturâ.
8 Επίκλοπος, furandi avidus.
9 Σχέτλιε, ποικλομη̑τα, varia et multiplicia habens consilia.