The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Nor shall my pow’rs fear, If this mood in me reach my mother’s ear; Much less the servants’, that are here to see Ulysses’ house kept in his old degree. But you bear no such mind, your wits more cast To fill yourself than let another taste.” Antinous answer’d him: “Brave-spoken man! Whose mind’s free fire see check’d no virtue can. If all we Wooers here would give as much As my mind serves, his[4] largess should be such As would for three months serve his far-off way From troubling your house with more cause of stay.” This said, he took a stool up, that did rest, Beneath the board, his spangled feet at feast, And offer’d at him; but the rest gave all, And fill’d his fulsome scrip with festival. And so Ulysses for the present was, And for the future, furnish’d, and his pass Bent to the door to eat. Yet could not leave Antinous so, but said: “Do you too give, Lov’d lord; your presence makes a show to me As you not worst were of the company, But best, and so much that you seem the king, And therefore you should give some better thing Than bread, like others.
I will spread your praise Through all the wide world, that have in my days Kept house myself, and trod the wealthy ways Of other men ev’n to the title Blest; And often have I giv’n an erring guest (How mean soever) to the utmost gain Of what he wanted, kept whole troops of men, And had all other comings in, with which Men live so well, and gain the fame of rich. Yet Jove consum’d all; he would have it so; To which, his mean was this: He made me go Far off, for Egypt, in the rude consort Of all-ways-wand’ring pirates, where, in port, I bade my lov’d men draw their ships ashore, And dwell amongst them; sent out some t’ explore Up to the mountains, who, intemperate, And their inflam’d bloods bent to satiate, Forag’d the rich fields, hal’d the women thence, And unwean’d children, with the foul expence Both of their fames and bloods.
The cry then flew Straight to the city; and the great fields grew With horse and foot, and flam’d with iron arms; When Jove (that breaks the thunder in alarms) An ill flight cast amongst my men; not one Inspir’d with spirit to stand, and turn upon The fierce pursuing foe; and therefore stood Their ill fate thick about them; some in blood, And some in bondage; toils led by constraint Fast’ning upon them. Me along they sent To Cyprus with a stranger-prince they met, Dmetor Iasides, who th’ imperial seat Of that sweet island sway’d in strong command. And thus feel I here need’s contemned hand.” “And what God sent,” said he, “this suff’ring bane To vex our banquet? Stand off, nor profane My board so boldly, lest I show thee here Cyprus and Egypt made more sour than there. You are a saucy set-fac’d vagabond. About with all you go, and they, beyond Discretion, give thee, since they find not here The least proportion set down to their cheer. But ev’ry fountain hath his under-floods. _It is no bounty to give others’ goods.”_ “O Gods,” replied Ulysses, “I see now, You bear no soul in this your goodly show.
Beggars at your board, I perceive, should get Scarce salt from your hands, if themselves brought meat; Since, sitting where another’s board is spread, That flows with feast, not to the broken bread Will your allowance reach.” “Nay then,” said he, And look’d austerely, “if so saucy be Your suffer’d language, I suppose, that clear You shall not ’scape without some broken cheer.” Thus rapt he up a stool, with which he smit The king’s right shoulder, ’twixt his neck and it. He stood him like a rock. Antinous’ dart Nor stirr’d Ulysses; who in his great heart Deep ills projected, which, for time yet, close He bound in silence, shook his head, and went Out to the entry, where he then gave vent To his full scrip, sat on the earth, and eat, And talk’d still to the Wooers: “Hear me yet, Ye Wooers of the Queen. It never grieves A man to take blows, where for sheep, or beeves, Or other main possessions, a man fights; But for his harmful belly this man smites, Whose love to many a man breeds many a woe. And if the poor have Gods, and Furies too, Before Antinous wear his nuptial wreath, He shall be worn upon the dart of death.”
“Harsh guest,” said he, “sit silent at your meat, Or seek your desp’rate plight some safer seat, Lest by the hands or heels youths drag your years, And rend your rotten rags about your ears.” This made the rest as highly hate his folly, As he had violated something holy. When one, ev’n of the proudest, thus began: “Thou dost not nobly, thus to play the man On such an errant wretch. O ill dispos’d! Perhaps some sacred Godhead goes enclos’d Ev’n in his abject outside; for the Gods Have often visited these rich abodes Like such poor stranger pilgrims, since their pow’rs (Being always shapeful) glide through towns and tow’rs, Observing, as they pass still, who they be That piety love, and who impiety.” This all men said, but he held sayings cheap. And all this time Telemachus did heap Sorrow on sorrow on his beating heart, To see his father stricken; yet let part No tear to earth, but shook his head, and thought As deep as those ills that were after wrought. The Queen now, hearing of her poor guest’s stroke, Said to her maid (as to her Wooer she spoke), “I wish the famous-for-his-bow, the Sun, Would strike thy heart so.”
Her wish, thus begun, Her lady, fair Eurynome, pursued Her execration, and did thus conclude: “So may our vows call down from heav’n his end, And let no one life of the rest extend His life till morning.” “O Eurynomé,” Replied the Queen, “may all Gods speak in thee, For all the Wooers we should rate as foes, Since all their weals they place in others’ woes! But this Antinous we past all should hate, As one resembling black and cruel Fate. A poor strange wretch begg’d here, compell’d by need, Ask’d all, and ev’ry one gave in his deed, Fill’d his sad scrip, and eas’d his heavy wants, Only this man bestow’d unmanly taunts, And with a cruel blow, his force let fly, ‘Twixt neck and shoulders show’d his charity.” These minds, above, she and her maids did show, While, at his scrip, Ulysses sat below. In which time she Eumæus call’d, and said: “Go, good Eumæus, and see soon convey’d The stranger to me; bid him come and take My salutations for his welcome’s sake, And my desire serve, if he hath not heard Or seen distress’d Ulysses, who hath err’d Like such a man, and therefore chance may fall He hath by him been met and spoke withal?”
“O Queen,” said he, “I wish to heav’n your ear Were quit of this unrev’rend noise you hear From these rude Wooers, when I bring the guest; Such words your ear would let into your breast As would delight it to your very heart. Three nights and days I did my roof impart To his fruition (for he came to me The first of all men since he fled the sea) And yet he had not giv’n a perfect end To his relation of what woes did spend The spite of Fate on him, but as you see[5] A singer, breathing out of Deity Love-kindling lines, when all men seated near Are rapt with endless thirst to ever hear; So sweeten’d he my bosom at my meat, Affirming that Ulysses was in Crete, Where first the memories of Minos were, A guest to him there dwelling then, as dear As his true father; and from thence came he Tir’d on with sorrows, toss’d from sea to sea, To cast himself in dust, and tumble here, At Wooers’ feet, for blows and broken cheer. But of Ulysses, where the Thesprots dwell, A wealthy people, Fame, he says, did tell The still survival; who his native light Was bound for now, with treasure infinite.”
“Call him,” said she, “that he himself may say This over to me. We shall soon have way Giv’n by the Wooers; they, as well at gate, As set within doors, use to recreate Their high-fed spirits. As their humours lead They follow; and may well; for still they tread Uncharg’d ways here, their own wealth lying unwasted In poor-kept houses, only something tasted Their bread and wine is by their household swains, But they themselves let loose continual reins To our expenses, making slaughter still Of sheep, goats, oxen, feeding past their fill, And vainly lavishing our richest wine; All these extending past the sacred line, For here lives no man like Ulysses now To curb these reins. But should he once show His country-light his presence, he and his Would soon revenge these Wooers’ injuries.” This said, about the house, in echoes round, Her son’s strange neesings made a horrid sound;[6] At which the Queen yet laugh’d, and said: “Go call The stranger to me. Heard’st thou not, to all My words last utter’d, what a neesing brake From my Telemachus? From whence I make, This sure conclusion: That the death and fate Of ev’ry Wooer here is near his date.
Call, then, the guest, and if he tell as true What I shall ask him, coat, cloak, all things new, These hands shall yield him.” This said, down he went, And told Ulysses, “that the Queen had sent To call him to her, that she might enquire About her husband what her sad desire Urg’d her to ask; and, if she found him true, Both coat, and cassock (which he needed) new Her hands would put on him; and that the bread, Which now he begg’d amongst the common tread, Should freely feed his hunger now from her, Who all he wish’d would to his wants prefer.” His answer was: “I will with fit speed tell The whole truth to the Queen; for passing well I know her lord, since he and I have shar’d In equal sorrows. But I much am scar’d With this rude multitude of Wooers here, The rage of whose pride smites heav’n’s brazen sphere. Of whose rout when one struck me for no fault, Telemachus nor none else turn’d th’ assault From my poor shoulders.
Therefore, though she haste, Beseech the Queen her patience will see past The day’s broad light, and then may she enquire. ’Tis but my closer pressing to the fire In th’ ev’ning’s cold, because my weeds, you know, Are passing thin; for I made bold to show Their bracks to you, and pray’d your kind supply.” He heard, and hasted; and met instantly The Queen upon the pavement in his way, Who ask’d: “What! Bring’st thou not? What cause of stay Find his austere supposes? Takes he fear Of th’ unjust Wooers? Or thus hard doth bear On any other doubt the house objects? He does me wrong, and gives too nice respects To his fear’d safety.” “He does right,” said he, “And what he fears should move the policy Of any wise one; taking care to shun The violent Wooers. He bids bide, till sun Hath hid his broad light. And, believe it, Queen, ’Twill make your best course, since you two, unseen, May pass th’ encounter; you to speak more free, And he your ear gain less distractedly.” “The guest is wise,” said she, “and well doth give The right thought use. Of all the men that live, Life serves none such as these proud Wooers are, To give a good man cause to use his care.”
Thus, all agreed, amongst the Wooers goes Eumæus to the prince, and, whisp’ring close, Said: “Now, my love, my charge shall take up me, (Your goods and mine). What here is, you must see In fit protection. But, in chief, regard Your own dear safeguard; whose state study hard, Lest suff’rance seize you. Many a wicked thought Conceal these Wooers; whom just Jove see brought To utter ruin, ere it touch at us.” “So chance it, friend,” replied Telemachus, “Your bever taken, go. In first of day Come, and bring sacrifice the best you may. To me and to th’ Immortals be the care or whatsoever here the safeties are.” This said, he sat in his elaborate throne. Eumæus (fed to satisfaction) Went to his charge, left both the court and walls Full of secure and fatal festivals, In which the Wooers’ pleasures still would sway. And now begun the even’s near-ending day. THE END OF THE SEVENTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS. [1] Intending his fat herd, kept only for the Wooers’ dainty palates. [2] The dog died as soon as he had seen Ulysses. [3] Ulysses’ ruthful fashion of entry to his own hall. [4] His—intending Ulysses. [5] Simile, in which Ulysses is compared with a poet for the sweetness of his speech. [6] Neezing a good omen. Ulysses and rogue Irus fight. Penelope vouchsafes her sight To all her Wooers; who present Gifts to her, ravish’d with content. A certain parlé then we sing. Betwixt a Wooer and the King.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.