In getting off from the Trinacrian coast;
Jove and the Sun was wroth with them for rape
Made of his oxen, and no man let ‘scape
The rugged deeps of Neptune; only he,
The ship’s keel only keeping, was by sea
Cast on the fair Phæacian continent,
Where men survive that are the Gods’ descent,
And like a God receiv’d him, gave him heaps
Of wealthy gifts, and would conduct his steps
Themselves safe home; which he might long ago
His pleasure make, but profit would not so.
He gather’d going, and had mighty store
Of gold in safeguard; so beyond the shore
That common sails kept, his high flood of wit
Bore glorious top, and all the world for it
Hath far exceeded. All this Phædon told,
That doth the sceptre of Thesprotia hold,
Who swore to me, in household sacrifice,
The ship was launch’d, and men to man the prise,
That soon should set him on his country earth,
Show’d me the goods, enough to serve the birth
That in the tenth age of his seed should spring,
Yet in his court contain’d. But then the king,
Your husband, for Dodona was in way,
That from th’ Oraculous Oak he might display
Jove’s will what course for home would best prevail,
To come in pomp, or bear a secret sail.
But me the king dispatch’d in course before,
A ship then bound for the Dulichian shore.
So thus you see his safety whom you mourn;
Who now is passing near, and his return
No more will punish with delays, but see
His friends and country. All which truth to thee
I’ll seal with sacred oath. Be witness, Jove,
Thou first and best of all the thron’d above!
And thou house of the great Laertes’ heir,
To whose high roofs I tender my repair,
That what I tell the Queen event shall crown!
This year Ulysses shall possess his own,
Nay ere the next month ends shall here arrive,
Nay, ere it enters, here abide alive!”
“O may this prove,” said she; “gifts, friendship, then
Should make your name the most renown’d of men.
But ’tis of me receiv’d, and must so sort,
That nor my lord shall ever see his court,
Nor you gain your deduction thence, for now
The alter’d house doth no such man allow
As was Ulysses, if he ever were,
To entertain a rev’rend passenger,
And give him fair dismission. But, maids, see
Ye bathe his feet, and then with tapestry,
Best sheets and blankets, make his bed, and lay
Soft waistcoats by him, that, lodg’d warm, he may
Ev’n till the golden-seated morning’s ray
Enjoy good rest; and then, with her first light,
Bathe, and give alms, that cherish’d appetite
He may apply within our hall, and sit
Safe by Telemachus. Or, if th’ unfit
And harmful mind of any be so base
To grieve his age again, let none give grace
Of doing any deed he shall command,
How wroth soever, to his barbarous hand.
For how shall you, guest, know me for a dame
That pass so far, nay, turn and wind the fame
Of other dames for wisdom, and the frame
Of household usage, if your poor thin weeds
I let draw on you want, and worser deeds,
That may, perhaps, cause here your latest day?
The life of man is short and flies away.
And if the ruler’s self of households be
Ungentle, studying inhumanity,
The rest prove worse, but he bears all the blame;
All men will, living, vow against his name
Mischiefs and miseries, and, dead, supply
With bitter epitaphs his memory.
But if himself be noble — noble things
Doing and knowing — all his underlings
Will imitate his noblesse, and all guests
Give it, in many, many interests.”
“But, worthiest Queen,” said he, “where you command
Baths and rich beds for me, I scorn to stand
On such state now nor ever thought it yet,
Since first I left the snowy hills of Crete.
When once I fell a-shipboard those thoughts fled;
I love to take now, as long since, my bed.
Though I began the use with sleepless nights,
I many a darkness with right homely rites
Have spent ere this hour, and desir’d the morn
Would come, and make sleep to the world a scorn.
Nor run these dainty baths in my rude head;
Nor any handmaid, to your service bred,
Shall touch my ill-kept feet, unless there live
Some poor old drudge here, that hath learn’d to give
Old men good usage, and no work will fly,
As having suffer’d ill as much as I.
But if there live one such in your command,
I will not shame to give my foot her hand.”
She gave this answer: “O my lovéd guest,
There never enter’d these kind roofs for rest
Stranger or friend that so much wisdom laid
In gage for guest-rites, as your lips have paid.
There lives an old maid in my charge that knows
The good you speak of by her many woes;
That nourish’d and brought up, with curious care,
Th’ unhappy man; your old familiar,
Ev’n since his mother let him view the light,
And oft hath felt in her weak arms his weight;
And she, though now much weaker, shall apply
Her maiden service to your modesty.
Euryclea, rise, and wash the feet of one
That is of one age with your sov’reign gone,
Such hands, such feet hath, though of alter’d grace.
Much grief in men will bring on change apace.”
She, from her aged slumber wak’d, did clear
Her heavy eyes, and instantly, to hear
Her sov’reign’s name, had work enough to dry
Her cheeks from tears, and to his memory
These moans did offer: “O my son,” said she,
“I never can take grief enough for thee,
Whom Goodness hurts, and whom ev’n Jove’s high spleen,
Since thou art Jove-like, hates the most of men.
For none hath offer’d him so many thighs,
Nor such whole hecatombs of sacrifice,
Fat and selected, as thy zeal hath done;
For all, but praying that thy noble son,
Thy happy age might see at state of man.
And yet hath Jove with mists Cimmerian
Put out the light of his returning day.
And as yourself, O father, in your way
Took these fair roofs for hospitable rites,
Yet find, for them, our dogged women’s spites;
So he, in like course, being driven to proof,
Long time ere this, what such a royal roof
Would yield his mis’r
ies, found such usage there.
And you, now flying the foul language here,
And many a filthy fact of our fair dames,
Fly me like them, and put on causeless shames
To let me cleanse your feet. For not the cause
The Queen’s command yields is the pow’r that draws
My will to wash your feet, but what I do
Proceeds from her charge and your rev’rence too;
Since I in soul am stricken with a ruth
Of your distresses, and past show of truth; 2
Your strangeness claiming little interest
In my affections. And yet many a guest
Of poor condition hath been harbour’d here,
But never any did so right appear
Like king Ulysses as yourself, for state
Both of your stature, voice, and very gait.”
“So all have said,” said he, “that ever yet
Had the proportions of our figures met
In their observance; so right your eye
Proves in your soul your judging faculty.”
Thus took she up a caldron brightly scour’d,
To cleanse his feet in; and into it pour’d
Store of cold wave, which on the fire she set;
And therein bath’d, being temperately heat,
Her sov’reign’s feet. 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
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 152
