The Odyssey · Homer
ARGUMENT.
Now sat Ulysses at the rural feast The rage of hunger and of thirst repress’d: To watch the foe a trusty spy he sent: A son of Dolius on the message went, Stood in the way, and at a glance beheld The foe approach, embattled on the field. With backward step he hastens to the bower, And tells the news. They arm with all their power. Four friends alone Ulysses’ cause embrace, And six were all the sons of Dolius’ race: Old Dolius too his rusted arms put on; And, still more old, in arms Laertes shone. Trembling with warmth, the hoary heroes stand, And brazen panoply invests the band. The opening gates at once their war display: Fierce they rush forth: Ulysses leads the way. That moment joins them with celestial aid, In Mentor’s form, the Jove-descended maid: The suffering hero felt his patient breast Swell with new joy, and thus his son address’d: “Behold, Telemachus! (nor fear the sight,) The brave embattled, the grim front of fight! The valiant with the valiant must contend. Shame not the line whence glorious you descend. Wide o’er the world their martial fame was spread; Regard thyself, the living and the dead.” “Thy eyes, great father! on this battle cast, Shall learn from me Penelope was chaste.” So spoke Telemachus: the gallant boy Good old Laertes heard with panting joy. “And bless’d! thrice bless’d this happy day! (he cries,) The day that shows me, ere I close my eyes, A son and grandson of the Arcesian name Strive for fair virtue, and contest for fame!”
Then thus Minerva in Laertes’ ear: “Son of Arcesius, reverend warrior, hear! Jove and Jove’s daughter first implore in prayer, Then, whirling high, discharge thy lance in air.” She said, infusing courage with the word. Jove and Jove’s daughter then the chief implored, And, whirling high, dismiss’d the lance in air. Full at Eupithes drove the deathful spear: The brass-cheek’d helmet opens to the wound; He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound. Before the father and the conquering son Heaps rush on heaps, they fight, they drop, they run Now by the sword, and now the javelin, fall The rebel race, and death had swallow’d all; But from on high the blue-eyed virgin cried; Her awful voice detain’d the headlong tide: “Forbear, ye nations, your mad hands forbear From mutual slaughter; Peace descends to spare.” Fear shook the nations: at the voice divine They drop their javelins, and their rage resign. All scatter’d round their glittering weapons lie; Some fall to earth, and some confusedly fly. With dreadful shouts Ulysses pour’d along, Swift as an eagle, as an eagle strong. But Jove’s red arm the burning thunder aims: Before Minerva shot the livid flames; Blazing they fell, and at her feet expired; Then stopped the goddess, trembled and retired. “Descended from the gods! Ulysses, cease; Offend not Jove: obey, and give the peace.” So Pallas spoke: the mandate from above The king obey’d. The virgin-seed of Jove, In Mentor’s form, confirm’d the full accord, And willing nations knew their lawful lord.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.