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 easily 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 masterpiece, a wonder; and ’twas done
By me, and none but me, and thus was wrought:
There was an olive-tree that had his growth
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 glu’d doors to it, that op’d art enough.
Then from the olive every 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 oxhide 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 suf
f
’
ring wisdom hath the garland wore
From all that breathe; and ’tis the gods that thus,
With mutual miss so long afflicting us,
Have caused 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 distinguished
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 toss’d
’Twixt winds and black waves, swimming for their lives,
A few escaped, 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, Phaëton,
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 prepared
By grave Tiresias, 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 several 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
Eurynome 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 sovereigns were,
Eurynome, the chambermaid, did bear
A torch, and went before them to their rest;
To which she left them and for hers address’d.
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
Observed 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 Aeolus; his prompt receipt
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 Laestrigonian port,
Where ships and men in miserable sort
Met all their spoils, his ship and he alone
Got off from the abhorr’d confusion;
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 loved mother; his astonish’d ear
With what the Sirens’ voices made him hear;
His ’scape from th’ erring rocks, which Scylla was,
And rough Charybdis, with the dangerous pass
Of all that touch’d there; his Sicilian
Offence given to the Sun; his every 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 Phaeacians 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 used, 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 oppressed here
With cares for my return, I everywhere
By Jove and all the other deities toss’d
Ev’n till all hope of my return was lost –
And both arriv’d at this sweet hav’n, 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 suffering 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
Book 24
The Argument
By Mercury the wooers’ souls
Are usher’d to th’ infernal pools.
Ulysses with Laertes met,
The people are in uproar set
Against them, for the wooers’ ends;
Whom Pallas stays and renders friends.
Another Argument
Omega
The uproar’s fire,
The people’s fall:
The grandsire, sire,
And son, to all.
Book 24
C
ylle
n
ia
n
Herme
s with his golden rod
The wooers’ souls, that yet retain’d abode
Amidst their bodies, call’d in dreadful rout
Forth to th’ infernals; who came murmuring out.
And, as amidst the desolate retreat
Of some vast cavern, made the sacred seat
Of austere spirits, bats with breasts and wings
Clasp fast the walls, and each to other clings,
But, swept off from their coverts, up they rise
And fly with murmurs in amazeful guise
About the cavern: so these, grumbling, rose
And flock’d together. Down before them goes
None-hurting Mercury to Hell’s broad ways,
And straight to those straits where the ocean stays
His lofty current in calm deeps they flew.
Then to the snowy rock they next withdrew,
And to the close of Phoebus’ orient gates,
The nation then of dreams, and then the states
Of those souls’ idols that the weary dead
Gave up in earth, which in a flow’ry mead
Had habitable situation.
And there they saw the soul of Thetis’ son,
Of good Patroclus, brave Antilochus,
And Ajax, the supremely strenuous
Of all the Greek host next Peleïon;
All which assembled about Maia’s son.
And to them, after, came the mournful ghost
Of Agamemnon, with all those he lost
In false Aegisthus’ court. Achilles then
Beholding there that mighty king of men,
Deplor’d his plight, and said: ‘O Atreus’ son!
Of all heroës, all opinion
Gave thee for Jove’s most lov’d, since most command
Of all the Greeks he gave thy eminent hand
At siege of Ilion, where we suffer’d so.
And is the issue this, that first in woe
Stern Fate did therefore set thy sequel down?
None borne past others’ fates can pass his own.
I wish to heav’n that in the height of all
Our pomp at Ilion Fate had sign’d thy fall,
That all the Greeks might have advanc’d to thee
A famous sepulchre, and Fame might see
Thy son giv’n honour in thy honour’d end!
But now a wretched death did Fate extend
To thy confusion and thy issue’s shame.’
‘O Thetis’ son,’ said he, ‘the vital flame
Extinct at Ilion, far from th’ Argive fields,
The style of “blessed” to thy virtue yields.
About thy fall the best of Greece and Troy
Were sacrific’d to slaughter – thy just joy
Conceiv’d in battle with some worth forgot
In such a death as great Apollo shot
At thy encounters. Thy brave person lay
Hid in a dusty whirlwind, that made way
With human breaths spent in thy ruin’s state.
Thou, great, wert greatly valued in thy fate.
All day we fought about thee; nor at all
Had ceas’d our conflict, had not Jove let fall
A storm that forc’d off our unwilling feet.
But, having brought thee from the fight to fleet,
Thy glorious person, bath’d and balm’d, we laid
Aloft a bed; and round about thee paid
The Greeks warm tears to thy deplor’d decease,
Quite daunted, cutting all their curls’ increase.
Thy death drave a divine voice through the seas
That started up thy mother from the waves;
And all the marine godheads left their caves,
Consorting to our fleet her rapt repair.
The Greeks stood frighted to see sea and air
And earth combine so in thy loss’s sense –
Had taken ship and fled for ever thence,
If old much-knowing-Nestor had not stay’d
Their rushing off, his counsels having sway’d
In all times former with such cause their courses;
Who bade contain themselves, and trust their forces,
For all they saw was Thetis come from sea,
With others of the wat’ry progeny,
To see and mourn for her deceased son;
Which stay’d the fears that all to flight had won.
And round about thee stood th’ old sea-god’s seeds
Wretchedly mourning, their immortal weeds
Spreading upon thee. All the sacred Nine
Of deathless Muses paid thee dues divine,
By varied turns their heavenly voices venting,
All in deep passion for thy death consenting.
And then of all our army not an eye
You could have seen undrown’d in misery,
The moving muse so ruled in every mind –
Full seventeen days and nights our tears confin’d
To celebration of thy mourned end;
Both men and gods did in thy moan contend.
The eighteenth day we spent about thy heap
Of dying fire. Black oxen, fattest sheep
We slew past number. Then the precious spoil,
Thy corse, we took up, which with floods of oil
And pleasant honey we embalm’d; and then
Wrapp’d thee in those robes that the gods did rain;
In which we gave thee to the hallow’d flame.
To which a number of heroical name,
All arm’d, came rushing in in desperate plight,
As press’d to sacrifice their vital right
To thy dead ruins while so bright they burn’d.
Both foot and horse brake in, and fought and mourn’d
In infinite tumult. But when all the night
The rich flame lasted, and that wasted quite
Thy body was with the enamour’d fire,
We came in early morn, and an entire
Collection made of every ivory bone,
Which wash’d in wine, and giv’n fit unction,
A two-ear’d bowl of gold thy mother gave,
By Bacchus giv’n her, and did form receive
From Vulcan’s famous hand, which, O renown’d
Great Thetis’ son, with thy fair bones we crown’d,
Mix’d with the bones of Menoetiades
And brave Antilochus; who, in decease
Of thy Patroclus, was thy favour’s dear.
About thee then a matchless sepulchre
The sacred host of the Achaians rais’d
Upon the Hellespont, where most it seiz’d,
For height and conspicuity, the eyes
Of living men and their posterities.
Thy mother then obtain’d the gods’ consent
To institute an honour’d game, that spent
The best approvement of our Grecian fames.
In whose praise I must say that many games
About heroës’ sepulchres mine eyes
Have seen perform’d, but these bore off the prize
With miracles to me from all before.
In which thy silver-footed mother bore
The institution’s name, but thy deserts,
Being great with heav’n, caus’d all the eminent parts.
And thus, through all the worst effects of fate
Achilles’ fame ev’n death shall propagate.
While any one shall lend the light an eye,
Divine Aeacides shall never die.
But wherein can these comforts be conceiv’d
As rights to me, when, having quite achiev’d
An end with safety, and with conquest, too,
Of so unmatch’d a war, what none could do
Of all our enemies there, at home a friend
And wife have given me inglorious end?’
While these thus spake, the Argus-killing spy
Brought near Ulysses’ noble victory
To their renew’d discourse, in all the ends
The wooers suffer’d, and show’d those his friends.
Whom now amaze invaded with the view,
And made give back; yet Agamemnon knew
Melanthius’ heir, much-fam’d Amphimedon,
Who had in Ithaca guest-favours shown
To great Atrides; who first spake, and said:
‘Amphimedon! What suff’rance hath been laid
On your alive parts that hath made you make
This land of darkness the retreat you take,
So all together, all being like in years,
Nor would a man have choos’d, of all the peers
A city honours, men to make a part
More strong for any object? Hath your smart
Been felt from Neptune, being at sea – his wrath
The winds and waves exciting to your scathe?
Or have offensive men impos’d this fate,
Your oxen driving, or your flock’s estate?
Or for your city fighting and your wives,
Have deaths untimely seiz’d your best-tim’d lives?
Inform me truly. I was once your guest,
When I and Menelaus had profess’d
First arms for Ilion, and were come ashore
On Ithaca, with purpose to implore
Ulysses’ aid, that city-rasing man,
In wreak of the adulterous Phrygian.
Retain not you the time? A whole month’s date
We spent at sea, in hope to instigate
In our arrival old Laertes’ son,
Whom hardly yet to our design we won.’
The soul made answer: ‘Worthiest king of men,
I well remember every passage then
You now reduce to thought, and will relate
The truth in whole form of our timeless fate:
‘We woo’d the wife of that long-absent king,
Who (though her second marriage were a thing
Of most hate to her) she would yet deny
At no part our affections, nor comply
With any in performance, but decreed,
In her delays, the cruel fates we feed.
Her craft was this: she undertook to weave
A funeral garment destin’d to receive
The corse of old Laertes – being a task
Of infinite labour, and which time would ask.
In midst of whose attempt she caus’d our stay
With this attraction: “Youths, that come in way
Of honour’d nuptials to me, though my lord
Abide amongst the dead, yet cease to board
My choice for present nuptials, and sustain,
Lest what is past me of this web be vain,
Till all receive perfection. ’Tis a weed
Dispos’d to wrap in at his funeral need
The old Laertes; who, possessing much,
Would, in his want of rites as fitting, touch
My honour highly with each vulgar dame.”
Thus spake she, and persuaded; and her frame
All day she labour’d, her day’s work not small,
But every night-time she unwrought it all,
Three years continuing this imperfect task;
But when the fourth year came her sleights could mask
In no more covert, since her trusted maid
Her whole deceit to our true note betray’d.
With which surpris’d, she could no more protract
Her work’s perfection, but gave end exact
To what remain’d, wash’d up, and set thereon
A gloss so bright that like the sun and moon
The whole work show’d together. And when now
Of mere necessity her honour’d vow
She must make good to us, ill fortune brought
Ulysses home, who yet gave none one thought
Of his arrival, but far off at field
Liv’d with his herdsman, nor his trust would yield
Note of his person, but liv’d there as guest,
Ragg’d as a beggar in that life profess’d.
At length Telemachus left Pylos’ sand,
And with a ship fetch’d soon his native land,
When yet not home he went, but laid his way
Up to his herdsman where his father lay,
And where both laid our deaths. To town then bore
The swine-herd and his king, the swain before.
Telemachus in other ways bestow’d
His course home first, t’ associate us that woo’d.
The swain the king led after, who came on
Ragged and wretched, and still lean’d upon
A borrow’d staff. At length he reach’d his home,
Where (on the sudden and so wretched come)
Nor we nor much our elders once did dream
Of his return there, but did wrongs extreme
Of words and blows to him; all which he bore
With that old patience he had learn’d before.
But when the mind of Jove had rais’d his own,
His son and he fetch’d all their armour down,
Fast lock’d the doors, and, to prepare their use,
He will’d his wife, for first mean, to produce
His bow to us to draw; of which no one
Could stir the string. Himself yet set upon
The deadly strength it held, drew all with ease,
Shot through the steels, and then began to seize
Our armless bosoms, striking first the breast
Of King Antinous, and then the rest
In heaps turn’d over; hopeful of his end
Because some god, he knew, stood firm his friend.
Nor prov’d it worse with him, but all in flood
The pavement straight blush’d with our vital blood.
And thus our souls came here, our bodies laid
Neglected in his roofs, no word convey’d
To any friend to take us home and give
Our wounds fit balming, nor let such as live
Entomb our deaths, and for our fortunes shed
Those tears and dead-rites that renown the dead.’
Atrides’ ghost gave answer: ‘O bless’d son
Of old Laertes, thou at length hast won
With mighty virtue thy unmatched wife.
How good a knowledge, how untouch’d a life,
Hath wise Penelope! How well she laid
Her husband’s rights up, whom she lov’d a maid!
For which her virtues shall extend applause
Beyond the circles frail mortality draws,
The deathless in this vale of death comprising
Her praise in numbers into infinites rising.
The daughter Tyndarus begat begot
No such chaste thoughts, but cut the virgin knot
That knit her spouse and her with murderous swords.
For which posterities shall put hateful words
To notes of her that all her sex defam’d,
And for her ill shall ev’n the good be blam’d.’
To this effect these these digressions made
In hell, earth’s dark and ever-hiding shade.
Ulysses and his son, now past the town,
Soon reach’d the field elaborately grown
By old Laertes’ labour when, with cares
For his lost son, he left all court affairs,
And took to this rude upland, which with toil