THE ARGUMENT

The Prince at field, he sends to town
Eumæus, to make truly known
His safe return. By Pallas’ will,
Telemachus is giv’n the skill
To know his father. Those that lay
In ambush, to prevent the way
Of young Ulyssides for home,
Retire, with anger overcome.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Πι̑.

To his most dear
Ulysses shows.
The wise-son here
His father knows.

Ulysses and divine Eumæus rose
Soon as the morning could her eyes unclose,
Made fire, brake fast, and to their pasture send
The gather’d herds, on whom their swains attend.
The self-tire barking dogs all fawn’d upon,
Nor bark’d, at first sight of Ulysses’ son.
The whinings of their fawnings yet did greet
Ulysses’ ears, and sounds of certain feet,
Who thus bespake Eumæus: “Sure some friend,
Or one well-known, comes, that the mastiffs spend
Their mouths no louder. Only some one near
They whine, and leap about, whose feet I hear.”
Each word of this speech was not spent, before
His son stood in the entry of the door.
Out-rush’d amaz’d Eumæus, and let go
The cup to earth, that he had labour’d so,
Cleans’d for the neat wine, did the prince-surprise,
Kiss’d his fair forehead, both his lovely eyes,
Both his white hands, and tender tears distill’d.
There breath’d no kind-soul’d father that was fill’d
Less with his son’s embraces, that had liv’d
Ten years in far-off earth, now new retriev’d,
His only child too, gotten in his age,
And for whose absence he had felt the rage
Of griefs upon him, than for this divin’d
So-much-for-form was this divine-for-mind;
Who kiss’d him through, who grew about him kissing,
As fresh from death ’scap’d. Whom so long time missing,
He wept for joy, and said: “Thou yet art come,
Sweet light, sweet sun-rise, to thy cloudy home.
O, never I look’d, when once shipp’d away
For Pylos’ shores, to see thy turning day.
Come, enter, lov’d son, let me feast my heart
With thy sweet sight, new-come, so far apart.
Nor, when you liv’d at home, would you walk down
Often enough here, but stay’d still at town;
It pleas’d you then to cast such forehand view
About your house on that most damnéd crew.”1
“It shall be so then, friend,” said he, “but now
I come to glad mine eyes with thee, and know
If still my mother in her house remain,
Or if some Wooer hath aspir’d to gain
Of her in nuptials; for Ulysses’ bed,
By this, lies all with spiders’s cobwebs spread,
In penury of him that should supply it.”
“She still,” said he, “holds her most constant quiet,
Aloft thine own house, for the bed’s respect;
But, for her lord’s sad loss, sad nights and days
Obscure her beauties, and corrupt their rays.”
This said, Eumæus took his brazen spear,
And in he went; when, being enter’d near
Within the stony threshold; from his seat
His father rose to him, who would not let
Th’ old man remove, but drew him back and prest
With earnest terms his sitting, saying: “Guest,
Take here your seat again, we soon shall get
Within our own house here some other seat.
Here’s one will fetch it.” This said, down again
His father sat, and to his son his swain
Strew’d fair green osiers, and impos’d thereon
A good soft sheepskin, which made him a throne.
Then he appos’d to them his last-left roast,
And in a wicker basket bread engrost,
Fill’d luscious wine, and then took opposite seat
To the divine Ulysses. When, the meat
Set there before them, all fell-to, and eat.
When they had fed, the prince said: “Pray thee say,
Whence comes this guest? What seaman gave him way
To this our isle? I hope these feet of his
Could walk no water. Who boasts he he is?”
“I’ll tell all truly son: From ample Crete
He boasts himself, and says, his erring feet
Have many cities trod, and God was he
Whose finger wrought in his infirmity.
But, to my cottage, the last ’scape of his
Was from a Thesprot’s ship. Whate’er he is,
I’ll give him you, do what you please; his vaunt
Is, that he is, at most, a suppliant.”
“Eumæus,” said the prince, “to tell me this,
You have afflicted my weak faculties;
For how shall I receive him to my house
With any safety, that suspicious
Of my young forces (should I be assay’d
With any sudden violence) may want aid
To shield myself? Besides, if I go home,
My mother is with two doubts overcome,
If she shall stay with me, and take fit care
For all such guests as there seek guestive fare,
Her husband’s bed respecting, and her fame
Amongst the people; or her blood may frame
A liking to some Wooer, such as best
May bed her in his house, not giving least.
And thus am I unsure of all means free
To use a guest there, fit for his degree.
But, being thy guest, I’ll be his supply
For all weeds, such as mere necessity
Shall more than furnish. Fit him with a sword,
And set him where his heart would have been shor’d;
Or, if so pleas’d, receive him in thy shed,
I’ll send thee clothes, I vow, and all the bread
His wish would eat, that to thy men and thee
He be no burthen. But that I should be
His mean to my house; where a company
Of wrong-professing Wooers wildly live,
I will in no sort author, lest they give
Foul use to him, and me as gravely grieve.
For what great act can anyone achieve
Against a multitude, although his mind
Retain a courage of the greatest kind?
For all minds have not force in one degree.”
Ulysses answer’d: “O friend, since ’tis free
For any man to change fit words with thee,
I’ll freely speak: Methinks, a wolfish pow’r
My heart puts on to tear and to devour,
To hear your affirmation, that, in spite
Of what may fall on you, made opposite,
Being one of your proportion, birth, and age,
These Wooers should in such injustice rage.
What should the cause be? Do you wilfully
Endure their spoil? Or hath your empery
Been such amongst your people, that all gather
In troop, and one voice (which ev’n God doth father)
And vow your hate so, that they suffer them?
Or blame your kinsfolk’s faiths, before th’ extreme
Of your first stroke hath tried them, whom a man,
When strifes to blows rise, trusts, though battle ran
In huge and high waves? Would to heav’n my spirit
Such youth breath’d, as the man that must inherit
Yet-never-touch’d Ulysses, or that he,
But wand’ring this way, would but come, and see
What my age could achieve (and there is Fate
For Hope yet left, that he may recreate
His eyes with such an object) this my head
Should any stranger strike off, if stark dead
I struck not all, the house in open force
Ent’ring with challenge! If their great concourse
Did over-lay me, being a man alone,
(Which you urge for yourself) be you that one,
I rather in mine own house wish to die
One death for all, than so indecently
See evermore deeds worse than death applied,
Guests wrong’d with vile words and blow-giving pride,
The women-servants dragg’d in filthy kind
About the fair house, and in corners blind
Made serve the rapes of ruffians, food devour’d
Idly and rudely, wine exhaust, and pour’d
Through throats profane; and all about a deed
That’s ever wooing, and will never speed.”
“I’ll tell you, guest, most truly,” said his son,
“I do not think that all my people run
One hateful course against me; nor accuse
Kinsfolks that I in strifes of weight might use;
But Jove will have it so, our race alone
(As if made singular) to one and one
His hand confining. Only to the king,
Jove-bred Arcesius, did Laertes spring;
Only to old Laertes did descend
Ulysses; only to Ulysses’ end
Am I the adjunct, whom he left so young,
That from me to him never comfort sprung.
And to all these now, for their race, arise
Up in their house a brood of enemies.
As many as in these isles bow men’s knees,
Samos, Dulichius, and the rich-in-trees
Zacynthus, or in this rough isle’s command,
So many suitors for the nuptials stand,
That ask my mother, and, mean space, prefer
Their lusts to all spoil, that dishonour her.
Nor doth she, though she loaths, deny their suits,
Nor they denials take, though taste their fruits.
But all this time the state of all things there
Their throats devour, and I must shortly bear
A part in all. And yet the periods
Of these designs lie in the knees of Gods.
Of all loves then, Eumæus, make quick way
To wise Penelopé, and to her say
My safe return from Pylos, and alone,
Return thou hither, having made it known.
Nor let, besides my mother, any ear
Partake thy message, since a number bear
My safe return displeasure.” He replied;
“I know, and comprehend you. You divide
Your mind with one that understands you well.
But, all in one yet, may I not reveal
To th’ old hard-fated Arcesiades
Your safe return? Who, through his whole distress
Felt for Ulysses, did not yet so grieve,
But with his household he had will to live,
And serv’d his appetite with wine and food,
Survey’d his husbandry, and did his blood
Some comforts fitting life; but since you took
Your ship for Pylos, he would never brook
Or wine or food, they say, nor cast an eye
On any labour, but sits weeping by,
And sighing out his sorrows, ceaseless moans
Wasting his body, turn’d all skin and bones.”
“More sad news still,” said he, “yet, mourn he still;
For if the rule of all men’s works be will,
And his will his way goes, mine stands inclin’d
T’ attend the home-turn of my nearer kind.2
Do then what I enjoin; which giv’n effect,
Err nor to field to him, but turn direct,
Entreating first my mother, with most speed,
And all the secrecy that now serves need,
To send this way their store-house guardian,
And she shall tell all to the aged man.”3
He took his shoes up, put them on, and went.
Nor was his absence hid from Jove’s descent,
Divine Minerva, who took straight to view,
A goodly woman’s shape that all works knew,
And, standing in the entry, did prefer
Her sight t’ Ulysses; but, though meeting her,
His son Telemachus nor saw nor knew.
The Gods’ clear presences are know to few.
Yet, with Ulysses, ev’n the dogs did see,
And would not bark, but, whining lovingly,
Fled to the stall’s far side. When she her eyne
Mov’d to Ulysses; he knew her design,
And left the house, pass’d the great sheep-cote’s wall,
And stood before her. She bade utter all
Now to his son, nor keep the least unlos’d,
That, all the Wooers’ deaths being now dispos’d,
They might approach the town; affirming; she
Not long would fail t’ assist to victory.
This said, she laid her golden rod on him,
And with his late-worn weeds grac’d ev’ry limb,
His body straighten’d, and his youth instill’d,
His fresh blood call’d up, ev’ry wrinkle fill’d
About his broken eyes, and on his chin
The brown hair spread. When his whole trim wrought in,
She issued, and he enter’d to his son,
Who stood amaz’d, and thought some God had done
His house that honour, turn’d away his eyes,
And said; “Now guest, you grace another guise
Than suits your late show. Other weeds you wear,
And other person. Of the starry sphere
You certainly present some deathless God.
Be pleas’d, that to your here-vouchsaf’d abode
We may give sacred rites, and offer gold,
To do us favour.” He replied; “I hold
No deified state. Why put you thus on me
A God’s resemblance? I am only he
That bears thy father’s name; for whose lov’d sake
Thy youth so grieves, whose absence makes thee take
Such wrongs of men.” Thus kiss’d he him, nor could
Forbear those tears that in such mighty hold
He held before, still held, still issuing ever;
And now, the shores once broke, the springtide never
Forbore earth from the cheeks he kiss’d. His son,
By all these violent arguments not won
To credit him his father, did deny
His kind assumpt, and said, some Deity
Feign’d that joy’s cause, to make him grieve the more;
Affirming, that no man, whoever wore
The garment of mortality, could take,
By any utmost pow’r his soul could make,
Such change into it, since, at so much will,
Not Jove himself could both remove and fill
Old age with youth, and youth with age so spoil,
In such an instant. “You wore all the soil
Of age but now, and were old; and but now
You bear that young grace that the Gods indow
Their heav’n-born forms withal.” His father said:
“Telemachus! Admire, nor stand dismay’d,
But know thy solid father; since within
He answers all parts that adorn his skin.
There shall no more Ulyssesses come here.
I am the man, that now this twentieth year
(Still under suff’rance of a world of ill)
My country-earth recover. ’Tis the will
The prey-professor Pallas puts in act,
Who put me thus together, thus distract
In aged pieces as ev’n now you saw,
This youth now rend’ring. ’Tis within the law
Of her free pow’r. Sometimes to show me poor,
Sometimes again thus amply to restore
My youth and ornaments, she still would please.
The Gods can raise, and throw men down, with ease.”
This said, he sat; when his Telemachus pour’d
Himself about him; tears on tears he show’r’d,
And to desire of moan increas’d the cloud.
Both wept and howl’d, and laid out shrieks more loud
Than or the bird-bone-breaking eagle rears,
Or brood-kind vulture with the crooked seres,
When rustic hands their tender eyries draw,
Before they give their wings their full-plum’d law.
But miserably pour’d they from beneath
Their lids their tears, while both their breasts did breathe
As frequent cries; and, to their fervent moan,
The light had left the skies, if first the son
Their dumb moans had not vented, with demand
What ship it was that gave the natural land
To his bless’d feet? He then did likewise lay
Hand on his passion, and gave these words way:
“I’ll tell thee truth, my son: The men that bear
Much fame for shipping, my reducers were
To long-wish’d Ithaca, who each man else
That greets their shore give pass to where he dwells.
The Phæacensian peers, in one night’s date,
While I fast slept, fetch’d th’ Ithacensian state,
Grac’d me with wealthy gifts, brass, store of gold,
And robes fair-wrought; all which have secret hold
In caves that by the Gods’ advice I chus’d.
And now Minerva’s admonitions us’d
For this retreat, that we might here dispose
In close discourse the slaughters of our foes.
Recount the number of the Wooers then,
And let me know what name they hold with men,
That my mind may cast over their estates
A curious measure, and confer the rates
Of our two pow’rs and theirs, to try, if we
Alone may propagate to victory
Our bold encounters of them all, or prove
The kind assistance of some others’ love.”
“O father,” he replied, “I oft have heard
Your counsels and your force of hand preferr’d
To mighty glory, but your speeches now
Your vent’rous mind exceeding mighty show.
Ev’n to amaze they move me; for, in right
Of no fit counsel, should be brought to fight
Two men ’gainst th’ able faction of a throng.
No one two, no one ten, no twice ten, strong
These Wooers are, but more by much. For know,
That from Dulichius there are fifty-two,
All choice young men; and ev’ry one of these
Six men attend. From Samos cross’d the seas
Twice-twelve young gallants. From Zacynthus came
Twice-ten. Of Ithaca, the best of name,
Twice-six. Of all which all the state they take
A sacred poet and a herald make.
Their delicacies two, of special sort
In skill of banquets, serve. And all this port
If we shall dare t’ encounter, all-thrust-up
In one strong roof, have great care lest the cup,
Your great mind thirsts, exceeding bitter taste,
And your retreat commend not to your haste
Your great attempt, but make you say, you buy
Their pride’s revenges at a price too high.
And therefore, if you could; ’twere well you thought
Of some assistant. Be your spirit wrought
In such a man’s election, as may lend
His succours freely, and express a friend.”
His father answer’d: “Let me ask of thee;
Hear me, consider, and then answer me.
Think’st thou, if Pallas and the King of skies
We had to friend, would their sufficiencies
Make strong our part? Or that some other yet
My thoughts must work for?” “These,” said he “are set
Aloft the clouds, and are found aids indeed,
As pow’rs not only that these men exceed,
But bear of all men else the high command,
And hold of Gods an overruling hand.”
“Well then,” said he, “not these shall sever long
Their force and ours in fights assur’d and strong.
And then ’twixt us and them shall Mars prefer
His strength, to stand our great distinguisher,
When in mine own roofs I am forc’d to blows.
But when the day shall first her fires disclose,
Go thou for home, and troop up with the Wooers,
Thy will with theirs join’d, pow’r with their rude pow’rs;
And after shall the herdsman guide to town
My steps, my person wholly overgrown
With all appearance of a poor old swain,
Heavy, and wretched. If their high disdain
Of my vile presence make them my desert
Affect with contumelies, let thy lov’d heart
Beat in fix’d cónfines of thy bosom still,
And see me suffer, patient of their ill.
Ay, though they drag me by the heels about
Mine own free earth, and after hurl me out,
Do thou still suffer. Nay, though with their darts
They beat and bruise me, bear. But these foul parts
Persuade them to forbear, and by their names
Call all with kind words; bidding, for their shames,
Their pleasures cease. If yet they yield not way,
There breaks the first light of their fatal day.
In mean space, mark this: When the chiefly-wise
Minerva prompts me, I’ll inform thine eyes
With some giv’n sign, and then all th’ arms that are
Aloft thy roof in some near room prepare
For speediest use. If those brave men inquire
Thy end in all, still rake up all thy fire
In fair cool words, and say: ‘I bring them down
To scour the smoke off, being so overgrown
That one would think all fumes, that ever were
Breath’d since Ulysses’ loss, reflected here.
These are not like the arms he left behind,
In way for Troy. Besides, Jove prompts my mind
In their remove apart thus with this thought,
That, if in height of wine there should be wrought,
Some harsh contention ’twixt you, this apt mean
To mutual bloodshed may be taken clean
From out your reach, and all the spoil prevented
Of present feast, perhaps ev’n then presented
My mother’s nuptials to your long kind vows.
Steel itself, ready, draws a man to blows.’
Thus make their thoughts secure; to us alone
Two swords, two darts, two shields left: which see done
Within our readiest reach, that at our will
We may resume, and charge, and all their skill
Pallas and Jove, that all just counsels breathe,
May darken with secureness to their death.
And let me charge thee now, as thou art mine,
And as thy veins mine own true blood combine:
Let, after this, none know Ulysses near,
Not anyone of all the household there,
Not here the herdsman, not Laertes be
Made privy, not herself Penelopé
But only let thyself and me work out
The women’s thoughts of all things borne about
The Wooers’ hearts; and then thy men approve,
To know who honours, who with rev’rence love,
Our well-weigh’d memories, and who is won
To fail thy fit right, though my only son.”
“You teach,” said he, “so punctually now,
As I knew nothing, nor were sprung from you.
I hope, hereafter, you shall better know
What soul I bear, and that it doth not let
The least loose motion pass his natural seat.
But this course you propose will prove, I fear,
Small profit to us; and could wish your care
Would weigh it better as too far about.
For time will ask much, to the sifting out
Of each man’s disposition by his deeds;
And, in the mean time, ev’ry Wooer feeds
Beyond satiety, nor knows how to spare.
The women yet, since they more easy are
For our inquiry, I would wish you try,
Who right your state, who do it injury.
The men I would omit, and these things make
Your labour after. But, to undertake
The Wooers’ war, I wish your utmost speed,
Especially if you could cheer the deed
With some ostent from Jove.” Thus, as the sire
Consented to the son, did here expire
Their mutual speech. And now the ship was come,
That brought the young prince and his soldiers home,
The deep haven reach’d, they drew the ship ashore,
Took all their arms out, and the rich gifts bore
To Clitius’ house. But to Ulysses’ court
They sent a herald first, to make report
To wise Penelopé, that safe at field
Her son was left; yet, since the ship would yield
Most haste to her, he sent that first, and them
To comfort with his utmost the extreme
He knew she suffer’d. At the court now met
The herald and the herdsman, to repeat
One message to the queen. Both whom arriv’d
Within the gates; both to be foremost striv’d
In that good news. The herald, he for haste
Amongst the maids bestow’d it, thinking plac’d
The queen amongst them. “Now,” said he, “O queen,
Your lov’d son is arriv’d.” And, then was seen
The queen herself, to whom the herdsman told
All that Telemachus enjoin’d he should;
All which discharg’d, his steps he back bestows,
And left both court and city for his sows.
The Wooers then grew sad; soul-vex’d, and all
Made forth the court; when, by the mighty wall
They took their sev’ral seats, before the gates.
To whom Eurymachus initiates.
Their utter’d grievance. “O,” said he, “my friends,
A work right-great begun, as proudly ends,
We said, Telemachus should never make
His voyage good, nor this shore ever take
For his return’s receipt; and yet we fail,
And he performs it. Come, let’s man a sail,
The best In our election, and bestow
Such soldiers in her as can swiftest row,
To tell our friends that way-lay his retreat
‘Tis safe perform’d, and make them quickly get
Their ship for Ithaca.” This was not said
Before Amphinomus in port display’d
The ship arriv’d, her sails then under-stroke,
And oars resum’d; when, laughing, thus he spoke:
“Move for no messenger. These men are come,
Some God hath either told his turning home,
Or they themselves have seen his ship gone by,
Had her in chase, and lost her.” Instantly
They rose, and went to port; found drawn to land
The ship, the soldiers taking arms in hand.
The Wooers themselves to council went in throng,
And not a man besides, or old, or young,
Let sit amongst them. Then Eupitheus’ son,
Antinous, said: “See, what the Gods have done!
They only have deliver’d from our ill
The men we way-laid. Ev’ry windy hill
Hath been their watch-tow’r, where by turns they stood
Continual sentinel. And we made good
Our work as well, for, sun once set, we never
Slept wink ashore all night, but made sail ever,
This way and that, ev’n till the morning kept
Her sacred station, so to intercept
And take his life, for whom our ambush lay;
And yet hath God to his return giv’n way.
But let us prosecute with counsels here
His necessary death, nor anywhere
Let rest his safety; for if he survive,
Our sails will never-in wish’d havens arrive;
Since he is wise, hath soul, and counsel too,
To work the people, who, will never do
Our faction favour. What we then intend
Against his person, give we present end,
Before he call a council, which, believe,
His spirit will haste, and point where it doth grieve,
Stand up amongst them all, and urge his death
Decreed amongst us. Which complaint will breathe
A fire about their spleens, and blow no praise
On our ill labours. Lest, they therefore raise
Pow’r to exile us from our native earth,
And force our lives’ societies to the birth
Of foreign countries, let our speeds prevent,
His coming home to this austere complaint,
At field and far from town, or in some way
Of narrow passage, with his latest day
Shown to his forward youth, his goods and lands
Left to the free division of our hands,
The moveables made all his mother’s dow’r,
And his, whoever Fate affords the pow’r
To celebrate, with her sweet Hymen’s rites.
Or if this please not, but your appetites
Stand to his safety, and to give him seat
In his whole birth-right, let us look to eat
At his cost never more, but ev’ry man
Haste to his home, and wed, with whom he can
At home, and there lay first about for dow’r
And then the woman give his second pow’r
Of nuptial-liking, and, for last, apply
His purpose with most gifts and destiny.”
This silence caus’d; whose breach, at last, begun
Amphinomus, the much renownéd son
Of Nisus surnam’d Aretiades,
Who from Dulichius full of flow’ry leas
Led all the Wooers, and in chief did please
The queen with his discourse, because it grew
From roots of those good minds that did endue4
His goodly person; who, exceeding wise,
Us’d this speech: “Friends, I never will advise
The prince’s death; for ’tis a damnéd thing
To put to death the issue of a king.
First, therefore, let’s examine, what applause
The Gods will give it: If the equal laws
Of Jove approve it, I myself will be
The man shall kill him, and this company
Exhort to that mind: If the Gods remain
Adverse, and hate it, I advise, refrain.”
This said Amphinomus, and pleas’d them all
When all arose, and in Ulysses’ hall
Took seat again. Then to the queen was come
The Wooers’ plot, to kill her son at home,
Since their abroad-design had miss’d success,
The herald Medon (who the whole address
Knew of their counsels) making the report.
The Goddess of her sex, with her fair sort
Of lovely women, at the large hall’s door
(Her bright cheeks clouded with a veil she wore)
Stood, and directed to Antinous
Her sharp reproof, which she digested thus:
“Antinous! Compos’d of injury!
Plotter of mischief! Though reports that fly
Amongst our Ithacensian people say
That thou, of all that glory in their sway,
Art best in words and counsels, th’ art not so.
Fond, busy fellow, why plott’st thou the woe
And slaughter of my son, and dost not fear
The presidents of suppliants, when the ear
Of Jove stoops to them? ’Tis unjust to do
Slaughter for slaughter, or pay woe for woe,
Mischief for kindness. Death for life sought, then,
Is an injustice to be loath’d of men.
Serves not thy knowledge to remember when
Thy father fled to us? Who (mov’d to wrath
Against the Taphian thieves) pursued with scathe
The guiltless Thesprots; in whose people’s fear,
Pursuing him for wreak, he landed here,
They after him, professing both their prize
Of all his chiefly-valued faculties,
And more priz’d life. Of all whose bloodiest ends
Ulysses curb’d them, though they were his friends.
Yet thou, like one that no law will allow
The least true honour, eat’st his house up now
That fed thy father; woo’st for love his wife,
Whom thus thou griev’st and seek’st her sole son’s life!
Cease, I command thee, and command the rest
To see all thought of these foul fashions ceas’d.”
Eurymachus replied: “Be confident,
Thou all-of-wit-made, the most fam’d descent
Of king Icarius. Free thy spirits of fear.
There lives not anyone, nor shall live here
Now, nor hereafter, while my life gives heat
And light to me on earth, that dares intreat
With any ill touch thy well-lovéd son,
But here I vow, and here will see it done,
His life shall stain my lance. If on his knees
The city-racer, Laertiades,
Hath made me sit, put in my hand his food,
And held his red wine to me, shall the blood
Of his Telemachus on my hand lay
The least pollution, that my life can stay?
No! I have ever charg’d him not to fear
Death’s threat from any. And, for that most dear
Love of his father, he shall ever be
Much the most lov’d of all that live to me.
Who kills a guiltless man from man may fly,
From God his searches all escapes deny.”
Thus cheer’d his words, but his affections still
Fear’d not to cherish foul intent to kill
Ev’n him whose life to all lives he preferr’d.
The queen went up, and to her love appear’d
Her lord so freshly, that she wept, till sleep
(By Pallas forc’d on her) her eyes did steep
In his sweet humour. When the even was come,
The God-like herdsman reach’d the whole way home.
Ulysses and his son for supper drest
A year-old swine, and ere their host and guest
Had got their presence, Pallas had put by
With her fair rod Ulysses’ royalty,
And render’d him an aged man again,
With all his vile integuments, lest his swain
Should know him in his trim, and tell his queen,
In these deep secrets being not deeply seen.
He seen, to him the prince these words did use:
“Welcome divine Eumæus! Now what news
Employs the city? Are the Wooers come
Back from their scout dismay’d? Or here at home
Will they again attempt me?” He replied:
“These touch not my care. I was satisfied
To do, with most speed, what I went to do;
My message done, return. And yet, not so
Came my news first; a herald (met with there)
Forestall’d my tale, and told how safe you were.
Besides which merely necessary thing,
What in my way chanc’d I may over-bring,
Being what I know, and witness’d with mine eyes.
Where the Hermæan sepulchre doth rise
Above the city, I beheld take port
A ship, and in her many a man of sort;
Her freight was shields and lances; and, methought,
They were the Wooers; but, of knowledge, nought
Can therein tell you.” The prince smil’d, and knew
They were the Wooers, casting secret view
Upon his father. But what they intended
Fled far the herdsman; whose swain’s labours ended,
They dress’d the supper, which, past want, was eat.
When all desire suffic’d of wine and meat,
Of other human wants they took supplies
At Sleep’s soft hand, who sweetly clos’d their eyes.

THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.

1 ’Αΐδηλον ὅμιλον, ἀΐδηλος of ἀΐδης, orcus, and signifies properly tenebricosus, or infernalis, so that perniciosus (which is the Latin translation) is not so fit as damned for that crew of dissolute Wooers. The phrase being now used to all so licentious.
2 Intending his father, whose return though he were far from knowing, or fully expecting, yet he desired to order all things as he were present.
3 Intending to Laertes all that Eumæus would have told.
4 ϕπεσὶ ἀγαθῃ̑σιν, bonis mentibus, the plural number used ever by Homer.