Translation of: The Odyssey of Homer: Book XIX

ARGUMENT     Ulysses and Telemachus remove the arms from the hall to an upper-chamber. The Hero then confers with Penelope, to whom he gives a fictitious narrative of his adventures. Euryclea, while bathing Ulysses, discovers him by a scar on his knee, but he prevents her communication of that discovery to Penelope.             They went, but left the noble Chief behind             In his own house, contriving by the aid             Of Pallas, the destruction of them all,             And thus, in accents wing'd, again he said.                 My son! we must remove and safe dispose             All these my well-forged implements of war;             And should the suitors, missing them, enquire             Where are they? thou shalt answer smoothly thus--             I have convey'd them from the reach of smoke,             For they appear no more the same which erst             Ulysses, going hence to Ilium, left,             So smirch'd and sullied by the breath of fire.             This weightier reason (thou shalt also say)             Some God suggested to me,--lest, inflamed             With wine, ye wound each other in your brawls,             Shaming both feast and courtship; for the view             Itself of arms incites to their abuse.                 He ceased, and, in obedience to his will,             Calling the ancient Euryclea forth,             His nurse, Telemachus enjoin'd her thus.                 Go--shut the women in; make fast the doors             Of their apartment, while I safe dispose             Elsewhere, my father's implements of war,             Which, during his long absence, here have stood             Till smoke hath sullied them. For I have been             An infant hitherto, but, wiser grown,             Would now remove them from the breath of fire.                 Then thus the gentle matron in return.             Yes truly--and I wish that now, at length,             Thou would'st assert the privilege of thy years,             My son, thyself assuming charge of all,             Both house and stores; but who shall bear the light?             Since they, it seems, who would, are all forbidden.                 To whom Telemachus discrete replied.             This guest; for no man, from my table fed,             Come whence he may; shall be an idler here.                 He ended, nor his words flew wing'd away,             But Euryclea bolted every door.             Then, starting to the task, Ulysses caught,             And his illustrious son, the weapons thence,             Helmet, and bossy shield, and pointed spear,             While Pallas from a golden lamp illumed             The dusky way before them. At that sight             Alarm'd, the Prince his father thus address'd.                 Whence--whence is this, my father? I behold             A prodigy! the walls of the whole house,             The arches, fir-tree beams, and pillars tall             Shine in my view, as with the blaze of fire!             Some Pow'r celestial, doubtless, is within.                 To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied.             Soft! ask no questions. Give no vent to thought,             Such is the custom of the Pow'rs divine.             Hence, thou, to bed. I stay, that I may yet             Both in thy mother and her maidens move             More curiosity; yes--she with tears             Shall question me of all that I have seen.                 He ended, and the Prince, at his command,             Guided by flaming torches, sought the couch             Where he was wont to sleep, and there he slept             On that night also, waiting the approach             Of sacred dawn. Thus was Ulysses left             Alone, and planning sat in solitude,             By Pallas' aid, the slaughter of his foes.                 At length, Diana-like, or like herself,             All golden Venus, (her apartment left)             Enter'd Penelope. Beside the hearth             Her women planted her accustom'd seat             With silver wreathed and ivory. That throne             Icmalius made, artist renown'd, and join'd             A footstool to its splendid frame beneath,             Which ever with an ample fleece they spread.             There sat discrete Penelope; then came             Her beautiful attendants from within,             Who cleared the litter'd bread, the board, and cups             From which the insolent companions drank.             They also raked the embers from the hearths             Now dim, and with fresh billets piled them high,             Both for illumination and for warmth.             Then yet again Melantho with rude speech             Opprobrious, thus, assail'd Ulysses' ear.                 Guest--wilt thou trouble us throughout the night             Ranging the house? and linger'st thou a spy             Watching the women? Hence--get thee abroad             Glad of such fare as thou hast found, or soon             With torches beaten we will thrust thee forth.                 To whom Ulysses, frowning stern, replied.             Petulant woman! wherefore thus incensed             Inveigh'st thou against me? is it because             I am not sleek? because my garb is mean?             Because I beg? thanks to necessity--             I would not else. But such as I appear,             Such all who beg and all who wander are.             I also lived the happy owner once             Of such a stately mansion, and have giv'n             To num'rous wand'rers, whencesoe'er they came,             All that they needed; I was also served             By many, and enjoy'd all that denotes             The envied owner opulent and blest.             But Jove (for so it pleas'd him) hath reduced             My all to nothing. Therefore well beware             Thou also, mistress, lest a day arrive             When all these charms by which thou shin'st among             Thy sister-menials, fade; fear, too, lest her             Thou should'st perchance irritate, whom thou serv'st,             And lest Ulysses come, of whose return             Hope yet survives; but even though the Chief             Have perish'd, as ye think, and comes no more,             Consider yet his son, how bright the gifts             Shine of Apollo in the illustrious Prince             Telemachus; no woman, unobserved             By him, can now commit a trespass here;             His days of heedless infancy are past.                 He ended, whom Penelope discrete             O'erhearing, her attendant sharp rebuked.                 Shameless, audacious woman! known to me             Is thy great wickedness, which with thy life             Thou shalt atone; for thou wast well aware,             (Hearing it from myself) that I design'd             To ask this stranger of my absent Lord,             For whose dear sake I never cease to mourn.                 Then to her household's governess she said.             Bring now a seat, and spread it with a fleece,             Eurynome! that, undisturb'd, the guest             May hear and answer all that I shall ask.                 She ended. Then the matron brought in haste             A polish'd seat, and spread it with a fleece,             On which the toil-accustom'd Hero sat,             And thus the chaste Penelope began.                 Stranger! my first enquiry shall be this--             Who art thou? whence? where born? and sprung from whom?                 Then answer thus Ulysses, wise, return'd.             O Queen! uncensurable by the lips             Of mortal man! thy glory climbs the skies             Unrivall'd, like the praise of some great King             Who o'er a num'rous people and renown'd             Presiding like a Deity, maintains             Justice and truth. The earth, under his sway,             Her produce yields abundantly; the trees             Fruit-laden bend; the lusty flocks bring forth;             The Ocean teems with finny swarms beneath             His just controul, and all the land is blest.             Me therefore, question of what else thou wilt             In thy own palace, but forbear to ask             From whom I sprang, and of my native land,             Lest thou, reminding me of those sad themes,             Augment my woes; for I have much endured;             Nor were it seemly, in another's house,             To pass the hours in sorrow and in tears,             Wearisome when indulg'd with no regard             To time or place; thy train (perchance thyself)             Would blame me, and I should reproach incur             As one tear-deluged through excess of wine.                 Him answer'd then Penelope discrete.             The immortal Gods, O stranger, then destroy'd             My form, my grace, my beauty, when the Greeks             Whom my Ulysses follow'd, sail'd to Troy.             Could he, returning, my domestic charge             Himself intend, far better would my fame             Be so secured, and wider far diffused.             But I am wretched now, such storms of woe             The Gods have sent me; for as many Chiefs             As hold dominion in the neighbour isles             Samos, Dulichium, and the forest-crown'd             Zacynthus; others, also, rulers here             In pleasant Ithaca, me, loth to wed,             Woo ceaseless, and my household stores consume.             I therefore, neither guest nor suppliant heed,             Nor public herald more, but with regret             Of my Ulysses wear my soul away.             They, meantime, press my nuptials, which by art             I still procrastinate. Some God the thought             Suggested to me, to commence a robe             Of amplest measure and of subtlest woof,             Laborious task; which done, I thus address'd them.             Princes, my suitors! since the noble Chief             Ulysses is no more, enforce not now             My nuptials; wait till I shall finish first             A fun'ral robe (lest all my threads be marr'd)             Which for the ancient Hero I prepare             Laertes, looking for the mournful hour             When fate shall snatch him to eternal rest.             Else, I the censure dread of all my sex,             Should he, so wealthy, want at last a shroud.             Such was my speech; they, unsuspicious all,             With my request complied. Thenceforth, all day             I wove the ample web, and, by the aid             Of torches, ravell'd it again at night.             Three years by artifice I thus their suit             Eluded safe; but when the fourth arrived,             And the same season after many moons             And fleeting days return'd, passing my train             Who had neglected to release the dogs,             They came, surprized and reprimanded me.             Thus, through necessity, not choice, at last             I have perform'd it, in my own despight.             But no escape from marriage now remains,             Nor other subterfuge for me; meantime             My parents urge my nuptials, and my son             (Of age to note it) with disgust observes             His wealth consumed; for he is now become             Adult, and abler than myself to rule             The house, a Prince distinguish'd by the Gods,             Yet, stranger, after all, speak thy descent;             Say whence thou art; for not of fabulous birth             Art thou, nor from the oak, nor from the rock.                 Her answer'd then Ulysses, ever-wise.             O spouse revered of Laertiades!             Resolv'st thou still to learn from whom I sprang?             Learn then; but know that thou shalt much augment             My present grief, natural to a man             Who hath, like me, long exiled from his home             Through various cities of the sons of men             Wander'd remote, and num'rous woes endured.             Yet, though it pain me, I will tell thee all.                 There is a land amid the sable flood             Call'd Crete; fair, fruitful, circled by the sea.             Num'rous are her inhabitants, a race             Not to be summ'd, and ninety towns she boasts.             Diverse their language is; Achaians some,             And some indigenous are; Cydonians there,             Crest-shaking Dorians, and Pelasgians dwell.             One city in extent the rest exceeds,             Cnossus; the city in which Minos reign'd,             Who, ever at a nine years' close, conferr'd             With Jove himself; from him my father sprang             The brave Deucalion; for Deucalion's sons             Were two, myself and King Idomeneus.             To Ilium he, on board his gallant barks,             Follow'd the Atrid. I, the youngest-born,             By my illustrious name, thon, am known,             But he ranks foremost both in worth and years.             There I beheld Ulysses, and within             My walls receiv'd him; for a violent wind             Had driv'n him from Malea (while he sought             The shores of Troy) to Crete. The storm his barks             Bore into the Amnisus, for the cave             Of Ilythia known, a dang'rous port,             And which with difficulty he attain'd.             He, landing, instant to the city went,             Seeking Idomeneus; his friend of old,             As he affirm'd, and one whom much he lov'd.             But he was far remote, ten days advanced,             Perhaps eleven, on his course to Troy.             Him, therefore, I conducted to my home,             Where hospitably, and with kindest care             I entertain'd him, (for I wanted nought)             And for himself procured and for his band,--             By public contribution, corn, and wine,             And beeves for food, that all might be sufficed.             Twelve days his noble Greecians there abode,             Port-lock'd by Boreas blowing with a force             Resistless even on the land, some God             So roused his fury; but the thirteenth day             The wind all fell, and they embark'd again.                 With many a fiction specious, as he sat,             He thus her ear amused; she at the sound             Melting, with fluent tears her cheeks bedew'd;             And as the snow by Zephyrus diffused,             Melts on the mountain tops, when Eurus breathes,             And fills the channels of the running streams,             So melted she, and down her lovely cheeks             Pour'd fast the tears, him mourning as remote             Who sat beside her. Soft compassion touch'd             Ulysses of his consort's silent woe;             His eyes as they had been of steel or horn,             Moved not, yet artful, he suppress'd his tears,             And she, at length with overflowing grief             Satiate, replied, and thus enquired again.                 Now, stranger, I shall prove thee, as I judge,             If thou, indeed, hast entertain'd in Crete             My spouse and his brave followers, as thou say'st.             Describe his raiment and himself; his own             Appearance, and the appearance of his friends.                 Then her Ulysses answer'd, ever-wise.             Hard is the task, O Queen! (so long a time             Hath since elaps'd) to tell thee. Twenty years             Have pass'd since he forsook my native isle,             Yet, from my best remembrance, I will give             A likeness of him, such as now I may.             A double cloak, thick-piled, Moeonian dyed,             The noble Chief had on; two fast'nings held             The golden clasp, and it display'd in front             A well-wrought pattern with much art design'd.             An hound between his fore-feet holding fast             A dappled fawn, gaped eager on his prey.             All wonder'd, seeing, how in lifeless gold             Express'd, the dog with open mouth her throat             Attempted still, and how the fawn with hoofs             Thrust trembling forward, struggled to escape.             That glorious mantle much I noticed, soft             To touch, as the dried garlick's glossy film;             Such was the smoothness of it, and it shone             Sun-bright; full many a maiden, trust me, view'd             The splendid texture with admiring eyes.             But mark me now; deep treasure in thy mind             This word. I know not if Ulysses wore             That cloak at home, or whether of his train             Some warrior gave it to him on his way,             Or else some host of his; for many loved             Ulysses, and with him might few compare.             I gave to him, myself, a brazen sword,             A purple cloak magnificent, and vest             Of royal length, and when he sought his bark,             With princely pomp dismiss'd him from the shore.             An herald also waited on the Chief,             Somewhat his Senior; him I next describe.             His back was bunch'd, his visage swarthy, curl'd             His poll, and he was named Eurybates;             A man whom most of all his followers far             Ulysses honour'd, for their minds were one.                 He ceased; she recognising all the proofs             Distinctly by Ulysses named, was moved             Still more to weep, till with o'erflowing grief             Satiate, at length she answer'd him again.                 Henceforth, O stranger, thou who hadst before             My pity, shalt my rev'rence share and love,             I folded for him (with these hands) the cloak             Which thou describ'st, produced it when he went,             And gave it to him; I that splendid clasp             Attach'd to it myself, more to adorn             My honour'd Lord, whom to his native land             Return'd secure I shall receive no more.             In such an evil hour Ulysses went             To that bad city never to be named.                 To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied.             Consort revered of Laertiades!             No longer let anxiety impair             Thy beauteous form, nor any grief consume             Thy spirits more for thy Ulysses' sake.             And yet I blame thee not; a wife deprived             Of her first mate to whom she had produced             Fair fruit of mutual love, would mourn his loss,             Although he were inferior far to thine,             Whom fame affirms the semblance of the Gods.             But cease to mourn. Hear me. I will relate             A faithful tale, nor will from thee withhold             Such tidings of Ulysses living still,             And of his safe return, as I have heard             Lately, in yon neighb'ring opulent land             Of the Thesprotians. He returns enrich'd             With many precious stores from those obtain'd             Whom he hath visited; but he hath lost,             Departing from Thrinacia's isle, his bark             And all his lov'd companions in the Deep,             For Jove was adverse to him, and the Sun,             Whose beeves his followers slew. They perish'd all             Amid the billowy flood; but Him, the keel             Bestriding of his bark, the waves at length             Cast forth on the Phacian's land, a race             Allied to heav'n, who rev'renced like a God             Thy husband, honour'd him with num'rous gifts,             And willing were to have convey'd him home.             Ulysses, therefore, had attained long since             His native shore, but that he deem'd it best             To travel far, that he might still amass             More wealth; so much Ulysses all mankind             Excels in policy, and hath no peer.             This information from Thesprotia's King             I gain'd, from Phidon; to myself he swore,             Libation off'ring under his own roof,             That both the bark was launch'd, and the stout crew             Prepared, that should conduct him to his home.             But me he first dismiss'd; for, as it chanced,             A ship lay there of the Thesprotians, bound             To corn-enrich'd Dulichium. All the wealth             He shew'd me by the Chief amass'd, a store             To feed the house of yet another Prince             To the tenth generation; so immense             His treasures were within that palace lodg'd.             Himself he said was to Dodona gone,             Counsel to ask from the oracular oaks             Sublime of Jove, how safest he might seek,             After long exile thence, his native land,             If openly were best, or in disguise.             Thus, therefore, he is safe, and at his home             Well-nigh arrived, nor shall his country long             Want him. I swear it with a solemn oath.             First Jove be witness, King and Lord of all!             Next these domestic Gods of the renown'd             Ulysses, in whose royal house I sit,             That thou shalt see my saying all fulfill'd.             Ulysses shall this self-same year return,             This self-same month, ere yet the next begin.                 Him answer'd then Penelope discrete.             Grant heav'n, my guest, that this good word of thine             Fail not! then, soon shalt thou such bounty share             And friendship at my hands, that, at first sight,             Whoe'er shall meet thee shall pronounce thee blest.             But ah! my soul forebodes how it will prove;             Neither Ulysses will return, nor thou             Receive safe conduct hence; for we have here             None, such as once Ulysses was, to rule             His household with authority, and to send             With honourable convoy to his home             The worthy guest, or to regale him here.             Give him the bath, my maidens; spread his couch             With linen soft, with fleecy gaberdines[82]             And rugs of splendid hue, that he may lie             Waiting, well-warm'd, the golden morn's return.             Attend him also at the peep of day             With bath and unction, that, his seat resumed             Here in the palace, he may be prepared             For breakfast with Telemachus; and woe             To him who shall presume to incommode             Or cause him pain; that man shall be cashier'd             Hence instant, burn his anger as it may.             For how, my honour'd inmate! shalt thou learn             That I in wisdom oeconomic aught             Pass other women, if unbathed, unoiled,             Ill-clad, thou sojourn here? man's life is short,             Whoso is cruel, and to cruel arts             Addict, on him all men, while yet he lives,             Call plagues and curses down, and after death             Scorn and proverbial mock'ries hunt his name.             But men, humane themselves, and giv'n by choice             To offices humane, from land to land             Are rumour'd honourably by their guests,             And ev'ry tongue is busy in their praise.                 Her answer'd then, Ulysses, ever-wise.             Consort revered of Laertiades!             Warm gaberdines and rugs of splendid hue             To me have odious been, since first the sight             Of Crete's snow-mantled mountain-tops I lost,             Sweeping the billows with extended oars.             No; I will pass, as I am wont to pass             The sleepless night; for on a sordid couch             Outstretch'd, full many a night have I reposed             Till golden-charioted Aurora dawn'd.             Nor me the foot-bath pleases more; my foot             Shall none of all thy ministring maidens touch,             Unless there be some ancient matron grave             Among them, who hath pangs of heart endured             Num'rous, and keen as I have felt myself;             Her I refuse not. She may touch my feet.                 Him answer'd then prudent Penelope.             Dear guest! for of all trav'llers here arrived             From distant regions, I have none received             Discrete as thou, or whom I more have lov'd,             So just thy matter is, and with such grace             Express'd. I have an ancient maiden grave,             The nurse who at my hapless husband's birth             Receiv'd him in her arms, and with kind care             Maternal rear'd him; she shall wash thy feet,             Although decrepid. Euryclea, rise!             Wash one coeval with thy Lord; for such             The feet and hands, it may be, are become             Of my Ulysses now; since man beset             With sorrow once, soon wrinkled grows and old.                 She said, then Euryclea with both hands             Cov'ring her face, in tepid tears profuse             Dissolved, and thus in mournful strains began.                 Alas! my son, trouble for thy dear sake             Distracts me. Jove surely of all mankind             Thee hated most, though ever in thy heart             Devoutly giv'n; for never mortal man             So many thighs of fatted victims burn'd,             And chosen hecatombs produced as thou             To Jove the Thund'rer, him entreating still             That he would grant thee a serene old age,             And to instruct, thyself, thy glorious son.             Yet thus the God requites thee, cutting off             All hope of thy return--oh ancient sir!             Him too, perchance, where'er he sits a guest             Beneath some foreign roof, the women taunt,             As all these shameless ones have taunted thee,             Fearing whose mock'ry thou forbidd'st their hands             This office, which Icarius' daughter wise             To me enjoins, and which I, glad perform.             Yes, I will wash thy feet; both for her sake             And for thy own,--for sight of thee hath raised             A tempest in my mind. Hear now the cause!             Full many a guest forlorn we entertain,             But never any have I seen, whose size,             The fashion of whose foot and pitch of voice,             Such likeness of Ulysses show'd, as thine.                 To whom Ulysses, ever-shrewd, replied.             Such close similitude, O ancient dame!             As thou observ'st between thy Lord and me,             All, who have seen us both, have ever found.                 He said; then taking the resplendent vase             Allotted always to that use, she first             Infused cold water largely, then, the warm.             Ulysses (for beside the hearth he sat)             Turn'd quick his face into the shade, alarm'd             Lest, handling him, she should at once remark             His scar, and all his stratagem unveil.             She then, approaching, minister'd the bath             To her own King, and at first touch discern'd             That token, by a bright-tusk'd boar of old             Impress'd, what time he to Parnassus went             To visit there Autolycus and his sons,             His mother's noble sire, who all mankind             In furtive arts and fraudful oaths excell'd.[83]             For such endowments he by gift receiv'd             From Hermes' self, to whom the thighs of kids             He offer'd and of lambs, and, in return,             The watchful Hermes never left his side.             Autolycus arriving in the isle             Of pleasant Ithaca, the new-born son             Of his own daughter found, whom on his knees             At close of supper Euryclea placed,             And thus the royal visitant address'd.                 Thyself, Autolycus! devise a name             For thy own daughter's son, by num'rous pray'rs             Of thine and fervent, from the Gods obtained.                 Then answer thus Autolycus return'd.             My daughter and my daughter's spouse! the name             Which I shall give your boy, that let him bear.             Since after provocation and offence             To numbers giv'n of either sex, I come,             Call him Ulysses;[84] and when, grown mature,             He shall Parnassus visit, the abode             Magnificent in which his mother dwelt,             And where my treasures lie, from my own stores             I will enrich and send him joyful home.                 Ulysses, therefore, that he might obtain             Those princely gifts, went thither. Him arrived,             With right-hand gratulation and with words             Of welcome kind, Autolycus received,             Nor less his offspring; but the mother most             Of his own mother clung around his neck,             Amphithea; she with many a fervent kiss             His forehead press'd, and his bright-beaming eyes.             Then bade Autolycus his noble sons             Set forth a banquet. They, at his command,             Led in a fatted ox of the fifth year,             Which slaying first, they spread him carved abroad,             Then scored his flesh, transfixed it with the spits,             And roasting all with culinary skill             Exact, gave each his portion. Thus they sat             Feasting all day, and till the sun declined,             But when the sun declined, and darkness fell,             Each sought his couch, and took the gift of sleep.             Then, soon as day-spring's daughter rosy-palm'd             Aurora look'd abroad, forth went the hounds,             And, with the hounds Ulysses, and the youths,             Sons of Autolycus, to chase the boar.             Arrived at the Parnassian mount, they climb'd             His bushy sides, and to his airy heights             Ere long attain'd. It was the pleasant hour             When from the gently-swelling flood profound             The sun, emerging, first smote on the fields.             The hunters reach'd the valley; foremost ran,             Questing, the hounds; behind them, swift, the sons             Came of Autolycus, with whom advanced             The illustrious Prince Ulysses, pressing close             The hounds, and brandishing his massy spear.             There, hid in thickest shades, lay an huge boar.             That covert neither rough winds blowing moist             Could penetrate, nor could the noon-day sun             Smite through it, or fast-falling show'rs pervade,             So thick it was, and underneath the ground             With litter of dry foliage strew'd profuse.             Hunters and dogs approaching him, his ear             The sound of feet perceived; upridging high             His bristly back and glaring fire, he sprang             Forth from the shrubs, and in defiance stood             Near and right opposite. Ulysses, first,             Rush'd on him, elevating his long spear             Ardent to wound him; but, preventing quick             His foe, the boar gash'd him above the knee.             Much flesh, assailing him oblique, he tore             With his rude tusk, but to the Hero's bone             Pierced not; Ulysses his right shoulder reach'd;             And with a deadly thrust impell'd the point             Of his bright spear through him and far beyond.             Loud yell'd the boar, sank in the dust, and died.             Around Ulysses, then, the busy sons             Throng'd of Autolycus; expert they braced             The wound of the illustrious hunter bold,             With incantation staunched the sable blood,             And sought in haste their father's house again,             Whence, heal'd and gratified with splendid gifts             They sent him soon rejoicing to his home,             Themselves rejoicing also. Glad their son             His parents saw again, and of the scar             Enquired, where giv'n, and how? He told them all,             How to Parnassus with his friends he went,             Sons of Autolycus to hunt, and how             A boar had gash'd him with his iv'ry tusk.                 That scar, while chafing him with open palms,             The matron knew; she left his foot to fall;             Down dropp'd his leg into the vase; the brass             Rang, and o'ertilted by the sudden shock,             Poured forth the water, flooding wide the floor.             Her spirit joy at once and sorrow seized;             Tears fill'd her eyes; her intercepted voice             Died in her throat; but to Ulysses' beard             Her hand advancing, thus, at length, she spake.                 Thou art himself, Ulysses. Oh my son!             Dear to me, and my master as thou art,             I knew thee not, till I had touch'd the scar.                 She said, and to Penelope her eyes             Directed, all impatient to declare             Her own Ulysses even then at home.             But she, nor eye nor ear for aught that pass'd             Had then, her fixt attention so entire             Minerva had engaged. Then, darting forth             His arms, the Hero with his right-hand close             Compress'd her throat, and nearer to himself             Drawing her with his left, thus caution'd her.                 Why would'st thou ruin me? Thou gav'st me milk             Thyself from thy own breast. See me return'd             After long suff'rings, in the twentieth year,             To my own land. But since (some God the thought             Suggesting to thee) thou hast learn'd the truth,             Silence! lest others learn it from thy lips.             For this I say, nor shall the threat be vain;             If God vouchsafe to me to overcome             The haughty suitors, when I shall inflict             Death on the other women of my house,             Although my nurse, thyself shalt also die.                 Him answer'd Euryclea then, discrete.             My son! oh how could so severe a word             Escape thy lips? my fortitude of mind             Thou know'st, and even now shalt prove me firm             As iron, secret as the stubborn rock.             But hear and mark me well. Should'st thou prevail,             Assisted by a Pow'r divine, to slay             The haughty suitors, I will then, myself,             Give thee to know of all the female train             Who have dishonour'd thee, and who respect.                 To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied.             My nurse, it were superfluous; spare thy tongue             That needless task. I can distinguish well             Myself, between them, and shall know them all;             But hold thy peace. Hush! leave it with the Gods.                 So he; then went the ancient matron forth,             That she might serve him with a second bath,             For the whole first was spilt. Thus, laved at length,             And smooth'd with oil, Ulysses nearer pull'd             His seat toward the glowing hearth to enjoy             More warmth, and drew his tatters o'er the scar.             Then, prudent, thus Penelope began.                 One question, stranger, I shall yet propound,             Though brief, for soon the hour of soft repose             Grateful to all, and even to the sad             Whom gentle sleep forsakes not, will arrive.             But heav'n to me immeasurable woe             Assigns,--whose sole delight is to consume             My days in sighs, while here retired I sit,             Watching my maidens' labours and my own;             But (night return'd, and all to bed retired)             I press mine also, yet with deep regret             And anguish lacerated, even there.             As when at spring's first entrance, her sweet song             The azure-crested nightingale renews,             Daughter of Pandarus; within the grove's             Thick foliage perch'd, she pours her echoing voice             Now deep, now clear, still varying the strain             With which she mourns her Itylus, her son             By royal Zethus, whom she, erring, slew,[85]             So also I, by soul-distressing doubts             Toss'd ever, muse if I shall here remain             A faithful guardian of my son's affairs,             My husband's bed respecting, and not less             My own fair fame, or whether I shall him             Of all my suitors follow to his home             Who noblest seems, and offers richest dow'r.             My son while he was infant yet, and own'd             An infant's mind, could never give consent             That I should wed and leave him; but at length,             Since he hath reached the stature of a man,             He wishes my departure hence, the waste             Viewing indignant by the suitors made.             But I have dream'd. Hear, and expound my dream.             My geese are twenty, which within my walls             I feed with sodden wheat; they serve to amuse             Sometimes my sorrow. From the mountains came             An eagle, huge, hook-beak'd, brake all their necks,             And slew them; scatter'd on the palace-floor             They lay, and he soar'd swift into the skies.             Dream only as it was, I wept aloud,             Till all my maidens, gather'd by my voice,             Arriving, found me weeping still, and still             Complaining, that the eagle had at once             Slain all my geese. But, to the palace-roof             Stooping again, he sat, and with a voice             Of human sound, forbad my tears, and said--                 Courage! O daughter of the far-renown'd             Icarius! no vain dream thou hast beheld,             But, in thy sleep, a truth. The slaughter'd geese             Denote thy suitors. I who have appear'd             An eagle in thy sight, am yet indeed             Thy husband, who have now, at last, return'd,             Death, horrid death designing for them all.                 He said; then waking at the voice, I cast             An anxious look around, and saw my geese             Beside their tray, all feeding as before.                 Her then Ulysses answer'd, ever-wise.             O Queen! it is not possible to miss             Thy dream's plain import, since Ulysses' self             Hath told thee the event; thy suitors all             Must perish; not one suitor shall escape.                 To whom Penelope discrete replied.             Dreams are inexplicable, O my guest!             And oft-times mere delusions that receive             No just accomplishment. There are two gates             Through which the fleeting phantoms pass; of horn             Is one, and one of ivory.[86] Such dreams             As through the thin-leaf'd iv'ry portal come             Sooth, but perform not, utt'ring empty sounds;             But such as through the polish'd horn escape,             If, haply seen by any mortal eye,             Prove faithful witnesses, and are fulfill'd.             But through those gates my wond'rous dream, I think,             Came not; thrice welcome were it else to me             And to my son. Now mark my words; attend.             This is the hated morn that from the house             Removes me of Ulysses. I shall fix,             This day, the rings for trial to them all             Of archership; Ulysses' custom was             To plant twelve spikes, all regular arranged[87]             Like galley-props, and crested with a ring,             Then standing far remote, true in his aim             He with his whizzing shaft would thrid them all.             This is the contest in which now I mean             To prove the suitors; him, who with most ease             Shall bend the bow, and shoot through all the rings,             I follow, this dear mansion of my youth             Leaving, so fair, so fill'd with ev'ry good,             Though still to love it even in my dreams.                 Her answer'd then Ulysses, ever-wise.             Consort revered of Laertiades!             Postpone not this contention, but appoint             Forthwith the trial; for Ulysses here             Will sure arrive, ere they, (his polish'd bow             Long tamp'ring) shall prevail to stretch the nerve,             And speed the arrow through the iron rings.                 To whom Penelope replied discrete.             Would'st thou with thy sweet converse, O my guest!             Here sooth me still, sleep ne'er should influence             These eyes the while; but always to resist             Sleep's pow'r is not for man, to whom the Gods             Each circumstance of his condition here             Fix universally. Myself will seek             My own apartment at the palace-top,             And there will lay me down on my sad couch,             For such it hath been, and with tears of mine             Ceaseless bedew'd, e'er since Ulysses went             To that bad city, never to be named.             There will I sleep; but sleep thou here below,             Either, thyself, preparing on the ground             Thy couch, or on a couch by these prepared.                 So saying, she to her splendid chamber thence             Retired, not sole, but by her female train             Attended; there arrived, she wept her spouse,             Her lov'd Ulysses, till Minerva dropp'd             The balm of slumber on her weary lids.