This shady mountain. They, in fear, obey’d,
Slew all the beeves, and to the godhead pray’d,
The dukes and princes all ensphering round
The sacred altar; while whose tops were crown’d,
Divine Ulysses, on his country’s breast
Laid bound in sleep, now rose out of his rest,
Nor (being so long remov’d) the region knew.
Besides which absence, yet Minerva threw
A cloud about him, to make strange the more
His safe arrival, lest upon his shore
He should make known his face, and utter all
That might prevent th’ event that was to fall.
Which she prepar’d so well, that not his wife,
Presented to him, should perceive his life –
No citizen, no friend, till righteous fate
Upon the wooers’ wrongs were consummate.
Through which cloud all things show’d now to the king
Of foreign fashion; the enflower’d spring
Amongst the trees there, the perpetual waves,
The rocks, that did more high their foreheads raise
To his rapt eye than naturally they did,
And all the hav’n, in which a man seem’d hid
From wind and weather, when storms loudest chid.
He therefore, being risen, stood and view’d
His country earth; which, not perceiv’d, he ru’d,
And, striking with his hurl’d-down hands his thighs,
He mourn’d, and said: ‘O me! Again where lies
My desert way? To wrongful men and rude,
And with no laws of human right endu’d?
Or are they human, and of holy minds?
What fits my deed with these so many kinds
Of goods late giv
’
n? What with myself will floods
And errors do? I would to god, these goods
Had rested with their owners, and that I
Had fall’n on kings of more regality,
To grace out my return, that lov’d indeed,
And would have giv’n me consorts of fit speed
To my distresses’ ending! But, as now,
All knowledge flies me, where I may bestow
My labour’d purchase. Here they shall not stay,
Lest what I car’d for others make their prey.
O gods! I see the great Phaeacians then
Were not all just and understanding men,
That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended,
Assuring me my country should see ended
My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts.
O Jove! Great guardian of poor suppliants,
That others sees, and notes too, shutting in
All in thy plagues, that most presume on sin,
Revenge me on them. Let me number now
The goods they gave, to give my mind to know
If they have stol’n none, in their close retreat.’
The goodly cauldrons then, and tripods, set
In sev’ral ranks from out the heap, he told,
His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold,
And nothing lack’d; and yet this man did mourn
The but suppos’d miss of his home-return –
And creeping to the shore, with much complaint,
Minerva (like a shepherd, young and quaint,
As king
’
s sons are, a double mantle cast
Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac’d
With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart)
Appear’d to him, whose sight rejoic’d his heart;
To whom he came, and said: ‘O friend! Since first
I meet your sight here, be all good the worst
That can join our encounter. Fare you fair,
Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,
But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.
As to a god I offer pray’rs to thee,
And low access make to thy loved knee.
Say truth, that I may know, what country then,
What common people live here, and what men?
Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,
Being near the sea, to some rich continent?’
She answer’d: ‘Stranger, whatsoe’er you are,
Y’ are either foolish, or come passing far,
That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,
For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble,
But passing many know it; and so many,
That of all nations there abides not any,
From where the morning rises and the sun,
To where the ev’n and night their courses run,
But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough,
And so for use of horse unapt enough,
Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,
Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,
And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great,
The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat.
It feeds a goat and ox well, being still
Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill
With heav’n’s continual showers; and wooded so,
It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.
And therefore, stranger, the extended name
Of this dominion makes access by fame
From this extreme part of Achaia
As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.’
This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land
Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand
He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high,
That other end he put to his reply
Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad
His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d
A veil on truth; for evermore did wind
About his bosom a most crafty mind,
Which thus his words show’d: ‘I have far at sea,
In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,
Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,
With these my fortunes; whose whole value more
I left in Crete amongst my children there,
From whence I fly for being the slaughterer
Of royal Idomen’s most loved son,
Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run
Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew,
Because he would deprive me of my due
In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so
(The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe
Of mind and body in the wars of men.
Nor did I gratify his father then
With any service, but, as well as he
Sway’d in command of other soldiery,
So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,
When gloomy night the cope of heav
’
n did dim,
And no man knew; but, we lodged close, he came,
And I put out to him his vital flame.
Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword,
I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard
A ship of the renown’d Phoenician state;
When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate,
Obtain’d my pass of men in her command;
Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land
Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,
Where the Epeians in great empire shine.
But force of weather check’d that course to them,
Though (loath to fail me) to their most extreme
They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence,
We err’d, and put in here, with much expence
Of care and labour, and in dead of night,
When no man there serv’d any appetite
So much as with the memory of food,
Though our estates exceeding needy stood.
But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep
My weary powers invaded, and from ship
They fetching these my riches, with just hand
About me laid them, while upon the sand
Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they
(Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,
Left sad alone.’ The goddess laugh’d, and took
His hand in hers, and with another look
(Assuming then the likeness of a dame,
Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame
Of virtuous housewi
f
’
ries) she answer’d thus:
‘He should be passing sly, and covetous
Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee
In any craft, though any god should be
Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.
Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate
In over-reaches! Not secure thy state
Without these wiles, though on thy native shore
Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store
Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth
Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth
Is known to either. Thou of men art far,
For words and counsels, the most singular,
But I above the gods in both may boast
My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost
The knowledge ev’n of me, the seed of Jove,
Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove
In all thy labours their extremes, and stood
Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good
Known to the good Phaeacians, and receiv’d.
And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d
Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me
The close reserving of these goods for thee,
Which the renown’d Phaeacian states bestow’d
At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d
With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace
I now will amplify, and tell what case
Thy household stands in, uttering all those pains
That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.
Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give
To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,
But silent suffer over all again
Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.’
‘Goddess,’ said he, ‘unjust men, and unwise,
That author injuries and vanities,
By vanities and wrongs should rather be
Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,
Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n,
That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n
Up to all domage those poor few that strive
To imitate it, and like the deities live?
But where you wonder that I know you not
Through all your changes, that skill is not got
By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face
Is still distingtush’d by thy free-giv
’
n grace;
And therefore, truly, to acknowledge thee
In thy encounters, is a mastery
In men most knowing; for to all men thou
Tak’st several likeness. All men think they know
Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view
Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few,
Through all thy changes to discern thee right
Asks chief love to thee, and inspired light.
But this I surely know, that, some years past,
I have been often with thy presence grac’d,
All time the sons of Greece waged war at Troy;
But when fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy
Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town,
Our ships all boarded, and when god had blown
Our fleet in sunder, I could never see
The seed of Jove, nor once distinguish’d thee
Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.
But only in my proper spirit involv’d,
Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d
Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace
By open speech confirm’d me, in a place
Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou
Didst give me guide, and all their city show;
And that was the renown’d Phaeacian earth.
Now then, even by the author of thy birth,
Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies
My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes
Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch
At some far shore, and that thy wit is such
Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same
Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?’
‘I see,’ said she, ‘thou wilt be ever thus
In every worldly good incredulous,
And therefore have no more the pow
’
r to see
Frail life more plagu’d with infelicity
In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.
Another man, that so long miseries
Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d
To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d
In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire
What states they hold, affects not thy desire,
Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be
A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee
In loving tears, that then the sight may prove
A full reward for either’s mutual love.
But I would never credit in you both
Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth
Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,
I knew as well, should make returnless ends;
Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so
To stand their safeguard, since so high did go
His wrath for thy extinction of the eye
Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why
I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground
Thy credit on my words: this hav’n is own’d
By th’ aged sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow
This is the olive with the ample bough;
And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave
That to the fount-nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave,
As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run
The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done
Hundreds of offerings to the Naiades.
Here Mount Neritus shakes his curled tress
Of shady woods.’ This said, she clear’d the cloud
That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d
His country to him. Glad he stood with sight
Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight.
And instantly to all the nymphs he paid
(With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said:
‘Ye nymphs the Naiades, great seed of Jove,
I had conceit that never more should move
Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,
And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice
Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more
I pay your names in of
f
’
rings as before,
Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent,