Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow’d
In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow’d
Was ever with him. And this man impos’d
Ulysses’ name, the light being first disclos’d
To his first sight then, when his grandsire came
To see the then preferrer of his fame,
His loved daughter. The first supper done,
Euryclea put in his lap her son,
And pray’d him to bethink and give his name,
Since that desire did all desires inflame.
‘Daughter and son-in-law,’ said he, ‘let then
The name that I shall give him stand with men.
Since I arriv’d here at the hour of pain,
In which mine own kind entrails did sustain
Moan for my daughter’s yet unended throes,
And when so many men’s and women’s woes,
In joint compassion met of human birth,
Brought forth t’ attend the many-feeding earth,
Let Odyssëus be his name, as one
Expos’d to just constraint of all men’s moan.
When here at home he is arriv’d at state
Of man’s first youth, he shall initiate
His practis’d feet in travel made abroad,
And to Parnassus, where mine own abode
And chief means lie, address his way, where I
Will give him from my open’d treasury
What shall return him well, and fit the fame
Of one that had the honour of his name.’
For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace
Of hands and words in him and all his race.
Amphithea, his mother’s mother, too,
Applied her to his love, withal, to do
In grandame’s welcomes, both his fair eyes kist,
And brows; and then commanded to assist
Were all her sons by their respected sire
In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire
Their minds with his command; who home straight led
A five-years-old male ox, fell’d, slew, and flay’d,
Gather’d about him, cut him up with art,
Spitted, and roasted, and his every part
Divided orderly. So all the day
They spent in feast; no one man went his way
Without his fit fill. When the sun was set,
And darkness rose, they slept, till day’s fire het
Th’ enlighten’d earth; and then on hunting went
Both hounds and all Autolycus’ descent.
In whose guide did divine Ulysses go,
Climb’d steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow
All sylvan offsprings round. And soon they reach’d
The concaves, whence air’s sounding vapours fetch’d
Their loud descent. As soon as any sun
Had from the ocean, where his waters run
In silent deepness, rais’d his golden head,
The early huntsmen all the hill had spread,
Their hounds before them on the searching trail –
They near, and ever eager to assail,
Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance,
Of whose first flight he long’d to prove the chance.
Then found they lodg’d a boar of bulk extreme,
In such a queach as never any beam
The sun shot pierc’d, nor any pass let find
The moist impressions of the fiercest wind,
Nor any storm the sternest winter drives,
Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves
In mighty thickness; and through all this flew
The hounds’ loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw,
And all together, rous’d the boar, that rush’d
Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push’d
From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes
Stood close, and dar’d all. On which horrid prise
Ulysses first charg’d; whom above the knee
The savage struck, and ras’d it crookedly
Along the skin, yet never reach’d the bone.
Ulysses’ lance yet through him quite was thrown,
At his right shoulder ent’ring, at his left
The bright head passage to his keenness cleft,
And show’d his point gilt with the gushing gore.
Down in the dust fell the extended boar,
And forth his life flew. To Ulysses round
His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound,
With all art bound it up, and with a charm
Stay’d straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm
Receiv’d full cure, with gifts, and all event
Of joy and love to his lov’d home they sent
Their honour’d nephew; whose return his sire
And reverend mother took with joys entire,
Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave
In good relation, nor of all would save
His wound from utterance; by whose scar he came
To be discover’d by this aged dame.
Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well,
Down from her lap into the cauldron fell
His weighty foot, that made the brass resound,
Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewed ground
Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together
Her breast invaded, and of weeping weather
Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within
Her part expressive, till at length his chin
She took and spake to him: ‘O son,’ said she,
‘Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be;
Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king
I had gone over with the warmed spring.’
Then look’d she for the queen to tell her all;
And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall
In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt,
Minerva that distraction struck throughout
Her mind’s rapt forces that she might not tell.
Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well,
With one hand took her chin, and made all show
Of favour to her, with the other drew
Her offer’d parting closer, ask’d her why
She, whose kind breast had nurs’d so tenderly
His infant life, would now his age destroy,
Though twenty years had held him from the joy
Of his loved country? But, since only she,
god putting her in mind, now knew ’twas he,
He charg’d her silence, and to let no ear
In all the court more know his being there,
Lest, if god gave into his wreakful hand
Th’ insulting wooers’ lives, he did not stand
On any partial respect with her,
Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer
Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel
His punishing finger, give her equal steel.
‘What words,’ said she, ‘fly your retentive pow’rs?
You know you lock your counsels in your tow’rs
In my firm bosom, and that I am far
From those loose frailties. Like an iron bar,
Or bolt of solid’st stone, I will contain,
And tell you this besides: that if you gain,
By god’s good aid, the wooers’ lives in yours,
What dames are here their shameless paramours,
And have done most dishonour to your worth,
My information well shall paint you forth.’
‘It shall not need,’ said he; ‘myself will soon,
While thus I mask here, set on every one
My sure observance of the worst and best.
Be thou then silent, and leave god the rest.’
This said, the old dame for more water went,
The rest was all upon the pavement spent
By known Ulysses’ foot. More brought, and he
Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she
His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm,
And with his piec’d rags hiding close his harm.
The queen came near, and said: ‘Yet, guest, afford
Your further patience, till but in a word
I’ll tell my woes to you; for well I know
That rest’s sweet hour her soft foot orders now,
When all poor men, how much soever griev’d,
Would gladly get their woe-watch’d pow’rs reliev’d.
But god hath giv’n my grief a heart so great
It will not down with rest, and so I set
My judgment up to make it my delight.
All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right
I owe my charge both in my work and maids;
And when the night brings rest to others’ aids,
I toss my bed, Distress, with twenty points,
Slaught’ring the pow’rs that to my turning joints
Convey the vital heat. And as all night
Pandareus’ daughter, poor Edone, sings,
Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs,
When she for Itylus, her loved son,
By Zethus’ issue in his madness done
To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan,
And draws the ears to her of every one:
So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind,
And here and there gives my discourse the wind,
Uncertain whether I shall with my son
Abide still here the safe possession
And guard of all goods, rev’rence to the bed
Of my lov’d lord, and to my far-off-spread
Fame with the people, putting still in use,
Or follow any best Greek I can choose
To his fit house, with treasure infinite,
Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight
And want of judgment kept my son in guide,
He was not willing with my being a bride,
Nor with my parting from his court; but now,
Arriv’d at man’s state, he would have me vow
My love to some one of my wooers here,
And leave his court, offended that their cheer
Should so consume his free possessions.
To settle then a choice in these my moans,
Hear and expound a dream that did engrave
My sleeping fancy: twenty geese I have,
All which, methought, mine eye saw tasting wheat
In water steep’d, and joy’d to see them eat;
When straight a crook-beak’d eagle from a hill
Stoop’d, and truss’d all their necks, and all did kill;
When, all left scatter’d on the pavement there,
She took her wing up to the gods’ fair sphere.
I, ev’n amid my dream, did weep and mourn
To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn,
Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came
About my mournings many a Grecian dame,
To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme
The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam
That cross’d my chamber fell, and us’d to me
A human voice, that sounded horribly,
And said: “Be confident, Icarius’ seed,
This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed.
The geese the wooers are; the eagle, I,
Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply
Thy husband’s being, and am come to give
The wooers death, that on my treasure live.”
With this sleep left me, and my waking way
I took, to try if any violent prey
Were made of those my fowls, which well enough
I, as before, found feeding at their trough
Their yoted wheat.’ ‘O woman,’ he replied,
‘Thy dream can no interpretation bide
But what the eagle made, who was your lord,
And said himself would sure effect afford
To what he told you; that confusion
To all the wooers should appear, and none
Escape the fate and death he had decreed.’
She answer’d him: ‘O guest, these dreams exceed
The art of man t’ interpret; and appear
Without all choice or form; nor ever were
Perform’d to all at all parts. But there are
To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare,
Two two-leav’d gates, the one of ivory,
The other horn. Those dreams that Fantasy
Takes from the polish’d ivory port, delude
The dreamer ever, and no truth include;
Those that the glittering horn-gate lets abroad,
Do evermore some certain truth abode.
But this my dream I hold of no such sort
To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port
It had access from, it did highly please
My son and me. And this my thoughts profess:
That day that lights me from Ulysses’ court
Shall both my infamy and curse consort.
I therefore purpose to propose them now,
In strong contention, Ulysses his bow;
Which he that easily draws, and from his draft
Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft,
All set up in a row, and from them all
His stand-far-off kept firm), my fortunes shall
Dispose, and take me to his house from hence,
Where I was wed a maid, in confluence
Of feast and riches; such a court here then
As I shall ever in my dreams retain.’
‘Do not,’ said he, ‘defer the gameful prize,
But set to task their importunities
With something else than nuptials; for your lord
Will to his court and kingdom be restor’d
Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow.’
‘O guest,’ replied Penelope, ‘would you
Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears
Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres!
But none can live without the death of sleep.
Th’ immortals in our mortal memories keep
Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so,
As by the fate and portion of our woe,
Our times spent here, to let us nightly try
That while we live, as much live as we die.
In which use I will to my bed ascend,
Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end
Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy
For vile, lewd, never-to-be-named Troy.
Yet there I’ll prove for sleep, which take you here,
Or on the earth, if that your custom were,
Or have a bed dispos’d for warmer rest.’
Thus left she with her ladies her old guest,
Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed,
Whose sight did ever duly make her shed
Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep,
Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep.
The end of the nineteenth book
Book 20
The Argument
Ulysses, in the wooers’ beds
Resolving first to kill the maids,
That sentence giving off, his care
For other objects doth prepare.
Another Argument
Psi
Jove’s thunder chides,
But cheers the king,
The wooers’ prides
Discomfiting.