The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
Who turn’d him from the light, Since suddenly he doubted her conceit, So rightly touching at his state before, A scar now seeing on his foot, that bore An old note, to discern him, might descry The absolute truth; which, witness’d by her eye, Was straight approv’d. He first receiv’d this sore As in Parnassus’ tops a white-tooth’d boar He stood in chase withal, who struck him there, At such time as he liv’d a sojourner With his grandsire, Autolycus; who th’ art Of theft and swearing (not out of the heart, But by equivocation) first adorn’d Your witty man withal, and was suborn’d By Jove’s descent, ingenious Mercury, Who did bestow it, since so many a thigh Of lambs and kids he had on him bestow’d In sacred flames, who therefore when he vow’d Was ever with him. And this man impos’d Ulysses’ name, the light being first disclos’d To his first sight then, when his grandsire came To see the then preferrer of his fame, His lovéd daughter. The first supper done, Euryclea put in his lap her son, And pray’d him to bethink and give his name, Since that desire did all desires inflame. “Daughter and son-in-law,” said he, “let then The name that I shall give him stand with men.
Since I arriv’d here at the hour of pain, In which mine own kind entrails did sustain Moan for my daughter’s yet unended throes, And when so many men’s and women’s woes, In joint compassion met of human birth, Brought forth t’ attend the many-feeding earth, Let Odyssëus be his name, as one[3] Expos’d to just constraint of all men’s moan. When here at home he is arriv’d at state Of man’s first youth he shall initiate His practis’d feet in travel made abroad, And to Parnassus, where mine own abode And chief means lie, address his way, where I Will give him from my open’d treasury What shall return him well, and fit the fame Of one that had the honour of his name.” For these fair gifts he went, and found all grace Of hands and words in him and all his race.
Amphithea, his mother’s mother, too, Applied her to his love, withal, to do In grandame’s welcomes, both his fair eyes kist, And brows; and then commanded to assist Were all her sons by their respected sire In furnishing a feast, whose ears did fire Their minds with his command; who home straight led A five-years-old male ox, fell’d, slew, and flay’d, Gather’d about him, cut him up with art, Spitted, and roasted, and his ev’ry part Divided orderly. So all the day They spent in feast; no one man went his way Without his fit fill. When the sun was set, And darkness rose, they slept, till day’s fire het Th’ enlighten’d earth; and then on hunting went Both hounds and all Autolycus’ descent. In whose guide did divine Ulysses go, Climb’d steep Parnassus, on whose forehead grow All sylvan offsprings round. And Soon they reach’d The concaves, whence air’s sounding vapours fetch’d Their loud descent. As soon as any sun Had from the ocean, where his waters run In silent deepness, rais’d his golden head, The early huntsmen all the hill had spread, Their hounds before them on the searching trail, They near, and ever eager to assail: Ulysses brandishing a lengthful lance, Of whose first flight he long’d to prove the chance.
Then found they lodg’d a boar of bulk extreme, In such a queach as never any beam The sun shot pierc’d, nor any pass let find The moist impressions of the fiercest wind, Nor any storm the sternest winter drives, Such proof it was; yet all within lay leaves In mighty thickness; and through all this flew The hounds’ loud mouths. The sounds the tumult threw, And all together, rous’d the boar, that rush’d Amongst their thickest, all his bristles push’d From forth his rough neck, and with flaming eyes Stood close, and dar’d all. On which horrid prise Ulysses first charg’d; whom above the knee The savage struck, and rac’d it crookedly Along the skin, yet never reach’d the bone. Ulysses’ lance yet through him quite was thrown, At his right shoulder ent’ring, at his left The bright head passage to his keenness cleft, And show’d his point gilt with the gushing gore. Down in the dust fell the extended boar, And forth his life flew.
To Ulysses round His uncle drew; who, woeful for his wound, With all art bound it up, and with a charm Stay’d straight the blood, went home, and, when the harm Receiv’d full cure, with gifts, and all event Of joy and love to his lov’d home they sent Their honour’d nephew; whose return his sire And rev’rend mother took with joys entire, Enquir’d all passages, all which he gave In good relation, nor of all would save His wound from utt’rance; by whose scar he came To be discover’d by this aged dame. Which when she cleansing felt, and noted well, Down from her lap into the caldron fell His weighty foot, that made the brass resound, Turn’d all aside, and on th’ embrewéd ground Spilt all the water. Joy and grief together Her breast invaded; and of weeping weather Her eyes stood full; her small voice stuck within Her part expressive; till at length his chin She took and spake to him: “O son,” said she, “Thou art Ulysses, nor canst other be; Nor could I know thee yet, till all my king I had gone over with the warméd spring.”
Then look’d she for the Queen to tell her all; And yet knew nothing sure, though nought could fall In compass of all thoughts to make her doubt, Minerva that distraction struck throughout Her mind’s rapt forces that she might not tell. Ulysses, noting yet her aptness well, With one hand took her chin, and made all show Of favour to her, with the other drew Her offer’d parting closer, ask’d her why She, whose kind breast had nurs’d so tenderly His infant life, would now his age destroy, Though twenty years had held him from the joy Of his lov’d country? But, since only she, God putting her in mind, now knew ’twas he, He charg’d her silence, and to let no ear In all the court more know his being there, Lest, if God gave into his wreakful hand Th’ insulting Wooers’ lives, he did not stand On any partial respect with her, Because his nurse, and to the rest prefer Her safety therefore, but, when they should feel His punishing finger, give her equal steel. “What words,” said she, “fly your retentive pow’rs? You know you lock your counsels in your tow’rs In my firm bosom, and that I am far From those loose frailties.
Like an iron bar, Or bolt of solid’st stone, I will contain; And tell you this besides; that if you gain, By God’s good aid, the Wooers’ lives in yours, What dames are here their shameless paramours; And have done most dishonour to your worth, My information well shall paint you forth.” “It shall not need,” said he, “myself will soon, While thus I mask here, set on ev’ry one My sure observance of the worst and best. Be thou then silent, and leave God the rest.” This said, the old dame for more water went, The rest was all upon the pavement spent By known Ulysses’ foot. More brought, and he Supplied beside with sweetest ointments, she His seat drew near the fire, to keep him warm, And with his piec’d rags hiding close his harm. The Queen came near, and said: “Yet, guest, afford Your further patience, till but in a word I’ll tell my woes to you; for well I know That Rest’s sweet hour her soft foot orders now, When all poor men, how much soever griev’d, Would gladly get their woe-watch’d pow’rs reliev’d. But God hath giv’n my grief a heart so great It will not down with rest, and so I set My judgment up to make it my delight.
All day I mourn, yet nothing let the right I owe my charge both in my work and maids; And when the night brings rest to others’ aids I toss my bed; Distress, with twenty points, Slaught’ring the pow’rs that to my turning joints Convey the vital heat. And as all night Pandareus’ daughter, poor Edone, sings, Clad in the verdure of the yearly springs, When she for Itylus, her lovéd son, By Zethus’ issue in his madness done To cruel death, pours out her hourly moan, And draws the ears to her of ev’ry one; So flows my moan that cuts in two my mind, And here and there gives my discourse the wind, Uncertain whether I shall with my son Abide still here, the safe possession And guard of all goods, rev’rence to the bed Of my lov’d lord, and to my far-off spread Fame with the people, putting still in use, Or follow any best Greek I can chuse To his fit house, with treasure infinite, Won to his nuptials. While the infant plight And want of judgment kept my son in guide, He was not willing with my being a bride, Nor with my parting from his court; but now, Arriv’d at man’s state, he would have me vow My love to some one of my Wooers here, And leave his court; offended that their cheer Should so consume his free possessions. To settle then a choice in these my moans, Hear and expound a dream that did engrave My sleeping fancy: Twenty geese I have, All which, me thought, mine eye saw tasting wheat In water steep’d, and joy’d to see them eat; When straight a crook-beak’d eagle from a hill Stoop’d, and truss’d all their necks, and all did kill; When, all left scatter’d on the pavement there, She took her wing up to the Gods’ fair sphere.
I, ev’n amid my dream, did weep and mourn To see the eagle, with so shrewd a turn, Stoop my sad turrets; when, methought, there came About my mournings many a Grecian dame, To cheer my sorrows; in whose most extreme The hawk came back, and on the prominent beam That cross’d my chamber fell, and us’d to me A human voice, that sounded horribly, And said: ‘Be confident, Icarius’ seed, This is no dream, but what shall chance indeed. The geese the Wooers are, the eagle, I, Was heretofore a fowl, but now imply Thy husband’s being, and am come to give The Wooers’ death, that on my treasure live.’ With this sleep left me, and my waking way I took, to try if any violent prey Were made of those my fowls, which well enough I, as before, found feeding at their trough Their yoted wheat.” “O woman,” he replied, “Thy dream can no interpretation bide But what the eagle made, who was your lord, And said himself would sure effect afford To what he told you; that confusion To all the Wooers should appear, and none Escape the fate and death he had decreed.”
She answer’d him: “O guest, these dreams exceed The art of man t’ interpret; and appear Without all choice or form; nor ever were Perform’d to all at all parts. But there are To these light dreams, that like thin vapours fare, Two two-leav’d gates, the one of ivory, The other horn. Those dreams, that fantasy Takes from the polish’d ivory port, delude The dreamer ever, and no truth include; Those, that the glitt’ring horn-gate lets abroad, Do evermore some certain truth abode. But this my dream I hold of no such sort To fly from thence; yet, whichsoever port It had access from, it did highly please My son and me. And this my thoughts profess: That day that lights me from Ulysses’ court Shall both my infamy and curse consort. I, therefore, purpose to propose them now, In strong contention, Ulysses’ bow; Which he that eas’ly draws, and from his draft Shoots through twelve axes (as he did his shaft, All set up in a row, and from them all His stand-far-off kept firm) my fortunes shall Dispose, and take me to his house from hence, Where I was wed a maid, in confluence Of feast and riches; such a court here then As I shall ever in my dreams retain.”
“Do not,” said he, “defer the gameful prize, But set to task their importunities With something else than nuptials; for your lord Will to his court and kingdom be restor’d Before they thread those steels, or draw his bow.” “O guest,” replied Penelope, “would you Thus sit and please me with your speech, mine ears Would never let mine eyelids close their spheres! But none can live without the death of sleep, Th’ Immortals in our mortal memories keep Our ends and deaths by sleep, dividing so, As by the fate and portion of our woe, Our times spent here, to let us nightly try That while we live, as much live as we die. In which use I will to my bed ascend, Which I bedew with tears, and sigh past end Through all my hours spent, since I lost my joy For vile, lewd, never-to-be-naméd, Troy, Yet there I’ll prove for sleep, which take you here, Or on the earth, if that your custom were, Or have a bed, dispos’d for warmer rest.” Thus left she with her ladies her old guest, Ascended her fair chamber, and her bed, Whose sight did ever duly make her shed Tears for her lord; which still her eyes did steep, Till Pallas shut them with delightsome sleep. THE END OF THE NINETEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.