THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses to his wife is known.
A brief sum of his travels shown.
Himself, his son, and servants go
T’ approve the Wooers’ overthrow.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Ψι̑.

For all annoys
Sustain’d before,
The true wife’s joys
Now made the more.

The servants thus inform’d, the matron goes
Up where the Queen was cast in such repose,
Affected with a fervent joy to tell
What all this time she did with pain conceal.
Her knees revok’d their first strength, and her feet
Were borne above the ground with wings to greet
The long-griev’d Queen with news her King was come;
And, near her, said: “Wake, leave this withdrawn room,
That now your eyes may see at length, though late,
The man return’d, which, all the heavy date
Your woes have rack’d out, you have long’d to see.
Ulysses is come home, and hath set free
His court of all your Wooers, slaught’ring all
For wasting so his goods with festival,
His house so vexing, and for violence done
So all ways varied to his only son.”
She answer’d her: “The Gods have made thee mad,
Of whose pow’r now thy pow’rs such proof have had.
The Gods can blind with follies wisest eyes,
And make men foolish so to make them wise.
For they have hurt ev’n thy grave brain, that bore
An understanding spirit heretofore.
Why hast thou wak’d me to more tears, when Moan
Hath turn’d my mind, with tears into her own?
Thy madness much more blameful, that with lies
Thy haste is laden, and both robs mine eyes
Of most delightsome sleep, and sleep of them,
That now had bound me in his sweet extreme,
T’ embrace my lids and close my visual spheres:
I have not slept so much this twenty years,
Since first my dearest sleeping-mate was gone
For that too-ill-to-speak-of Ilion.
Hence, take your mad steps back. If any maid
Of all my train besides a part had play’d
So bold to wake, and tell mine ears such lies,
I had return’d her to her housewif’ries
With good proof of my wrath to such rude dames.
But go, your years have sav’d their younger blames.”
She answer’d her: “I nothing wrong your ear,
But tell the truth. Your long-miss’d lord is here,
And, with the Wooers’ slaughter, his own hand,
In chief exploit, hath to his own command
Reduc’d his house; and that poor guest was he,
That all those Wooers wrought such injury.
Telemachus had knowledge long ago
That ’twas his father, but his wisdom so
Observ’d his counsels, to give surer end
To that great work to which they did contend.”
This call’d her spirits to their conceiving places;
She sprung for joy from blames into embraces
Of her grave nurse, wip’d ev’ry tear away
From her fair cheeks, and then began to say
What nurse said over thus: “O nurse, can this
Be true thou say’st? How could that hand of his
Alone destroy so many? They would still
Troop all together. How could he then kill
Such numbers so united?” “How,” said she,
“I have not seen nor heard; but certainly
The deed is done. We sat within in fear,
The doors shut on us, and from thence might hear
The sighs and groans of ev’ry man he slew,
But heard nor saw more, till at length there flew
Your son’s voice to mine ear, that call’d to me,
And bade me then come forth, and then I see
Ulysses standing in the midst of all
Your slaughter’d Wooers, heap’d up, like a wall,
One on another round about his side.
It would have done you good to have descried
Your conqu’ring lord all-smear’d with blood and gore
So like a lion. Straight, then, off they bore
The slaughter’d carcasses, that now before
The fore-court gates lie, one on another pil’d.
And now your victor all the hall, defil’d
With stench of hot death, is perfuming round,
And with a mighty fire the hearth hath crown’d.
“Thus, all the death remov’d, and ev’ry room
Made sweet and sightly, that yourself should come
His pleasure sent me. Come, then, take you now
Your mutual fills of comfort. Grief on you
Hath long and many suff’rings laid; which length,
Which many suff’rings, now your virtuous strength
Of uncorrupted chasteness hath conferr’d
A happy end to. He that long hath err’d
Is safe arriv’d at home; his wife, his son,
Found safe and good; all ill that hath been done
On all the doers’ heads, though long prolong’d,
His right hath wreak’d, and in the place they wrong’d.”
She answer’d: “Do not you now laugh and boast
As you had done some great act, seeing most
Into his being; for you know he won—
Ev’n through his poor and vile condition—
A kind of prompted thought that there was plac’d
Some virtue in him fit to be embrac’d
By all the house, but most of all by me,
And by my son that was the progeny
Of both our loves. And yet it is not he,
For all the likely proofs ye plead to me,—
Some God hath slain the Wooers in disdain
Of the abhorréd pride he saw so reign
In those base works they did. No man alive,
Or good or bad, whoever did arrive
At their abodes once, ever could obtain
Regard of them; and therefore their so vain
And vile deserts have found as vile an end.
But, for Ulysses, never will extend
His wish’d return to Greece, nor he yet lives.”
“How strange a Queen are you,” said she, “that gives
No truth your credit, that your husband, set
Close in his house at fire, can purchase yet
No faith of you, but that he still is far
From any home of his! Your wit’s at war
With all credulity ever! And yet now,
I’ll name a sign shall force belief from you:
I bath’d him lately, and beheld the scar
That still remains a mark too ocular
To leave your heart yet blinded; and I then
Had run and told you, but his hand was fain
To close my lips from th’ acclamation
My heart was breathing, and his wisdom won
My still retention, till he gave me leave
And charge to tell you this. Now then receive
My life for gage of his return; which take
In any cruel fashion, if I make
All this not clear to you.” “Lov’d nurse,” said she,
“Though many things thou know’st, yet these things be
Veil’d in the counsels th’ uncreated Gods
Have long time mask’d in; whose dark periods
’Tis hard for thee to see into. But come,
Let’s see my son, the slain, and him by whom
They had their slaughter.” This said, down they went;
When, on the Queen’s part, divers thoughts were spent,
If, all this giv’n no faith, she still should stand
Aloof, and question more; or his hugg’d hand
And lovéd head she should at first assay
With free-giv’n kisses. When her doubtful way
Had pass’d the stony pavement, she took seat
Against her husband, in the opposite heat
The fire then cast upon the other wall.
Himself set by the column of the hall,
His looks cast downwards, and expected still
When her incredulous and curious will
To shun ridiculous error, and the shame
To kiss a husband that was not the same,
Would down, and win enough faith from his sight.
She silent sat, and her perplexéd plight
Amaze encounter’d. Sometimes she stood clear
He was her husband; sometimes the ill wear
His person had put on transform’d him so
That yet his stamp would hardly current go.
Her son, her strangeness seeing, blam’d her thus:
“Mother, ungentle mother! tyrannous!
In this too-curious modesty you show.
Why sit you from my father, nor bestow
A word on me t’ enquire and clear such doubt
As may perplex you? Found man ever out
One other such a wife that could forbear
Her lov’d lord’s welcome home, when twenty year
In infinite suff’rance he had spent apart.
No flint so hard is as a woman’s heart.”
“Son,” said she, “amaze contains my mind,
Nor can I speak and use the common kind
Of those enquiries, nor sustain to see
With opposite looks his count’nance. If this be
My true Ulysses now return’d, there are
Tokens betwixt us of more fitness far
To give me argument he is my lord;
And my assurance of him may afford
My proofs of joy for him from all these eyes
With more decorum than objéct their guise
To public notice.” The much-suff’rer brake
In laughter out, and to his son said: “Take
Your mother from the prease, that she may make
Her own proofs of me, which perhaps may give
More cause to the acknowledgments that drive
Their show thus off. But now, because I go
So poorly clad, she takes disdain to know
So loath’d a creature for her lovéd lord.
Let us consult, then, how we may accord
The town to our late action. Some one slain
Hath made the all-left slaughterer of him fain
To fly his friends and country; but our swords
Have slain a city’s most supportful lords,
The chief peers of the kingdom, therefore see
You use wise means t’ uphold your victory.”
“See you to that, good father,” said the son,
“Whose counsels have the sov’reign glory won
From all men living. None will strive with you,
But with unquestion’d girlands grace your brow,
To whom our whole alacrities we vow
In free attendance. Nor shall our hands leave
Your onsets needy of supplies to give
All the effects that in our pow’rs can fall.”
“Then this,” said he, “to me seems capital
Of all choice courses: Bathe we first, and then
Attire we freshly; all our maids and men
Enjoining likewise to their best attire.
The sacred singer then let touch his lyre,
And go before us all in graceful dance,
That all without, to whose ears shall advance
Our cheerful accents, or of travellers by,
Or firm inhabitants, solemnity
Of frolic nuptials may imagine here.
And this perform we, lest the massacre
Of all our Wooers be divulg’d about
The ample city, ere ourselves get out
And greet my father in his grove of trees,
Where, after, we will prove what policies
Olympius shall suggest to overcome
Our latest toils, and crown our welcome home.”
This all obey’d; bath’d, put on fresh attire
Both men and women did. Then took his lyre
The holy singer, and set thirst on fire
With songs and faultless dances; all the court
Rung with the footings that the numerous sport
From jocund men drew and fair-girdled dames;
Which heard abroad, thus flew the common fames:
“This sure the day is when the much-woo’d Queen
Is richly wed. O wretch! That hath not been
So constant as to keep her ample house
Till th’ utmost hour had brought her foremost spouse.”
Thus some conceiv’d, but little knew the thing.
And now Eurynomé had bath’d the King,
Smooth’d him with oils, and he himself attir’d
In vestures royal. Her part then inspir’d
The Goddess Pallas, deck’d his head and face
With infinite beauties, gave a goodly grace
Of stature to him, a much plumper plight
Through all his body breath’d, curls soft and bright
Adorn’d his head withal, and made it show
As if the flow’ry hyacinth did grow
In all his pride there, in the gen’ral trim
Of ev’ry lock and ev’ry curious limb.
Look how a skilful artizan, well-seen
In all arts metalline, as having been
Taught by Minerva and the God of fire,
Doth gold with silver mix so that entire
They keep their self-distinction, and yet so
That to the silver from the gold doth flow
A much more artificial lustre than his own,
And thereby to the gold itself is grown
A greater glory than if wrought alone,
Both being stuck off by either’s mixtion;
So did Minerva her’s and his combine,
He more in her, she more in him, did shine.
Like an Immortal from the bath he rose,
And to his wife did all his grace dispose,
Encount’ring this her strangeness: “Cruel dame
Of all that breathe, the Gods past steel and flame
Have made thee ruthless. Life retains not one
Of all dames else that bears so overgrown
A mind with abstinence, as twenty years
To miss her husband drown’d in woes and tears,
And at his coming keep aloof, and fare
As of his so long absence and his care
No sense had seiz’d her. Go, nurse, make a bed,
That I alone may sleep; her heart is dead
To all reflection!” To him thus replied
The wise Penelope: “Man half-deified,
’Tis not my fashion to be taken straight
With bravest men, nor poorest use to sleight.
Your mean appearance made not me retire,
Nor this your rich show makes me now admire,
Nor moves at all; for what is all to me
If not my husband? All his certainty
I knew at parting; but, so long apart,
The outward likeness holds no full desert
For me to trust to. Go, nurse, see addrest
A soft bed for him, and the single rest
Himself affects so. Let it be the bed
That stands within our bridal chamber-sted,
Which he himself made. Bring it forth from thence,
And see it furnish’d with magnificence.”
This said she to assay him, and did stir
Ev’n his establish’d patience; and to her
Whom thus he answer’d: “Woman! your words prove
My patience strangely. Who is it can move
My bed out of his place? It shall oppress
Earth’s greatest understander; and, unless
Ev’n God himself come, that can eas’ly grace
Men in their most skills, it shall hold his place;
For man he lives not that (as not most skill’d,
So not most young) shall easily make it yield,
If, building on the strength in which he flows,
He adds both levers too and iron crows:
For in the fixture of the bed is shown
A master-piece, a wonder; and ’twas done
By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought:
There was an olive-tree that had his grought
Amidst a hedge, and was of shadow proud,
Fresh, and the prime age of his verdure show’d,
His leaves and arms so thick that to the eye
It show’d a column for solidity.
To this had I a comprehension
To build my bridal bow’r; which all of stone,
Thick as the tree of leaves, I rais’d, and cast
A roof about it nothing meanly grac’d,
Put glued doors to it, that op’d art enough,
Then from the olive ev’ry broad-leav’d bough
I lopp’d away; then fell’d the tree; and then
Went over it both with my axe and plane,
Both govern’d by my line, And then I hew’d
My curious bedstead out; in which I shew’d
Work of no common hand. All this begun,
I could not leave till to perfection
My pains had brought it; took my wimble, bor’d
The holes, as fitted, and did last afford
The varied ornament, which show’d no want
Of silver, gold, and polish’d elephant.
An ox-hide dyed in purple then I threw
Above the cords. And thus to curious view
I hope I have objected honest sign
To prove I author nought that is not mine.
But if my bed stand unremov’d or no,
O woman, passeth human wit to know.”
This sunk her knees and heart, to hear so true
The signs she urg’d; and first did tears ensue
Her rapt assurance; then she ran and spread
Her arms about his neck, kiss’d oft his head,
And thus the curious stay she made excus’d:
“Ulysses! Be not angry that I us’d
Such strange delays to this, since heretofore
Your suff’ring wisdom hath the garland wore
From all that breathe; and ’tis the Gods that, thus
With mutual miss so long afflicting us,
Have caus’d my coyness; to our youths envied
That wish’d society that should have tied
Our youths and years together; and since now
Judgment and Duty should our age allow
As full joys therein as in youth and blood,
See all young anger and reproof withstood
For not at first sight giving up my arms,
My heart still trembling lest the false alarms
That words oft strike-up should ridiculize me.
Had Argive Helen known credulity
Would bring such plagues with it, and her again,
As authoress of them all, with that foul stain
To her and to her country, she had stay’d
Her love and mixture from a stranger’s bed;
But God impell’d her to a shameless deed,
Because she had not in herself decreed,
Before th’ attempt, that such acts still were shent
As simply in themselves as in th’ event
By which not only she herself sustains,
But we, for her fault, have paid mutual pains.
Yet now, since these signs of our certain bed
You have discover’d, and distinguishéd
From all earth’s others, no one man but you
Yet ever getting of it th’ only show,
Nor one of all dames but myself and she
My father gave, old Actor’s progeny,
Who ever guarded to ourselves the door
Of that thick-shaded chamber, I no more
Will cross your clear persuasion, though till now
I stood too doubtful and austere to you,”
These words of hers, so justifying her stay,
Did more desire of joyful moan convey
To his glad mind than if at instant sight
She had allow’d him all his wishes’ right.
He wept for joy, t’ enjoy a wife so fit
For his grave mind, that knew his depth of wit,
And held chaste virtue at a price so high,
And as sad men at sea when shore is nigh,
Which long their hearts have wish’d, their ship quite lost
By Neptune’s rigour, and they vex’d and tost
’Twixt winds and black waves, swimming for their lives,
A few escap’d, and that few that survives,
All drench’d in foam and brine, crawl up to land,
With joy as much as they did worlds command;
So dear to this wife was her husband’s sight,
Who still embrac’d his neck, and had, till light
Display’d her silver ensign, if the Dame,
That bears the blue sky intermix’d with flame
In her fair eyes, had not infix’d her thought
On other joys, for loves so hardly brought
To long’d-for meeting; who th’ extended night
Withheld in long date, nor would let the light
Her wing-hoov’d horse join—Lampus, Phaeton—
Those ever-colts that bring the morning on
To worldly men, but, in her golden chair,
Down to the ocean by her silver hair
Bound her aspirings. Then Ulysses said:
“O wife! Nor yet are my contentions stay’d.
A most unmeasur’d labour long and hard
Asks more performance; to it being prepar’d
By grave Tiresiás, when down to hell
I made dark passage, that his skill might tell
My men’s return and mine. But come, and now
Enjoy the sweet rest that our Fates allow.”
“The place of rest is ready,” she replied,
“Your will at full serve, since the Deified
Have brought you where your right is to command.
But since you know, God making understand
Your searching mind, inform me what must be
Your last set labour; since ’twill fall to me,
I hope, to hear it after, tell me now.
The greatest pleasure is before to know.”
“Unhappy!” said Ulysses; “To what end
Importune you this labour? It will lend
Nor you nor me delight, but you shall know
I was commanded yet more to bestow
My years in travel, many cities more
By sea to visit; and when first for shore
I left my shipping, I was will’d to take
A naval oar in hand, and with it make
My passage forth till such strange men I met
As knew no sea, nor ever salt did eat
With any victuals, who the purple beaks
Of ships did never see, nor that which breaks
The waves in curls, which is a fan-like oar,
And serves as wings with which a ship doth soar.
To let me know, then, when I was arriv’d
On that strange earth where such a people liv’d,
He gave me this for an unfailing sign:
When any one that took that oar of mine,
Borne on my shoulder, for a corn-cleanse fan,
I met ashore, and show’d to be a man
Of that land’s labour, there had I command
To fix mine oar, and offer on that strand
T’ imperial Neptune, whom I must implore,
A lamb, a bull, and sow-ascending boar;
And then turn home, where all the other Gods
That in the broad heav’n made secure abodes
I must solicit—all my curious heed
Giv’n to the sev’ral rites they have decreed—
With holy hecatombs; and then, at home,
A gentle death should seize me that would come
From out the sea, and take me to his rest
In full ripe age, about me living blest
My loving people; to which, he presag’d,
The sequel of my fortunes were engag’d.”
“If then,” said she, “the Gods will please t’ impose
A happier being to your fortune’s close
Than went before, your hope gives comfort strength
That life shall lend you better days at length.”
While this discourse spent mutual speech, the bed
Eurynomé and nurse had made, and spread
With richest furniture, while torches spent
Their parcel-gilt thereon. To bed then went
The aged nurse; and, where their sov’reigns were,
Eurynomé, the chambermaid, did bear
A torch, and went before them to their rest;
To which she left them and for her’s addrest.
The King and Queen then now, as newly-wed,
Resum’d the old laws of th’ embracing bed.
Telemachus and both his herdsmen then
Dissolv’d the dances both to maids and men;
Who in their shady roofs took timely sleep.
The bride and bridegroom having ceas’d to keep
Observéd love-joys, from their fit delight
They turn’d to talk. The Queen then did recite
What she had suffer’d by the hateful rout
Of harmful Wooers, who had eat her out
So many oxen and so many sheep,
How many tun of wine their drinking deep
Had quite exhausted. Great Ulysses then
Whatever slaughters he had made of men,
Whatever sorrows he himself sustain’d,
Repeated amply; and her ears remain’d
With all delight attentive to their end,
Nor would one wink sleep till he told her all,
Beginning where he gave the Cicons fall;
From thence his pass to the Lotophagi;
The Cyclop’s acts, the putting out his eye,
And wreak of all the soldiers he had eat,
No least ruth shown to all they could entreat;
His way to Æolus; his prompt receit
And kind dismission; his enforc’d retreat
By sudden tempest to the fishy main,
And quite distraction from his course again;
His landing at the Læstrigonian port,
Where ships and men in miserable sort
Met all their spoils, his ship and he alone
Got off from the abhorr’d confusión;
His pass to Circe, her deceits and arts;
His thence descension to th’ Infernal parts;
His life’s course of the Theban prophet learn’d,
Where all the slaughter’d Grecians he discern’d,
And lovéd mother; his astonish’d ear
With what the Siren’s voices made him hear;
His ’scape from th’ erring rocks, which Scylla was,
And rough Charybdis, with the dang’rous pass
Of all that touch’d there; his Sicilian
Offence giv’n to the Sun; his ev’ry man
Destroy’d by thunder vollied out of heav’n,
That split his ship; his own endeavours driv’n
To shift for succours on th’ Ogygian shore,
Where Nymph Calypso such affection bore
To him in his arrival, that with feast
She kept him in her caves, and would have blest
His welcome life with an immortal state
Would he have stay’d and liv’d her nuptial mate,
All which she never could persuade him to;
His pass to the Phæacians spent in woe;
Their hearty welcome of him, as he were
A God descended from the starry sphere;
Their kind dismission of him home with gold,
Brass, garments, all things his occasions would.
This last word us’d, sleep seiz’d his weary eye
That salves all care to all mortality.
In mean space Pallas entertain’d intent
That when Ulysses thought enough time spent
In love-joys with his wife, to raise the day,
And make his grave occasions call away.
The morning rose and he, when thus he said:
“O Queen, now satiate with afflictions laid
On both our bosoms,—you oppresséd here
With cares for my return, I ev’rywhere
By Jove and all the other Deities tost
Ev’n till all hope of my return was lost,—
And both arriv’d at this sweet haven, our bed,
Be your care us’d to see administ’red
My house-possessions left. Those sheep, that were
Consum’d in surfeits by your Wooers here,
I’ll forage to supply with some; and more
The suff’ring Grecians shall be made restore,
Ev’n till our stalls receive their wonted fill.
“And now, to comfort my good father’s ill
Long suffer’d for me, to the many-tree’d
And ample vineyard grounds it is decreed
In my next care that I must haste and see
His long’d-for presence. In the mean time, be
Your wisdom us’d, that since, the sun ascended,
The fame will soon be through the town extended
Of those I here have slain, yourself, got close
Up to your chamber, see you there repose,
Cheer’d with your women, and nor look afford
Without your court, nor any man a word.”
This said, he arm’d; to arms both son and swain
His pow’r commanding, who did entertain
His charge with spirit, op’d the gates and out,
He leading all. And now was hurl’d about
Aurora’s ruddy fire; through all whose light
Minerva led them through the town from sight.
THE END OF THE TWENTY-THIRD BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.