THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses meets amids the field
His swain Eumæus: who doth yield
Kind guest-rites to him, and relate
Occurrents of his wrong’d estate.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ξι̑.

Ulysses fains
For his true good:
His pious swain’s
Faith understood.

But he the rough way took from forth the port,
Through woods and hill-tops, seeking the resort
Where Pallas said divine Eumæus liv’d;
Who of the fortunes, that were first achiev’d
By God-like Ithacus in household rights,
Had more true care than all his prosylites.1
He found him sitting in his cottage door,
Where he had rais’d to ev’ry airy blore
A front of great height, and in such a place
That round ye might behold, of circular grace
A walk so wound about it; which the swain
(In absence of his far-gone sovereign)
Had built himself, without his queen’s supply,
Or old Laertes’, to see safely lie
His houséd herd. The inner part he wrought
Of stones, that thither his own labours brought,
Which with an hedge of thorn he fenc’d about,
And compass’d all the hedge with pales cleft out
Of sable oak, that here and there he fix’d
Frequent and thick. Within his yard he mix’d
Twelve styes to lodge his herd; and ev’ry stye
Had room and use for fifty swine to lie;
But those were females all. The male swine slept
Without doors ever; nor was their herd kept
Fair like the females, since they suffer’d still
Great diminution, he being forc’d to kill
And send the fattest to the dainty feasts
Affected by th’ ungodly wooing guests.
Their number therefore but three hundred were
And sixty. By them mastiffs, as austere
As savage beasts, lay ever, their fierce strain
Bred by the herdsman, a mere prince of men,
Their number four. Himself was then applied
In cutting forth a fair-hued ox’s hide,
To fit his feet with shoes. His servants held
Guard of his swine: three, here and there, at field,
The fourth he sent to city with a sow,
Which must of force be offer’d to the vow
The Wooers made to all satiety,
To serve which still they did those off’rings ply.
The fate-born-dogs-to-bark took sudden view2
Of Odyssëus, and upon him flew
With open mouth. He, cunning to appall
A fierce dog’s fury, from his hand let fall
His staff to earth, and sat him careless down.
And yet to him had one foul wrong been shown
Where most his right lay, had not instantly
The herdsman let his hide fall, and his cry
(With frequent stones flung at the dogs) repell’d
This way and that their eager course they held;
When through the entry past, he thus did mourn:
“O father! How soon had you near been torn
By these rude dogs, whose hurt had branded me
With much neglect of you! But Deity
Hath giv’n so many other sighs and cares
To my attendant state, that well unwares
You might be hurt for me, for here I lie
Grieving and mourning for the Majesty
That, God-like, wonted to be ruling here,
Since now I fat his swine for others’ cheer,
Where he, perhaps, errs hungry up and down,
In countries, nations, cities, all unknown;
If any where he lives yet, and doth see
The sun’s sweet beams. But, father, follow me,
That, cheer’d with wine and food, you may disclose
From whence you truly are, and all the woes
Your age is subject to.” This said, he led
Into his cottage, and of osiers spread
A thicken’d hurdle, on whose top he strow’d
A wild-goat’s shaggy skin, and then bestow’d
His own couch on it, that was soft and great.
Ulysses joy’d to see him so entreat
His uncouth presence, saying: “Jove requite,
And all th’ immortal Gods, with that delight
Thou most desir’st, thy kind receipt of me,
friend to human hospitality!”
Eumæus answer’d: “Guest! If one much worse
Arriv’d here than thyself, it were a curse
To my poor means, to let a stranger taste
Contempt for fit food. Poor men, and unplac’d
In free seats of their own, are all from Jove
Commended to our entertaining love.
But poor is th’ entertainment I can give,
Yet free and loving. Of such men as live
The lives of servants, and are still in fear
Where young lords govern, this is all the cheer
They can afford a stranger. There was one
That us’d to manage this now desert throne,
To whom the Gods deny return, that show’d
His curious favour to me, and bestow’d
Possessions on me, a most-wishéd wife,
A house, and portion, and a servant’s life,
Fit for the gift a gracious king should give;
Who still took pains himself, and God made thrive
His personal endeavour, and to me
His work the more increas’d, in which you see
I now am conversant. And therefore much
His hand had help’d me, had Heav’n’s will been such,
He might have here grown old. But he is gone,
And would to God the whole successión
Of Helen might go with him, since for her
So many men died, whose fate did confer
My liege to Troy, in Agamemnon’s grace,
To spoil her people, and her turrets race!”
This said, his coat to him he straight did gird,
And to his styes went that contain’d his herd;
From whence he took out two, slew both, and cut
Both fairly up; a fire enflam’d, and put
To spit the joints; which roasted well, he set
With spit and all to him, that he might eat
From thence his food in all the singeing heat,
Yet dredg’d it first with flour; then fill’d his cup
With good sweet wine; sat then, and cheer’d him up
“Eat now, my guest, such lean swine as are meat
For us poor swains; the fat the Wooers eat,
In whose minds no shame, no remorse, doth move,
Though well they know the bless’d Gods do not love
Ungodly actions, but respect the right,
And in the works of pious men delight.
But these are worse than impious, for those
That vow t’ injustice, and profess them foes
To other nations, enter on their land,
And Jupiter (to show his punishing hand
Upon th’ invaded, for their penance then)
Gives favour to their foes, though wicked men,
To make their prey on them; who, having freight
Their ships with spoil enough, weigh anchor straight,
And each man to his house; (and yet ev’n these,
Doth pow’rful fear of God’s just vengeance seize
Ev’n for that prize in which they so rejoice)
But these men, knowing (having heard the voice
Of God by some means) that sad death hath reft
The ruler here, will never suffer left
Their unjust wooing of his wife, nor take
Her often answer, and their own roofs make
Their fit retreats, but (since uncheck’d they may)
They therefore will make still his goods their prey,
Without all spare or end. There is no day,
Nor night, sent out from God, that ever they
Profane with one beast’s blood, or only two,
But more make spoil of; and the wrongs they do
In meat’s excess to wine as well extend,
Which as excessively their riots spend,
Yet still leave store, for sure his means were great,
And no heroë, that hath choicest seat
Upon the fruitful neighbour-continent,
Or in this isle itself, so opulent
Was as Ulysses; no, nor twenty such,
Put altogether, did possess so much.
Whose herds and flocks I’ll tell to ev’ry head:
Upon the continent he daily fed
Twelve herds of oxen, no less flocks of sheep,
As many herds of swine, stalls large and steep,
And equal sorts of goats, which tenants there,
And his own shepherds, kept. Then fed he here
Eleven fair stalls of goats, whose food hath yield
In the extreme part of a neighbour-field.
Each stall his herdsman hath, an honest swain,
Yet ev’ry one must ev’ry day sustain
The load of one beast (the most-fat, and best
Of all the stall-fed) to the Wooers’ feast.
And I, for my part, of the swine I keep
(With four more herdsmen) ev’ry day help steep
The Wooers’ appetites in blood of one,
The most select our choice can fall upon.”
To this Ulysses gave good ear, and fed,
And drunk his wine, and vex’d, and ravishéd
His food for mere vexation. Seeds of ill
His stomach sow’d, to hear his goods go still
To glut of Wooers. But his dinner done,
And stomach fed to satisfactión,
He drunk a full bowl, all of only wine,
And gave it to the guardian of his swine,
Who took it, and rejoic’d; to whom he said:
“O friend, who is it that, so rich, hath paid
Price for thy service, whose commended pow’r,
Thou sayst, to grace the Grecian conquerour,
At Ilion perish’d? Tell me. It may fall
I knew some such. The great God knows, and all
The other deathless Godheads, if I can,
Far having travell’d, tell of such a man.”
Eumæus answer’d: “Father, never one,
Of all the strangers that have touch’d upon
This coast, with his life’s news could ever yet
Of queen, or lov’d son, any credit get.
These travellers, for clothes, or for a meal,
At all adventures, any lie will tell.
Nor do they trade for truth. Not any man
That saw the people Ithacensian,
Of all their sort, and had the queen’s supplies,
Did ever tell her any news, but lies.
She graciously receives them yet, inquires
Of all she can, and all in tears expires.
It is th’ accustom’d law, that women keep,
Their husbands elsewhere dead, at home to weep.
But do thou quickly, father, forge a tale,
Some coat, or cloak, to keep thee warm withal,
Perhaps some one may yield thee; but for him,
Vultures and dogs have torn from ev’ry limb
His porous skin, and forth his soul is fled,
His corse at sea to fishes forfeited,
Or on the shore lies hid in heaps of sand,
And there hath he his ebb, his native strand
With friends’ tears flowing. But to me past all
Were tears created, for I never shall
Find so humane a royal master more,
Whatever sea I seek, whatever shore.
Nay, to my father, or my mother’s love
Should I return, by whom I breathe and move,
Could I so much joy offer; nor these eyes
(Though my desires sustain extremities
For their sad absence) would so fain be blest
With sight of their lives, in my native nest,
As with Ulysses dead; in whose last rest,
O friend, my soul shall love him. He’s not here
Nor do I name him like a flatterer,
But as one thankful for his love and care
To me a poor man; in the rich so rare.
And be he past all shores where sun can shine,
I will invoke him as a soul divine.”
“O friend,” said he, “to say, and to believe,
He cannot live, doth too much licence give
To incredulity; for, not to speak
At needy randon, but my breath to break
In sacred oath, Ulysses shall return.
And when his sight recomforts those that mourn
In his own roofs, then give me cloak, and coat,
And garments worthy of a man of note.
Before which, though need urg’d me never so,
I’ll not receive a thread, but naked go.
No less I hate him than the gates of hell,
That poorness can force an untruth to tell.
Let Jove then (Heav’n’s chief God) just witness bear,
And this thy hospitable table here,
Together with unblam’d Ulysses’ house,
In which I find receipt so gracious,
What I affirm’d of him shall all be true.
This instant year thine eyes ev’n here shall view
Thy lord Ulysses. Nay, ere this month’s end,
Return’d full-home, he shall revenge extend
To ev’ry one, whose ever deed hath done
Wrong to his wife and his illustrious son.”
“O father,” he replied, “I’ll neither give
Thy news reward, nor doth Ulysses live.
But come, enough of this, let’s drink and eat,
And never more his memory repeat.
It grieves my heart to be remember’d thus
By anyone of one so glorious.
But stand your oath in your assertion strong,
And let Ulysses come, for whom I long,
For whom his wife, for whom his agéd sire,
For whom his son consumes his god-like fire,
Whose chance I now must mourn, and ever shall.
Whom when the Gods had brought to be as tall
As any upright plant, and I had said,
He would amongst a court of men have sway’d
In counsels, and for form have been admir’d
Ev’n with his father, some God misinspir’d,
Or man took from him his own equal mind,
And pass’d him for the Pylian shore to find
His long-lost father. In return from whence,
The Wooers’ pride way-lays his innocence,
That of divine Arcesius all the race
May fade to Ithaca, and not the grace
Of any name left to it. But leave we
His state, however, if surpris’d he be,
Or if he scape. And may Saturnius’ hand
Protect him safely to his native land.
Do thou then, father, show your griefs, and cause
Of your arrival here; nor break the laws
That truth prescribes you, but relate your name,
And of what race you are, your father’s fame,
And native city’s; ship and men unfold,
That to this isle convey’d you, since I hold
Your here arrival was not all by shore,
Nor that your feet your agéd person bore.”
He answer’d him: “I’ll tell all strictly true,
If time, and food, and wine enough, accrue
Within your roof to us, that freely we
May sit and banquet. Let your business be
Discharg’d by others; for, when all is done,
I cannot easily, while the year doth run
His circle round, run over all the woes,
Beneath which, by the course the Gods dispose,
My sad age labours. First, I’ll tell you then,
From ample Crete I fetch my native strain;
My father wealthy, whose house many a life
Brought forth and bred besides by his true wife,
But me a bond-maid bore, his concubine.
Yet tender’d was I as his lawful line
By him of whose race I my life profess.
Castor his name, surnam’d Hylacides.
A man, in fore-times, by the Cretan state,
For goods, good children, and his fortunate
Success in all acts, of no mean esteem.
But death-conferring Fates have banish’d him
To Pluto’s kingdom. After whom, his sons
By lots divided his possessions,
And gave me passing little; yet bestow’d
A house on me, to which my virtues woo’d
A wife from rich men’s roofs; nor was borne low,
Nor last in fight, though all nerves fail me now.
But I suppose, that you, by thus much seen,
Know by the stubble what the corn hath been.
For, past all doubt, affliction past all mean
Hath brought my age on; but, in seasons past,
Both Mars and Pallas have with boldness grac’d,
And fortitude, my fortunes, when I chus’d
Choice men for ambush, prest to have produc’d
Ill to mine enemies; my too vent’rous spirit
Set never death before mine eyes, for merit,
But, far the first advanc’d still, still I strook
Dead with my lance whoever overtook
My speed of foot. Such was I then for war.
But rustic actions ever fled me far,
And household thrift, which breeds a famous race.
In oar-driv’n ships did I my pleasures place,
In battles, light darts, arrows. Sad things all,
And into others’ thoughts with horror fall.
But what God put into my mind, to me
I still esteem’d as my felicity.
As men of sev’ral metals are address’d,
So sev’ral forms are in their souls impress’d.
Before the sons of Greece set foot in Troy,
Nine times, in chief, I did command enjoy
Of men and ships against our foreign foe,
And all I fitly wish’d succeeded so.
Yet, after this, I much exploit achiev’d,
When straight my house in all possessions thriv’d.
Yet, after that, I great and rev’rend grew
Amongst the Cretans, till the Thund’rer drew
Our forces out in his foe-Troy decrees;
A hateful service that dissolv’d the knees
Of many a soldier. And to this was I,
And famous Idomen, enjoin’d t’ apply
Our ships and pow’rs, Nor was there to be heard
One reason for denial, so preferr’d
Was the unreasonable people’s rumour.
Nine years we therefore fed the martial humour,
And in the tenth, de-peopling Priam’s town,
We sail’d for home. But God had quickly blown
Our fleet in pieces; and to wretched me
The counsellor Jove did much mishap decree,
For, only one month, I had leave t’ enjoy
My wife and children, and my goods t’ employ.
But, after this, my mind for Ægypt stood,
When nine fair ships I rigg’d forth for the flood,
Mann’d them with noble soldiers, all things fit
For such a voyage soon were won to it.
Yet six days after stay’d my friends in feast,
While I in banquets to the Gods addrest
Much sacred matter for their sacrifice.
The seventh, we boarded; and the Northern skies
Lent us a frank and passing prosp’rous gale,
‘Fore which we bore us free and easy sail
As we had back’d a full and frolic tide;
Nor felt one ship misfortune for her pride,
But safe we sat, our sailors and the wind
Consenting in our convoy. When heav’n shin’d
In sacred radiance of the fifth fair day,
To sweetly-water’d Egypt reach’d our way,
And there we anchor’d; where I charg’d my men
To stay aboard, and watch. Dismissing then
Some scouts to get the hill-tops, and discover,
They (to their own intemperance giv’n over).
Straight fell to forage the rich fields, and thence
Enforce both wives and infants, with th’ expence
Of both their bloods. When straight the rumour flew
Up to the city. Which heard, up they drew
By day’s First break, and all the field was fill’d
With foot and horse, whose arms did all things gild.
And then the lightning-loving Deity cast
A foul flight on my soldiers; nor stood fast
One man of all. About whom mischief stood,
And with his stern steel drew in streams the blood
The greater part fed in their dissolute veins;
The rest were sav’d, and made enthralléd swains
To all the basest usages there bred.
And then, ev’n Jove himself supplied my head
With saving counsel; though I wish’d to die,
And there in Egypt with their slaughters lie,
So much grief seiz’d me, but Jove made me yield,
Dishelm my head, take from my neck my shield,
Hurl from my hand my lance, and to the troop
Of horse the king led instantly made up,
Embrace, and kiss his knees; whom pity won
To give me safety, and (to make me shun
The people’s outrage, that made in amain,
All jointly fir’d with thirst to see me slain)
He took me to his chariot, weeping, home,
Himself with fear of Jove’s wrath overcome,
Who yielding souls receives, and takes most ill
All such as well may save yet love to kill.
Seven years I sojourn’d here, and treasure gat
In good abundance of th’ Ægyptian state,
For all would give; but when th’ eighth year began,
A knowing fellow (that would gnaw a man3
Like to a vermin, with his hellish brain,
And many an honest soul ev’n quick had slain,
Whose name was Phœnix) close accosted me,
And with insinuations, such as he
Practis’d on others, my consent he gain’d
To go into Phœnicia, where remain’d
His house, and living. And with him I liv’d
A cómplete year; but when were all arriv’d
The months and days, and that the year again
Was turning round, and ev’ry season’s reign
Renew’d upon us, we for Libya went,
When, still inventing crafts to circumvent,
He made pretext, that I should only go
And help convey his freight; but thought not so,
For his intent was to have sold me there,
And made good gain for finding me a year.
Yet him I follow’d, though suspecting this,
For, being aboard his ship, I must be his
Of strong necessity. She ran the flood
(Driven with a northern gale, right free, and good)
Amids the full stream, full on Crete. But then
Jove plotted death to him and all his men,
For (put off quite from Crete, and so far gone
That shore was lost, and we set eye on none,
But all show’d heav’n and sea) above our keel
Jove pointed right a cloud as black as hell,
Beneath which all the sea hid, and from whence
Jove thunder’d as his hand would never thence,
And thick into our ship he threw his flash;4
That ’gainst a rock, or flat, her keel did dash
With headlong rapture. Of the sulphur all
Her bulk did savour; and her men let fall
Amids the surges, on which all lay tost,
Like sea-gulls, round about her sides, and lost.
And so God took all home-return from them.
But Jove himself, though plung’d in that extreme,
Recover’d me by thrusting on my hand
The ship’s long mast. And, that my life might stand
A little more up, I embrac’d it round;
And on the rude winds, that did ruins sound,
Nine days we hover’d. In the tenth black night
A huge sea cast me on Thesprotia’s height,
Where the heroë Phidon, that was chief
Of all the Thesprots, gave my wrack relief,
Without the price of that redemptión5
That Phœnix fish’d for. Where the king’s lov’d son
Came to me, took me by the hand, and led
Into his court my poor life, surfeited
With cold and labour; and because my wrack
Chanc’d on his father’s shore, he let not lack
My plight or coat, or cloak, or anything
Might cherish heat in me. And here the king
Said, he receiv’d Ulysses as his guest,
Observ’d him friend-like, and his course addrest
Home to his country, showing there to me
Ulysses’ goods, a very treasury
Of brass, and gold, and steel of curious frame.
And to the tenth succession of his name
He laid up wealth enough, to serve beside
In that king’s house, so hugely amplified
His treasure was. But from his court the king
Affirm’d him shipp’d for the Dodonean spring,
To hear, from out the high-hair’d oak of Jove,
Counsel from him for means to his remove
To his lov’d country, whence so many a year
He had been absent; if he should appear
Disguis’d, or manifest; and further swore
In his mid court, at sacrifice, before
These very eyes, that he had ready there
Both ship and soldiers, to attend and bear
Him to his country. But, before, it chanc’d
That a Thesprotian ship was to be launch’d
For the much-corn-renown’d Dulichian land,
In which the king gave to his men command
To take, and bring me under tender hand
To king Acastus. But, in ill design
Of my poor life, did their desires combine,
So far forth, as might ever keep me under
In fortune’s hands, and tear my state in sunder.
And when the water-treader far away
Had left the land, then plotted they the day
Of my long servitude, and took from me
Both coat and cloak, and all things that might be
Grace in my habit, and in place put on
These tatter’d rags, which now you see upon
My wretched bosom. When heav’n’s light took sea,6
They fetch’d the field-works of fair Ithaca,
And in the arm’d ship, with a well-wreath’d cord,
They straitly bound me, and did all disboard
To shore to supper, in contentious rout.
Yet straight the Gods themselves took from about
My pressed limbs the bands, with equal ease,
And I, my head in rags wrapp’d, took the seas,
Descending by the smooth stern, using then
My hands for oars, and made from these bad men
Long way in little time. At last, I fetch’d
A goodly grove of oaks, whose shore I reach’d,
And cast me prostrate on it. When they knew
My thus-made ‘scape, about the shores they flew,
But, soon not finding, held it not their best
To seek me further, but return’d to rest
Aboard their vessel. Me the Gods lodg’d close,
Conducting me into the safe repose
A good man’s stable yielded. And thus Fate
This poor hour added to my living date.”
“O wretch of guests,” said he, “thy tale hath stirr’d
My mind to much ruth, both how thou hast err’d,
And suffer’d, hearing in such good parts shown.
But, what thy chang’d relation would make known
About Ulysses, I hold neither true,
Nor will believe. And what need’st thou pursue
A lie so rashly, since he sure is so
As I conceive, for which my skill shall go?
The safe return my king lacks cannot be,
He is so envied of each Deity,
So clear, so cruelly. For not in Troy
They gave him end, nor let his corpse enjoy
The hands of friends (which well they might have done,
He manag’d arms to such perfection,
And should have had his sepulchre, and all,
And all the Greeks to grace his funeral,
And this had giv’n a glory to his son
Through all times future) but his head is run
Unseen, unhonour’d, into Harpies’ maws.
For my part, I’ll not meddle with the cause,
I live a separate life amongst my swine,
Come at no town for any need of mine,
Unless the circularly-witted queen7
(When any far-come guest is to be seen
That brings her news) commands me bring a brawn,
About which (all things being in question drawn,
That touch the king) they sit, and some are sad
For his long absence, some again are glad
To waste his goods unwreak’d, all talking still.
But, as for me, I nourish’d little will
T’ inquire or question of him, since the man
That feign’d himself the fled Ætolian,
For slaught’ring one, through many regions stray’d,
In my stall, as his diversory, stay’d.
Where well entreating him, he told me then,
Amongst the Cretans, with king Idomen,
He saw Ulysses at his ship’s repair,
That had been brush’d with the enragéd air;
And that in summer, or in autumn, sure,
With all his brave friends and rich furniture,
He would be here; and nothing so, nor so.
But thou, an old man, taught with so much woe
As thou hast suffer’d, to be season’d true,
And brought by his fate, do not here pursue
His gratulations with thy cunning lies,
Thou canst not soak so through my faculties
For I did never either honour thee
Or give thee love, to bring these tales to me,
But in my fear of hospitable Jove
Thou didst to this pass my affections move.”
“You stand exceeding much incredulous,”
Replied Ulysses, “to have witness’d thus
My word and oath, yet yield no trust at all.
But make me now a covenant here, and call
The dreadful Gods to witness, that take seat
In large Olympus: If your king’s retreat
Prove made, ev’n hither, you shall furnish me
With cloak, and coat, and make my passage free
For lov’d Dulichius; if, as fits my vow,
Your king return not, let your servants throw
My old limbs headlong from some rock most high,
That other poor men may take fear to lie.”
The herdsman, that had gifts in him divine,
Replied: “O guest, how shall this fame of mine
And honest virtue, amongst men, remain
Now, and hereafter, without worthy stain,
If I, that led thee to my hovel here,
And made thee fitting hospitable cheer,
Should after kill thee, and thy lovéd mind
Force from thy bones? Or how should stand inclin’d
With any faith my will t’ importune Jove,
In any pray’r hereafter for his love?
Come, now ’tis supper’s hour, and instant haste
My men will make home, when our sweet repast
We’ll taste together.” This discourse they held
In mutual kind, when from a neighbour-field
His swine and swine-herds came, who in their cotes
Inclos’d their herds for sleep, which mighty throats
Laid out in ent’ring. Then the God-like swain
His men enjoin’d thus: “Bring me to be slain
A chief swine female, for my stranger guest,
When altogether we will take our feast,
Refreshing now our spirits, that all day take
Pains in our swine’s good, who may therefore make
For our pains with them all amends with one,
Since others eat our labours, and take none.”
This said, his sharp steel hew’d down wood, and they
A passing fat swine hal’d out of the sty,
Of five years old, which to the fire they put.
When first Eumæus from the front did cut
The sacred hair, and cast it in the fire,
Then pray’d to heav’n; for still before desire
Was serv’d with food, in their so rude abodes,
Not the poor swine-herd would forget the Gods,
Good souls they bore, how bad soever were
The habits that their bodies’ parts did bear.
When all the deathless Deities besought,
That wise Ulysses might be safely brought
Home to his house; then with a log of oak
Left lying by, high lifting it, a stroke
He gave so deadly it made life expire.
Then cut the rest her throat, and all in fire
They hid and sing’d her, cut her up; and then,
The master took the office from the men,
Who on the altar did the parts impose
That serv’d for sacrifice; beginning close
About the belly, thorough which he went.
And (all the chief fat gath’ring) gave it vent
(Part dredg’d with flour) into the sacred flame;
Then cut they up the joints, and roasted them,
Drew all from spit, and serv’d in dishes all.
Then rose Eumæus (who was general
In skill to guide each act his fit event)
And, all in seven parts cut, the first part went
To service of the Nymphs and Mercury,
To whose names he did rites of piety
In vows particular; and all the rest
He shar’d to ev’ry one, but his lov’d guest
He grac’d with all the chine, and of that king,
To have his heart cheer’d, set up ev’ry string.
Which he observing said: “I would to Jove,
Eumæus, thou liv’dst in his worthy love
As great as mine, that giv’st to such a guest
As my poor self of all thy goods the best.”
Eumæus answer’d: “Eat, unhappy wretch,
And to what here is at thy pleasure reach.
This I have, this thou want’st; thus God will give,
Thus take away, in us, and all that live.
To his will’s equal centre all things fall,
His mind he must have, for he can do all.”
Thus having eat, and to his wine descended,
Before he serv’d his own thirst, he commended
The first use of it in fit sacrifice
(As of his meat) to all the Deities,
And to the city-racer’s hand applied
The second cup, whose place was next his side.
Mesauliús did distribute the meat,
(To which charge was Eumæus solely set,
In absence of Ulysses, by the queen
And old Laertes) and this man had been
Bought by Eumæus, with his faculties,
Employ’d then in the Taphian merchandise.
But now, to food appos’d, and order’d thus,
All fell. Desire suffic’d, Mesauliús
Did take away. For bed then next they were,
All thoroughly satisfied with cómplete cheer.
The night then came, ill, and no taper shin’d;
Jove rain’d her whole date; th’ ever-wat’ry wind
Zephyr blew loud; and Laertiades
(Approving kind Eumæus’ carefulness
For his whole good) made far about assay,
To get some cast-off cassock (lest he lay
That rough night cold) of him, or anyone
Of those his servants; when he thus begun:
“Hear me, Eumæus, and my other friends,
I’ll use a speech that to my glory tends,
Since I have drunk wine past my usual guise.
Strong wine commands the fool and moves the wise,
Moves and impels him too to sing and dance,
And break in pleasant laughters, and, perchance,
Prefer a speech too that were better in.
But when my spirits once to speak begin,
I shall not then dissemble. Would to heav’n,
I were as young, and had my forces driv’n
As close together, as when once our pow’rs
We led to ambush under th’ Ilion tow’rs!
Where Ithacus and Menelaus were
The two commanders, when it pleas’d them there
To take myself for third, when to the town
And lofty walls we led, we couch’d close down,
All arm’d, amids the osiers and the reeds,
Which oftentimes th’ o’er-flowing river feeds.
The cold night came, and th’ icy northern gale
Blew bleak upon us, after which did fall
A snow so cold, it cut as in it beat
A frozen water, which was all concrete
About our shields like crystal. All made feign
Above our arms to clothe, and clothe again.
And so we made good shift, our shields beside
Clapp’d close upon our clothes, to rest and hide
From all discovery. But I, poor fool,
Left my weeds with my men, because so cool
I thought it could not prove; which thought my pride
A little strengthen’d, being loth to hide
A goodly glitt’ring garment I had on;
And so I follow’d with my shield alone,
And that brave weed. But when the night near ended
Her course on earth, and that the stars descended,
I jogg’d Ulysses, who lay passing near,
And spake to him, that had a nimble ear,
Assuring him, that long I could not lie
Amongst the living, for the fervency
Of that sharp night would kill me, since as then
My evil angel made me with my men
Leave all weeds but a fine one. But I know
’Tis vain to talk; here wants all remedy now.
This said, he bore that understanding part
In his prompt spirit that still show’d his art
In fight and counsel, saying (in a word,
And that low whisper’d) peace, lest you afford
Some Greek note of your softness. No word more,
But made as if his stern austerity bore
My plight no pity; yet, as still he lay
His head reposing on his hand, gave way
To this invention: ‘Hear me friends, a dream
(That was of some celestial light a beam)
Stood in my sleep before me, prompting me
With this fit notice: ‘We are far,’ said he,
‘From out our fleet. Let one go then, and try
If Agamemnon will afford supply
To what we now are strong.’ This stirr’d a speed
In Thoas to th’ affair; whose purple weed
He left for haste; which then I took, and lay
In quiet after, till the dawn of day.
This shift Ulysses made for one in need,
And would to heav’n, that youth such spirit did feed
Now in my nerves, and that my joints were knit
With such a strength as made me then held fit
To lead men with Ulysses! I should then
Seem worth a weed that fits a herdsman’s men,
For two respects, to gain a thankful friend,
And to a good man’s need a good extend.”
“O father,” said Eumæus “thou hast shown
Good cause for us to give thee good renown,
Not using any word that was not freed
From all least ill. Thou, therefore, shalt not need
Or coat, or other thing, that aptly may
Beseem a wretched suppliant for defray
Of this night’s need. But, when her golden throne
The morn ascends, you must resume your own,
For here you must not dream of many weeds,
Or any change at all. We serve our needs
As you do yours; one back, one coat. But when
Ulysses’ lovéd son returns, he then
Shall give you coat and cassock, and bestow
Your person where your heart and soul is now,”
This said, he rose, made near the fire his bed,
Which all with goats’ and sheep skins he bespread.
All which Ulysses with himself did line,
With whom; besides, he chang’d a gaberdine,
Thick lin’d, and soft, which still he made his shift
When he would dress him ’gainst the horrid drift
Of tempest, when deep winter’s season blows.
Nor pleas’d it him to lie there with his sows,
But while Ulysses slept there, and close by
The other younkers, he abroad would lie,
And therefore arm’d him. Which set cheerful fare
Before Ulysses’ heart, to see such care
Of his goods taken, how far off soever
His fate his person and his wealth should sever.
First then, a sharp-edg’d sword he girt about
His well-spread shoulders, and (to shelter out
The sharp West wind that blew) he put him on
A thick-lin’d jacket, and yet cast upon
All that the large hide of a goat well-fed.
A lance then took he, with a keen steel head,
To be his keep-off both ’gainst men and dogs.
And thus went he to rest with his male hogs,
That still abroad lay underneath a rock,
Shield to the North wind’s ever-eager shock.
THE END OF THE FOURTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

1 Πρόσυλος, materiæ adhærens: item, qui rebus mundanis deditus est.
2 ‘ϒλακόμωρος, ad latrandum fato quodam natus.
3 Ανὴρ ἀπατήλια εἰδὼς, τρώκτης.
4 ‘Ελελίχθη qui terram rapido motu concutit.
5 ‘Απριάτην sine emptionis seu redemptionis pretio.
6 At sunset.
7 Περίϕρων.