And dull these wooers with thy wretched cheer?
Not gone for ever yet? Why, now I see
This strife of cuffs betwixt the beggary,
That yesterday assay’d to get thee gone,
And thy more roguery, needs will fall upon
My hands to arbitrate. Thou wilt not hence
Till I set on thee; thy ragg’d impudence
Is so fast-footed. Are there not beside
Other great banquetants, but you must ride
At anchor still with us?’ He nothing said,
But thought of ill enough, and shook his head.
Then came Philoetius, a chief of men,
That to the wooers’ all-devouring den
A barren steer drave, and fat goats; for they
In custom were with traffickers by sea,
That who they would sent, and had utterance there.
And for these likewise the fair porches were
Hurdles and sheep-pens, as in any fair.
Philoetius took note in his repair
Of seen Ulysses, being a man as well
Giv’n to his mind’s use as to buy and sell,
Or do the drudg’ry that the blood desir’d,
And, standing near Eumaeus, this enquir’d:
‘What guest is this that makes our house of late
His entertainer? Whence claims he the state
His birth in this life holds? What nation?
What race? What country stands his speech upon?
O’er-hardly portion’d by the terrible fates,
The structure of his lineaments relates
A king’s resemblance in his pomp of reign,
Ev’n thus in these rags. But poor erring men,
That have no firm home, but range here and there
As need compels, god keeps in this earth’s sphere
As under water, and this tune he sings,
When he is spinning ev’n the cares of kings.’
Thus coming to him, with a kind of fear
He took his hand, and, touch’d exceeding near
With mere imagination of his worth,
This salutation he sent loudly forth:
‘Health, father stranger! In another world
Be rich and happy, though thou here art hurl’d
At feet of never such insulting need.
O Jove, there lives no one god of thy seed
More ill to man than thou. Thou tak’st no ruth –
When thou thyself hast got him in most truth –
To wrap him in the straits of most distress,
And in the curse of others’ wickedness.
My brows have swet to see it, and mine eyes
Broke all in tears, when this being still the guise
Of worthiest men, I have but only thought,
That down to these ills was Ulysses wrought,
And that, thus clad, even he is error-driv’n,
If yet he lives and sees the light of heav’n.
But, if now dead, and in the house of hell,
O me! O good Ulysses, that my weal
Did ever wish, and when, but half a man
Amongst the people Cephallenian,
His bounty to his oxen’s charge preferr’d
One in that youth; which now is grown a herd
Unspeakable for number, and feed there
With their broad heads, as thick as of his ear
A field of corn is to a man. Yet these
Some men advise me that this noted prease
Of wooers may devour, and wish me drive
Up to their feasts with them, that neither give
His son respect, though in his own free roof,
Nor have the wit to fear th’ infallible proof
Of heav’nly vengeance, but make offer now
The long-lack’d king’s possessions to bestow
In their self-shares. Methinks the mind in me
Doth turn as fast as in a flood or sea
A raging whirlpit doth, to gather in
To fishy death those swimmers in their sin;
Or feeds a motion as circular
To drive my herds away. But while the son
Bears up with life, ’twere heinous wrong to run
To other people with them, and to trust
Men of another earth. And yet more just
It were to venture their laws, the main right
Made still their masters, than at home lose quite
Their right and them, and sit and grieve to see
The wrong authoriz’d by their gluttony.
And I had long since fed, and tried th’ event
With other proud kings, since more insolent
These are than can be borne, but that ev’n still
I had a hope that this, though born to ill,
Would one day come from some coast, and their last
In his roofs strew with ruins red and vast.’
‘Herdsman,’ said he, ‘because thou art in show
Nor lewd nor indiscreet, and that I know
There rules in thee an understanding soul,
I’ll take all oath, that in thee shall control
All doubt of what I swear: be witness, Jove,
That sway’st the first seat of the thron’d above,
This hospitable table, and this house,
That still hold title for the strenuous
Son of Laertes, that – if so you please –
Your eyes shall witness Laertiades
Arriv’d at home, and all these men that reign
In such excesses here shall here lie slain!’
He answer’d: ‘Stranger! Would just Jove would sign
What you have sworn! In your eyes’ beams should shine
What pow’rs I manage, and how these my hands
Would rise and follow where he first commands.’
So [too] Eumaeus, praying all the sky
That wise Ulysses might arrive and try.
Thus while they vow’d, the wooers sat as hard
On his son’s death, but had their counsels scarr’d,
For on their left hand did an eagle soar,
And in her seres a fearful pigeon bore.
Which seen, Amphinomus presag’d: ‘O friends,
Our counsels never will receive their ends
In this man’s slaughter. Let us therefore ply
Our bloody feast, and make his oxen die.’
Thus came they in, cast off on seats their cloaks,
And fell to giving sacrificing strokes
Of sheep and goats, the chiefly fat and great,
Slew fed-up swine, and from the herd a neat.
The innards roasted, they dispos’d betwixt
Their then observers, wine in flagons mix’d.
The bowls Eumaeus brought, Philoetius bread,
Melanthius fill’d the wine. Thus drank and fed
The feastful wooers. Then the prince, in grace
Of his close project, did his father place
Amidst the paved entry, in a seat
Seemless and abject, a small board and meat
Of th’ only innards; in a cup of gold
Yet sent him wine, and bade him now drink bold,
All his approaches he himself would free
’Gainst all the wooers, since he would not see
His court made popular, but that his sire
Built it to his use. Therefore all the fire
Blown in the wooers’ spleens he bade suppress,
And that in hands nor words they should digress
From that set peace his speech did then proclaim.
They bit their lips and wonder’d at his aim
In that brave language; when Antinous said:
‘Though this speech, Grecians, be a mere upbraid,
Yet this time give it pass. The will of Jove
Forbids the violence of our hands to move,
But of our tongues we keep the motion free,
And, therefore, if his further jollity
Tempt our encounter with his braves, let’s check
His growing insolence, though pride to speak
Fly passing high with him.’ The wise prince made
No more spring of his speech, but let it fade.
And now the heralds bore about the town
The sacred hecatomb; to whose renown
The fair-hair’d Greeks assembled, and beneath
Apollo’s shady wood the holy death
They put to fire; which made enough, they drew,
Divided all, that did in th’ end accrue
To glorious satisfaction. Those that were
Disposers of the feast did equal cheer
Bestow on wretched Laertiades,
With all the wooers’ souls, it so did please
Telemachus to charge them. And for these
Minerva would not see the malices
The wooers bore too much contain’d, that so
Ulysses’ mov’d heart yet might higher flow
In wreakful anguish. There was wooing there,
Amongst the rest, a gallant that did bear
The name of one well-learn’d in jests profane,
His name Ctesippus, born a Samian;
Who, proud because his father was so rich,
Had so much confidence as did bewitch
His heart with hope to wed Ulysses’ wife;
And this man said:
‘
Hear me, my lords in strife
For this great widow. This her guest did share
Ev’n feast with us, with very comely care
Of him that order’d it; for ’tis not good
Nor equal to deprive guests of their food,
And specially whatever guest makes way
To that house where Telemachus doth sway;
And therefore I will add to his receipt
A gift of very hospitable weight,
Which he may give again to any maid
That bathes his grave feet, and her pains see paid,
Or any servant else that the divine
Ulysses’ lofty battlements confine.’
Thus snatch’d he with a valiant hand, from out
The poor folks’ common basket, a neat’s foot,
And threw it at Ulysses; who his head
Shrunk quietly aside, and let it shed
His malice on the wall – the suffering man
A laughter raising most Sardinian,
With scorn and wrath mix’d, at the Samian.
Whom thus the prince reproved: ‘Your valour won
Much grace, Ctesippus, and hath eas’d your mind
With mighty profit, yet you see it find
No mark it aim’d at; the poor stranger’s part
Himself made good enough, to ’scape your dart.
But should I serve thee worthily, my lance
Should strike thy heart through, and, in place t’advance
Thyself in nuptials with his wealth, thy sire
Should make thy tomb here, that the foolish fire
Of all such valours may not dare to show
These foul indecencies to me. I now
Have years to understand my strength, and know
The good and bad of things, and am no more
At your large suf
f
’
rance, to behold my store
Consum’d with patience, see my cattle slain,
My wine exhausted, and my bread in vain
Spent on your license; for to one then young
So many enemies were match too strong.
But let me never more be witness to
Your hostile minds, nor those base deeds ye do;
For, should ye kill me in my offer’d wreak,
I wish it rather, and my death would speak
Much more good of me, than to live and see
Indignity upon indignity,
My guests provok’d with bitter words and blows,
My women servants dragg’d about my house
To lust and rapture.’ This made silence seize
The house throughout; till Damastorides
At length the calm brake, and said: ‘Friend, forbear
To give a just speech a disdainful ear;
The guest no more touch, nor no servant here.
Myself will to the prince and queen commend
A motion grateful, if they please to lend
Grateful receipt. As long as any hope
Left wise Ulysses any passage ope
To his return in our conceits, so long
The queen’s delays to our demands stood strong
In cause and reason, and our quarrels thus
With guests, the queen, or her Telemachus,
Set never foot amongst our liberal feast;
For should the king return, though thought deceas’d,
It had been gain to us, in finding him,
To lose his wife. But now, since nothing dim
The days break out that show he never more
Shall reach the dear touch of his country shore,
Sit by your mother, in persuasion
That now it stands her honour much upon
To choose the best of us, and, who gives most,
To go with him home. For so, all things lost
In sticking on our haunt so, you shall clear
Recover in our no more concourse here,
Possess your birthright wholly, eat and drink,
And never more on our disgraces think.’
‘By Jove, no, Agelaus! For I swear
By all my father’s sorrows, who doth err
Far off from Ithaca, or rests in death,
I am so far from spending but my breath
To make my mother any more defer
Her wished nuptials, that I’ll counsel her
To make her free choice; and besides will give
Large gifts to move her. But I fear to drive
Or charge her hence; for god will not give way
To any such course, if I should assay.’
At this, Minerva made for foolish joy
The wooers mad, and rous’d their late annoy
To such a laughter as would never down.
They laugh’d with others’ cheeks, ate meat o’erflown
With their own bloods, their eyes stood full of tears
For violent joys; their souls yet thought of fears,
Which Theoclymenus express’d, and said:
‘O wretches! Why sustain ye, well apaid,
Your imminent ill? A night, with which death sees
Your heads and faces hides beneath your knees;
Shrieks burn about you; your eyes thrust out tears;
These fixed walls, and that main beam that bears
The whole house up, in bloody torrents fall;
The entry full of ghosts stands; full the hall
Of passengers to hell; and under all
The dismal shades; the sun sinks from the poles;
And troubled air pours bane about your souls.’
They sweetly laugh’d at this. Eurymachus
To mocks dispos’d, and said: ‘This new-come-t’us
Is surely mad, conduct him forth to light
In th’ open market-place; he thinks ’tis night
Within the house.’ ‘Eurymachus,’ said he,
‘I will not ask for any guide of thee.
I both my feet enjoy, have ears and eyes,
And no mad soul within me; and with these
Will I go forth the doors, because I know