The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
But that which most I rued, Flew from the heavy voice that Priam’s seed, Cassandra, breath’d, whom, she that wit doth feed With baneful crafts, false Clytemnestra, slew, Close sitting by me; up my hands I threw From earth to heav’n, and tumbling on my sword Gave wretched life up; when the most abhorr’d, By all her sex’s shame, forsook the room, Nor deign’d, though then so near this heavy home, To shut my lips, or close my broken eyes. Nothing so heap’d is with impieties, As such a woman that would kill her spouse That married her a maid. When to my house I brought her, hoping of her love in heart, To children, maids, and slaves. But she (in th’ art Of only mischief hearty) not alone Cast on herself this foul aspersión, But loving dames, hereafter, to their lords Will bear, for good deeds, her bad thoughts and words.’ ‘Alas,’ said I, ‘that Jove should hate the lives Of Atreus’ seed so highly for their wives! For Menelaus’ wife a number fell, For dang’rous absence thine sent thee to hell.’ ‘For this,’ he answer’d, ‘be not thou more kind Than wise to thy wife. Never all thy mind Let words express to her. Of all she knows, Curbs for the worst still, in thyself repose.
But thou by thy wife’s wiles shalt lose no blood, Exceeding wise she is, and wise in good. Icarius’ daughter, chaste Penelope, We left a young bride, when for battle we Forsook the nuptial peace, and at her breast Her first child sucking, who, by this hour, blest, Sits in the number of surviving men. And his bliss she hath, that she can contain, And her bliss thou hast, that she is so wise. For, by her wisdom, thy returnéd eyes Shall see thy son, and he shall greet his sire With fitting welcomes; when in my retire, My wife denies mine eyes my son’s dear sight, And, as from me, will take from him the light, Before she adds one just delight to life, Or her false wit one truth that fits a wife. For her sake therefore let my harms advise, That though thy wife be ne’er so chaste and wise, Yet come not home to her in open view,[7] With any ship or any personal show, But take close shore disguis’d, nor let her know, For ’tis no world to trust a woman now. But what says Fame? Doth my son yet survive, In Orchomen, or Pylos? Or doth live In Sparta with his uncle? Yet I see Divine Orestes is not here with me.’
I answer’d, asking: ‘Why doth Atreus’ son Enquire of me, who yet arriv’d where none Could give to these news any certain wings? And ’tis absurd to tell uncertain things.’ Such sad speech past us; and as thus we stood, With kind tears rend’ring unkind fortunes good, Achilles’ and Patroclus’ soul appear’d, And his soul, of whom never ill was heard, The good Antilochus, and the soul of him That all the Greeks past both for force and limb, Excepting the unmatch’d Æacides, Illustrious Ajax. But the first of these That saw, acknowledg’d, and saluted me, Was Thetis’ conqu’ring son, who (heavily His state here taking) said: ‘Unworthy breath! What act yet mightier imagineth Thy vent’rous spirit? How dost thou descend These under-regions, where the dead man’s end Is to be look’d on, and his foolish shade?’ I answer’d him: ‘I was induc’d t’ invade These under-parts, most excellent of Greece, To visit wise Tiresias, for advice Of virtue to direct my voyage home To rugged Ithaca; since I could come To note in no place, where Achaia stood, And so liv’d ever, tortur’d with the blood In man’s vain veins. Thou, therefore, Thetis’ son, Hast equall’d all, that ever yet have won The bliss the earth yields, or hereafter shall.
In life thy eminence was ador’d of all, Ev’n with the Gods; and now, ev’n dead, I see Thy virtues propagate thy empery To a renew’d life of command beneath; So great Achilles triumphs over death.’ This comfort of him this encounter found; ‘Urge not my death to me, nor rub that wound, I rather wish to live in earth a swain, Or serve a swain for hire, that scarce can gain Bread to sustain him, than, that life once gone, Of all the dead sway the imperial throne. But say, and of my son some comfort yield, If he goes on in first fights of the field, Or lurks for safety in the obscure rear? Or of my father if thy royal ear Hath been advertis’d, that the Phthian throne He still commands, as greatest Myrmidon? Or that the Phthian and Thessalian rage (Now feet and hands are in the hold of age) Despise his empire? Under those bright rays, In which heav’n’s fervour hurls about the days. Must I no more shine his revenger now, Such as of old the Ilion overthrow Witness’d my anger, th’ universal host Sending before me to this shady coast, In fight for Grecia.
Could I now resort, (But for some small time) to my father’s court, In spirit and pow’r as then, those men should find My hands inaccessible, and of fire my mind, That durst with all the numbers they are strong Unseat his honour, and suborn his wrong.’ This pitch still flew his spirit, though so low, And this I answer’d thus: ‘I do not know Of blameless Peleus any least report, But of your son, in all the utmost sort, I can inform your care with truth, and thus: From Scyros princely Neoptolemus By fleet I convey’d to the Greeks, where he Was chief, at both parts, when our gravity Retir’d to council, and our youth to fight. In council still so fiery was Conceit In his quick apprehension of a cause, That first he ever spake, nor pass’d the laws Of any great stay, in his greatest haste. None would contend with him, that counsell’d last, Unless illustrious Nestor, he and I Would sometimes put a friendly contrary On his opinion. In our fights, the prease Of great or common, he would never cease, But far before fight ever. No man there, For force, he forcéd. He was slaughterer Of many a brave man in most dreadful fight.
But one and other whom he reft of light, In Grecian succour, I can neither name, Nor give in number. The particular fame Of one man’s slaughter yet I must not pass; Eurypylus Telephides he was, That fell beneath him, and with him the falls Of such huge men went, that they show’d like whales[8] Rampir’d about him. Neoptolemus Set him so sharply, for the sumptuous Favours of mistresses he saw him wear; For past all doubt his beauties had no peer Of all that mine eyes noted, next to one, And that was Memnon, Tithon’s Sun-like son. Thus far, for fight in public, may a taste Give of his eminence. How far surpast His spirit in private, where he was not seen, Nor glory could be said to praise his spleen, This close note I excerpted. When we sat Hid in Epëus’ horse, no optimate Of all the Greeks there had the charge to ope And shut the stratagem but I.[9] My scope To note then each man’s spirit in a strait Of so much danger, much the better might Be hit by me, than others, as, provok’d, I shifted place still, when, in some I smok’d Both privy tremblings, and close vent of tears, In him yet not a soft conceit of theirs Could all my search see, either his wet eyes Ply’d still with wipings, or the goodly guise, His person all ways put forth, in least part, By any tremblings, show’d his touch’d-at heart. But ever he was urging me to make Way to their sally, by his sign to shake His sword hid in his scabbard, or his lance Loaded with iron, at me. No good chance His thoughts to Troy intended.
In th’ event, High Troy depopulate, he made ascent To his fair ship, with prise and treasure store, Safe, and no touch away with him he bore Of far-off-hurl’d lance, or of close-fought sword, Whose wounds for favours war doth oft afford, Which he (though sought) miss’d in war’s closest wage. _In close fights Mars doth never fight, but rage.’_ This made the soul of swift Achilles tread A march of glory through the herby mead, For joy to hear me so renown his son; And vanish’d stalking. But with passión Stood th’ other souls struck, and each told his bane. Only the spirit Telamonian[10] Kept far off, angry for the victory I won from him at fleet; though arbitry Of all a court of war pronounc’d it mine, And Pallas’ self. Our prise were th’ arms divine Of great Æacides, proposd t’ our fames By his bright Mother, at his funeral games. I wish to heav’n I ought not to have won; Since for those arms so high a head so soon The base earth cover’d, Ajax, that of all The host of Greece had person capital, And acts as eminent, excepting his Whose arms those were, in whom was nought amiss. I tried the great soul with soft words, and said: ‘Ajax!
Great son of Telamon, array’d In all our glories! What! not dead resign Thy wrath for those curst arms? The Pow’rs divine In them forg’d all our banes, in thine own one, In thy grave fall our tower was overthrown. We mourn, for ever maim’d, for thee as much As for Achilles; nor thy wrong doth touch, In sentence, any but Saturnius’ doom; In whose hate was the host of Greece become A very horror; who express’d it well In signing thy fate with this timeless hell. Approach then, king of all the Grecian merit, Repress thy great mind and thy flamy spirit, And give the words I give thee worthy ear.’ All this no word drew from him, but less near The stern soul kept; to other souls he fled, And glid along the river of the dead. Though anger mov’d him, yet he might have spoke, Since I to him. But my desires were strook With sight of other souls. And then I saw Minos, that minister’d to Death a law, And Jove’s bright son was.
He was set, and sway’d A golden sceptre; and to him did plead A sort of others, set about his throne, In Pluto’s wide-door’d house; when straight came on Mighty Orion, who was hunting there The herds of those beasts he had slaughter’d here In desert hills on earth. A club he bore, Entirely steel, whose virtues never wore. Tityus I saw, to whom the glorious earth Open’d her womb, and gave unhappy birth. Upwards, and flat upon the pavement, lay His ample limbs, that spread in their display Nine acres’ compass. On his bosom sat Two vultures, digging, through his caul of fat, Into his liver with their crookéd beaks; And each by turns the concrete entrail breaks (As smiths their steel beat) set on either side. Nor doth he ever labour to divide His liver and their beaks, nor with his hand Offer them off, but suffers by command Of th’ angry Thund’rer, off’ring to enforce His love Latona, in the close recourse She us’d to Pytho through the dancing land, Smooth Panopëus. I saw likewise stand, Up to the chin, amidst a liquid lake, Tormented Tantalus, yet could not slake His burning thirst.
Oft as his scornful cup Th’ old man would taste, so oft ’twas swallow’d up, And all the black earth to his feet descried, Divine pow’r (plaguing him) the lake still dried. About his head, on high trees, clust’ring, hung Pears, apples, granates, olives ever-young, Delicious figs, and many fruit-trees more Of other burden; whose alluring store When th’ old soul striv’d to pluck, the winds from sight, In gloomy vapours, made them vanish quite. There saw I Sisyphus in infinite moan, With both hands heaving up a massy stone, And on his tip-toes racking all his height, To wrest up to a mountain-top his freight; When prest to rest it there, his nerves quite spent, Down rush’d the deadly quarry, the event Of all his torture new to raise again; To which straight set his never-rested pain. The sweat came gushing out from ev’ry pore And on his head a standing mist he wore, Reeking from thence, as if a cloud of dust Were rais’d about it. Down with these was thrust The idol of the force of Hercules, But his firm self did no such fate oppress, He feasting lives amongst th’ Immortal States, White-ankled Hebe and himself made mates In heav’nly nuptials. Hebe, Jove’s dear race, And Juno’s whom the golden sandals grace.
About him flew the clamours of the dead Like fowls, and still stoop’d cuffing at his head. He with his bow, like Night, stalk’d up and down, His shaft still nock’d, and hurling round his frown At those vex’d hov’rers, aiming at them still, And still, as shooting out, desire to still. A horrid bawdrick wore he thwart his breast, The thong all-gold, in which were forms imprest, Where art and miracle drew equal breaths, In bears, boars, lions, battles, combats, deaths, Who wrought that work did never such before, Nor so divinely will do ever more. Soon as he saw, he knew me, and gave speech: ‘Son of Laertes, high in wisdom’s reach, And yet unhappy wretch, for in this heart, Of all exploits achiev’d by thy desert, Thy worth but works out some sinister fate, As I in earth did. I was generate By Jove himself, and yet past mean opprest By one my far inferior, whose proud hest Impos’d abhorréd labours on my hand. Of all which one was, to descend this strand, And hale the dog from thence. He could not think An act that danger could make deeper sink. And yet this depth I drew, and fetch’d as high, As this was low, the dog.
The Deity Of sleight and wisdom, as of downright pow’r, Both stoop’d, and rais’d, and made me conqueror.’ This said, he made descent again as low As Pluto’s court; when I stood firm, for show Of more heroës of the times before, And might perhaps have seen my wish of more, (As Theseus and Pirithous, deriv’d From roots of Deity) but before th’ achiev’d Rare sight of these, the rank-soul’d multitude In infinite flocks rose, venting sounds so rude, That pale Fear took me, lest the Gorgon’s head Rush’d in amongst them, thrust up, in my dread, By grim Persephoné. I therefore sent My men before to ship, and after went. Where, boarded, set, and launch’d, the ocean wave Our oars and forewinds speedy passage gave. [1] They mourned the event before they knew it. [2] _Misenus apud Virgilium, ingenti mole, etc._ [3] Men that never eat salt with their food. [4] _Γήπᾳ ὑπὸ λιπαρῳ̑._ Which all translate _senectute sub molli._ The epithet _λιπαρῳ̑;_ not of _λιπαρὸς,_ viz, _pinguis,_ or _λιπαρω̑ς, pinguiter,_ but _λιπαρω̑ς_ signifying _flagitanter orando._ To which pious age is ever altogether addicted. [5] Amphiaraus was her husband, whom she betrayed to his ruin at Thebes, for gold taken of Adrastus her brother. [6] _Venustè et salsè dictum._ [7] This advice he followed at his coming home. [8] This place (and a number more) is most miserably mistaken by all translators and commentors. [9] The horse abovesaid. [10] Ajax the son of Telamon. He shows from Hell his safe retreat To th’ isle Ææa, Circe’s seat; And how he ’scap’d the Sirens’ calls, With th’ erring rocks, and waters’ falls, That Scylla and Charybdis break; The Sun’ s stol’ n herds; and his sad wreak Both of Ulysses’ ship and men, His own head ’scaping scarce the pain.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.