So sharp the string sung when he gave it touch,
Once having bent and drawn it. Which so much
Amaz’d the wooers, that their colours went
And came most grievously. And then Jove rent
The air with thunder; which at heart did cheer
The now-enough-sustaining traveller,
That Jove again would his attempt enable.
Then took he into hand, from off the table,
The first drawn arrow – and a number more
Spent shortly on the wooers – but this one
He measured by his arm, as if not known
The length were to him, nock’d it then, and drew;
And through the axes, at the first hole, flew
The steel-charg’d arrow; which when he had done
He thus bespake the prince: ‘You have not won
Disgrace yet by your guest; for I have strook
The mark I shot at, and no such toil took
In wearying the bow with fat and fire
As did the wooers. Yet reserv’d entire,
Thank heav’n, my strength is, and myself am tried,
No man to be so basely vilified
As these men pleas’d to think me. But free way
Take that and all their pleasures; and while day
Holds her torch to you, and the hour of feast
Hath now full date, give banquet, and the rest,
Poem and harp, that grace a well-fill’d board.’
This said, he beckon’d to his son; whose sword
He straight girt to him, took to hand his lance,
And complete arm’d did to his sire advance.
The end of the twenty-first book
Book 22
The Argument
The wooers in Minerva’s sight
Slain by Ulysses; all the light
And lustful housewives by his son
And servants are to slaughter done.
Another Argument
Chi
The end of pride,
And lawless lust,
Is wretched tried
With slaughters just.
Book 22
T
h
e u
pper
rags that wise Ulysses wore
Cast off, he rusheth to the great hall door
With bow and quiver full of shafts, which down
He pour’d before his feet, and thus made known
His true state to the wooers: ‘This strife thus
Hath harmless been decided; now for us
There rests another mark, more hard to hit,
And such as never man before hath smit;
Whose full point likewise my hands shall assay,
And try if Phoebus will give me his day.’
He said, and off his bitter arrow thrust
Right at Antinous, that struck him just
As he was lifting up the bowl, to show
That ’twixt the cup and lip much ill may grow.
Death touch’d not at his thoughts at feast; for who
Would think that he alone could perish so
Amongst so many, and he best of all?
The arrow in his throat took full his fall,
And thrust his head far through the other side.
Down fell his cup, down he, down all his pride;
Straight from his nostrils gush’d the human gore
And, as he fell, his feet far overbore
The feastful table, all the roast and bread
About the house strew’d. When his highborn head
The rest beheld so low, up rush’d they all,
And ransack’d every corner of the hall
For shields and darts; but all fled far their reach.
Then fell they foul on him with terrible speech,
And told him it should prove the dearest shaft
That ever pass’d him, and that now was sav’d
No shift for him but sure and sudden death;
For he had slain a man whose like did breathe
In no part of the kingdom, and that now
He should no more for games strive with his bow,
But vultures eat him there. These threats they spent,
Yet every man believ’d that stern event
Chanc’d ’gainst the author’s will. O fools, to think
That all their rest had any cup to drink
But what their great Antinous began!
He, frowning, said: ‘Dogs, see in me the man
Ye all held dead at Troy. My house it is
That thus ye spoil, and thus your luxuries
File with my womens’ rapes; in which ye woo
The wife of one that lives, and no thought show
Of man’s fit fear, or god’s, your present fame,
Or any fair sense of your future name;
And, therefore, present and eternal death
Shall end your base life.’ This made fresh fears breathe
Their former boldness. Every man had eye
On all the means, and studied ways to fly
So deep deaths imminent. But seeing none,
Eurymachus began with suppliant moan
To move his pity, saying: ‘If you be
This isle’s Ulysses, we must all agree,
In grant of your reproo
f
’
s integrity,
The Greeks have done you many a wrong at home,
At field as many. But of all the sum
Lies here contract in death; for only he
Impos’d the whole ill-offices that we
Are now made guilty of, and not so much
Sought his endeavours, or in thought did touch
At any nuptials, but a greater thing
Employ’d his forces; for to be our king
Was his chief object; his sole plot it was
To kill your son, which Jove’s hand would not pass,
But set it to his own most merited end.
In which, end your just anger, nor extend
Your stern wreak further; spend your royal powers
In mild ruth of your people; we are yours,
And whatsoever waste of wine or food
Our liberties have made, we’ll make all good
In restitutions. Call a court, and pass
A fine of twenty oxen, gold, and brass,
On every head, and raise your most rates still,
Till you are pleas’d with your confessed fill.
Which if we fail to tender, all your wrath
It shall be justice in our bloods to bathe.’
‘Eurymachus,’ said he, ‘if you would give
All that your fathers hoard, to make ye live,
And all that ever you yourselves possess,
Or shall by any industry increase,
I would not cease from slaughter, till your bloods
Had bought out your intemperance in my goods.
It rests now for you that you either fight
That will ’scape death, or make your way by flight.
In whose best choice, my thoughts conceive, not one
Shall shun the death your first hath undergone.’
This quite dissolv’d their knees. Eurymachus,
Enforcing all their fears, yet counsell’d thus:
‘O friends! This man, now he hath got the bow
And quiver by him, ever will bestow
His most inaccessible hands at us,
And never leave, if we avoid him thus,
Till he hath strewn the pavement with us all;
And, therefore, join we swords, and on him fall
With tables forc’d up, and borne in oppos’d
Against his sharp shafts; when, being round enclos’d
By all our onsets, we shall either take
His horrid person, or for safety make
His rage retire from out the hall and gates;
And then, if he escape, we’ll make our states
Known to the city by our general cry.
And thus this man shall let his last shaft fly
That ever this hand vaunted.’ Thus he drew
His sharp-edg’d sword, and with a table flew
In on Ulysses, with a terrible throat
His fierce charge urging. But Ulysses smote
The board, and cleft it through from end to end
Borne at his breast, and made his shaft extend
His sharp head to his liver, his broad breast
Pierc’d at his nipple; when his hand releas’d
Forthwith his sword, that fell and kiss’d the ground,
With cups and victuals lying scatter’d round
About the pavement; amongst which his brow
Knock’d the imbru’d earth, while in pains did flow
His vital spirits, till his heels shook out
His feastful life, and hurl’d a throne about
That way-laid death’s convulsions in his feet;
When from his tender eyes the light did fleet.
Then charg’d Amphinomus with his drawn blade
The glorious king, in purpose to have made
His feet forsake the house; but his assay
The prince prevented, and his lance gave way
Quite through his shoulder, at his back, his breast
The fierce pile letting forth. His ruin press’d
Groans from the pavement, which his forehead strook.
Telemachus his long lance then forsook –
Left in Amphinomus – and to his sire
Made fiery pass, not staying to acquire
His lance again, in doubt that, while he drew
The fixed pile, some other might renew
Fierce charge upon him, and his unarm’d head
Cleave with his back-drawn sword; for which he fled
Close to his father, bade him arm, and he
Would bring him shield and javelins instantly,
His own head arming, more arms laying by
To serve the swine-herd and the oxen-herd.
Valour well arm’d is ever most preferr’d.
‘Run then,’ said he, ‘and come before the last
Of these auxiliary shafts are past,
For fear lest, left alone, they force my stand
From forth the ports.’ He flew, and brought to hand
Eight darts, four shields, four helms. His own parts then
First put in arms, he furnish’d both his men,
That to their king stood close; but he, as long
As he had shafts to friend, enough was strong
For all the wooers, and some one man still
He made make ev’n with earth, till all a hill
Had raised in th’ ev’n-floor’d hall. His last shaft spent,
He set his bow against a beam, and went
To arm at all parts, while the other three
Kept off the wooers, who, unarm’d, could be
No great assailants. In the well-built wall
A window was thrust out, at end of all
The house’s entry; on whose outer side
There lay a way to town, and in it wide
And two-leav’d folds were forg’d, that gave fit mean
For flyers out; and therefore, at it then
Ulysses placed Eumaeus in close guard;
One only pass ope to it, which (prepar’d
In this sort by Ulysses ’gainst all pass)
By Agelaus’ tardy memory was
In question call’d, who bade some one ascend
At such a window, and bring straight to friend
The city with his clamour, that this man
Might quickly shoot his last. ‘This no one can
Make safe access to,’ said Melanthius,
‘For ’tis too near the hall’s fair doors, whence thus
The man afflicts ye; for from thence there lies
But one strait passage to it, that denies
Access to all, if any one man stand,
Being one of courage, and will countermand
Our offer to it. But I know a way
To bring you arms, from where the king doth lay
His whole munition – and believe there is
No other place to all the armories
Both of himself and son.’ This said, a pair
Of lofty stairs he climb’d, and to th’ affair
Twelve shields, twelve lances brought, as many casques
With horsehair plumes; and set to bitter tasks
Both son and sire. Then shrunk Ulysses’ knees,
And his lov’d heart, when thus in arms he sees
So many wooers, and their shaken darts;
For then the work show’d as it ask’d more parts
To safe performance, and he told his son
That or Melanthius or his maids had done
A deed that foul war to their hands conferr’d.
‘O father,’ he replied, ‘tis I have err’d
In this caus’d labour: I, and none but I,
That left the door ope of your armoury.
But some, it seems, hath set a sharper eye
On that important place. Eumaeus! Haste
And shut the door, observing who hath pass’d
To this false action: any maid, or one
That I suspect more, which is Dolius’ son.’
While these spake thus, Melanthius went again
For more fair arms; whom the renowned swain
Eumaeus saw, and told Ulysses straight
It was the hateful man that his conceit
Before suspected, who had done that ill;
And, being again there, ask’d if he should kill,
If his power serv’d, or he should bring the swain
To him, t’ inflict on him a several pain
For every forfeit he had made his house.
He answer’d: ‘I and my Telemachus
Will here contain these proud ones in despite,
How much soever these stolen arms excite
Their guilty courages, while you two take
Possession of the chamber. The doors make
Sure at your back, and then, surprising him,
His feet and hands bind, wrapping every limb
In pliant chains; and with a halter cast
Above the wind-beam – at himself made fast –
Aloft the column draw him; where alive
He long may hang, and pains enough deprive
His vexed life before his death succeed.’
This charge, soon heard, as soon they put to deed,
Stole on his stealth, and at the further end
Of all the chamber saw him busily bend
His hands to more arms, when they, still at door,
Watch’d his return. At last he came, and bore
In one hand a fair helm, in th’ other held
A broad and ancient rusty-rested shield,
That old Laertes in his youth had worn,
Of which the cheek-bands had with age been torn.
They rush’d upon him, caught him by the hair,
And dragg’d him in again; whom, crying out,
They cast upon the pavement, wrapp’d about
With sure and pinching cords both foot and hand,
And then, in full act of their king’s command,
A pliant chain bestow’d on him, and hal’d
His body up the column, till he scal’d
The highest wind-beam; where made firmly fast,
Eumaeus on his just infliction pass’d
This pleasurable cavil: ‘Now you may
All night keep watch here, and the earliest day
Discern, being hung so high, to rouse from rest
Your dainty cattle to the wooers’ feast.
There, as befits a man of means so fair,
Soft may you sleep, nought under you but air;
And so long hang you.’ Thus they left him there,
Made fast the door, and with Ulysses were
All arm’d in th’ instant. Then they all stood close,
Their minds fire breath’d in flames against their foes,
Four in th’ entry fighting all alone,
When from the hall charged many a mighty one.
But to them then Jove’s seed, Minerva, came,
Resembling Mentor both in voice and frame
Of manly person. Passing well apaid
Ulysses was, and said: ‘Now, Mentor, aid
’Gainst these odd mischiefs; call to memory now
My often good to thee, and that we two
Of one year’s life are.’ Thus he said, but thought
It was Minerva, that had ever brought
To her side safety. On the other part,
The wooers threaten’d; but the chief in heart
Was Agelaus, who to Mentor spake:
‘Mentor! Let no words of Ulysses make
Thy hand a fighter on his feeble side
’Gainst all us wooers; for we firm abide
In this persuasion, that when sire and son
Our swords have slain, thy life is sure to run
One fortune with them. What strange acts hast thou
Conceit to form here? Thy head must bestow
The wreak of theirs on us. And when thy pow’rs
Are taken down by these fierce steels of ours,
All thy possessions, in doors and without,
Must raise on heap with his, and all thy rout
Of sons and daughters in thy turrets bleed
Wreak offerings to us, and our town stand freed
Of all charge with thy wife.’ Minerva’s heart