by Homer
Another Argument
Xi
Ulysses feigns
For his true good.
His pious swain’s
Faith understood.
Book 14
But he the rough way took from forth the port,
Through woods and hill tops, seeking the resort
Where Pallas said divine Eumaeus liv’d;
Who of the fortunes, that were first achiev’d
By god-like Ithacus in household rights,
Had more true care than all his prosylites.
He found him sitting in his cottage door,
Where he had rais’d to every airy blore
A front of great height, and in such a place
That round ye might behold, of circular grace
A walk so wound about it; which the swain
(In absence of his far-gone sovereign)
Had built himself, without his queen’s supply,
Or old Laertes’, to see safely lie
His housed herd. The inner part he wrought
Of stones, that thither his own labours brought,
Which with an hedge of thorn he fenc’d about,
And compass’d all the hedge with pales cleft out
Of sable oak, that here and there he fix’d
Frequent and thick. Within his yard he mix’d
Twelve styes to lodge his herd; and every stye
Had room and use for fifty swine to lie;
But those were females all. The male swine slept
Without doors ever; nor was their herd kept
Fair like the females, since they suffer’d still
Great diminution, he being forc’d to kill
And send the fattest to the dainty feasts
Affected by th’ ungodly wooing guests.
Their number therefore but three hundred were
And sixty. By them mastiffs, as austere
As savage beasts, lay ever, their fierce strain
Bred by the herdsman, a mere prince of men,
Their number four. Himself was then applied
In cutting forth a fair-hu’d ox’s hide,
To fit his feet with shoes. His servants held
Guard of his swine; three, here and there, at field,
The fourth he sent to city with a sow,
Which must of force be offer’d to the vow
The wooers made to all satiety,
To serve which still they did those off’rings ply.
The fate-born-dogs-to-bark took sudden view
Of Odyssëus, and upon him flew
With open mouth. He, cunning to appal
A fierce dog’s fury, from his hand let fall
His staff to earth, and sat him careless down.
And yet to him had one foul wrong been shown
Where most his right lay, had not instantly
The herdsman let his hide fall, and his cry
(With frequent stones flung at the dogs) repell’d,
This way and that, their eager course they held;
When through the entry pass’d, he thus did mourn:
‘O father! How soon had you near been torn
By these rude dogs, whose hurt had branded me
With much neglect of you! But deity
Hath giv’n so many other sighs and cares
To my attendant state, that well unwares
You might be hurt for me, for here I lie
Grieving and mourning for the majesty
That, godlike, wonted to be ruling here,
Since now I fat his swine for others’ cheer,
Where he, perhaps, errs hungry up and down,
In countries, nations, cities, all unknown
If any where he lives yet, and doth see
The sun’s sweet beams. But, father, follow me,
That, cheer’d with wine and food, you may disclose
From whence you truly are, and all the woes
Your age is subject to.’ This said, he led
Into his cottage, and of osiers spread
A thicken’d hurdle, on whose top he strow’d
A wild goat’s shaggy skin, and then bestow’d
His own couch on it, that was soft and great.
Ulysses joy’d to see him so entreat
His uncouth presence, saying: ‘Jove requite,
And all th’ immortal gods, with that delight
Thou most desir’st, thy kind receipt of me,
O friend to human hospitality!’
Eumaeus answer’d: ‘Guest! If one much worse
Arriv’d here than thyself, it were a curse
To my poor means, to let a stranger taste
Contempt for fit food. Poor men, and unplac’d
In free seats of their own, are all from Jove
Commended to our entertaining love.
But poor is th’ entertainment I can give,
Yet free and loving. Of such men as live
The lives of servants, and are still in fear
Where young lords govern, this is all the cheer
They can afford a stranger. There was one
That used to manage this now desert throne,
To whom the gods deny return, that show’d
His curious favour to me, and bestow’d
Possessions on me, a most wished wife,
A house, and portion, and a servant’s life
Fit for the gift a gracious king should give;
Who still took pains himself, and god made thrive
His personal endeavour, and to me
His work the more increas’d, in which you see
I now am conversant. And therefore much
His hand had help’d me, had heav’n’s will been such
He might have here grown old. But he is gone,
And would to god the whole succession
Of Helen might go with him, since for her
So many men died, whose fate did confer
My liege to Troy, in Agamemnon’s grace,
To spoil her people, and her turrets rase!’
This said, his coat to him he straight did gird,
And to his styes went, that contain’d his herd;
From whence he took out two, slew both, and cut
Both fairly up; a fire enflam’d, and put
To spit the joints; which roasted well, he set
With spit and all to him, that he might eat
From thence his food in all the singeing heat,
Yet dredg’d it first with flour; then fill’d his cup
With good sweet wine; sat then, and cheer’d him up:
‘Eat now, my guest, such lean swine as are meat
For us poor swains; the fat the wooers eat,
In whose minds no shame, no remorse, doth move,
Though well they know the bless’d gods do not love
Ungodly actions, but respect the right,
And in the works of pious men delight.
But these are worse than impious, for those
That vow t’ injustice, and profess them foes
To other nations, enter on their land,
And Jupiter (to show his punishing hand
Upon th’ invaded, for their penance then)
Gives favour to their foes, though wicked men,
To make their prey on them; who, having freight
Their ships with spoil enough, weigh anchor straight,
And each man to his house (and yet ev’n these
Doth pow’rful fear of god’s just vengeance seiz
e,
Even for that prize in which they so rejoice)
But these men, knowing (having heard the voice
Of god by some means) that sad death hath reft
The ruler here, will never suffer left
Their unjust wooing of his wife, nor take
Her often answer, and their own roofs make
Their fit retreats, but (since uncheck’d they may)
They therefore will make still his goods their prey,
Without all spare or end. There is no day
Nor night, sent out from god, that ever they
Profane with one beast’s blood, or only two,
But more make spoil of; and the wrongs they do
In meat’s excess to wine as well extend,
Which as excessively their riots spend,
Yet still leave store, for sure his means were great,
And no heroë, that hath choicest seat
Upon the fruitful neighbour continent,
Or in this isle itself, so opulent
Was as Ulysses; no, nor twenty such,
Put altogether, did possess so much.
Whose herds and flocks I’ll tell to every head:
Upon the continent he daily fed
Twelve herds of oxen, no less flocks of sheep,
As many herds of swine, stalls large and steep,
And equal sorts of goats, which tenants there,
And his own shepherds, kept. Then fed he here
Eleven fair stalls of goats, whose food hath yield
In the extreme part of a neighbour field.
Each stall his herdsman hath, an honest swain,
Yet every one must every day sustain
The load of one beast (the most fat, and best
Of all the stall-fed) to the wooers’ feast.
And I, for my part, of the swine I keep
(With four more herdsmen) every day help steep
The wooers’ appetites in blood of one,
The most select our choice can full upon.’
To this Ulysses gave good ear, and fed,
And drunk his wine, and vex’d, and ravished
His food for mere vexation. Seeds of ill
His stomach sow’d, to hear his goods go still
To glut of wooers. But, his dinner done,
And stomach fed to satisfaction,
He drunk a full bowl, all of only wine,
And gave it to the guardian of his swine,
Who took it, and rejoic’d; to whom he said:
‘O friend, who is it that, so rich, hath paid
Price for thy service, whose commended pow’r,
Thou sayst, to grace the Grecian conqueror,
At Ilion perish’d? Tell me. It may fall
I knew some such. The great god knows, and all
The other deathless godheads, if I can,
Far having travell’d, tell of such a man.’
Eumaeus answer’d: ‘Father, never one,
Of all the strangers that have touch’d upon
This coast, with his life’s news could ever yet
Of queen, or lov’d son, any credit get.
These travellers, for clothes, or for a meal,
At all adventures, any lie will tell.
Nor do they trade for truth. Not any man,
That saw the people Ithacensian,
Of all their sort, and had the queen’s supplies,
Did ever tell her any news but lies.
She graciously receives them yet, inquires
Of all she can, and all in tears expires.
It is th’ accustom’d law, that women keep,
Their husbands elsewhere dead, at home to weep.
But do thou quickly, father, forge a tale,
Some coat or cloak to keep thee warm withal,
Perhaps some one may yield thee; but for him,
Vultures and dogs have torn from every limb
His porous skin, and forth his soul is fled,
His corse at sea to fishes forfeited,
Or on the shore lies hid in heaps of sand,
And there hath he his ebb, his native strand
With friends’ tears flowing. But to me past all
Were tears created, for I never shall
Find so humane a royal master more,
Whatever sea I seek, whatever shore.
Nay, to my father or my mother’s love
Should I return, by whom I breathe and move,
Could I so much joy offer; nor these eyes
(Though my desires sustain extremities
For their sad absence) would so fain be blest
With sight of their lives, in my native nest,
As with Ulysses dead; in whose last rest,
O friend, my soul shall love him. He’s not here,
Nor do I name him like a flatterer,
But as one thankful for his love and care
To me a poor man – in the rich so rare.
And be he past all shores where sun can shine,
I will invoke him as a soul divine.’
‘O friend,’ said he, ‘to say, and to believe,
He cannot live, doth too much license give
To incredulity; for, not to speak
At needy random, but my breath to break
In sacred oath, Ulysses shall return.
And when his sight recomforts those that mourn
In his own roofs, then give me cloak and coat,
And garments worthy of a man of note.
Before which, though need urg’d me never so,
I’ll not receive a thread, but naked go.
No less I hate him than the gates of hell,
That poorness can force an untruth to tell.
Let Jove then (heav’n’s chief god) just witness bear,
And this thy hospitable table here,
Together with unblam’d Ulysses’ house,
In which I find receipt so gracious,
What I affirm’d of him shall all be true.
This instant year thine eyes ev’n here shall view
Thy lord Ulysses. Nay, ere this month’s end,
Return’d full home, he shall revenge extend
To every one, whose ever deed hath done
Wrong to his wife and his illustrious son.’
‘O father,’ he replied, ‘I’ll neither give
Thy news reward, nor doth Ulysses live.
But come, enough of this, let’s drink and eat,
And never more his memory repeat.
It grieves my heart to be remember’d thus
By any one of one so glorious.
But stand your oath in your assertion strong,
And let Ulysses come, for whom I long,
For whom his wife, for whom his aged sire,
For whom his son consumes his godlike fire,
Whose chance I now must mourn, and ever shall.
Whom when the gods had brought to be as tall
As any upright plant, and I had said
He would amongst a court of men have sway’d
In counsels, and for form have been admir’d
Ev’n with his father, some god misinspir’d,
Or man took from him his own equal mind,
And pass’d him for the Pylian shore to find
His long-lost father. In return from whence,
The wooers’ pride way-lays his innocence,
That of divine Arcesius all the race
May fade to Ithaca, and not the grace
Of any na
me left to it. But leave we
His state, however, if surpris’d he be,
Or if he ’scape. And may Saturnius’ hand
Protect him safely to his native land.
Do thou then, father, show your griefs, and cause
Of your arrival here; nor break the laws
That truth prescribes you, but relate your name,
And of what race you are, your father’s fame,
And native city’s; ship and men unfold,
That to this isle convey’d you, since I hold
Your here arrival was not all by shore,
Nor that your feet your aged person bore.’
He answer’d him: ‘I’ll tell all strictly true,
If time, and food, and wine enough, accrue
Within your roof to us, that freely we
May sit and banquet. Let your business be
Discharg’d by others; for, when all is done,
I cannot easily, while the year doth run
His circle round, run over all the woes,
Beneath which, by the course the gods dispose,
My sad age labours. First, I’ll tell you then,
From ample Crete I fetch my native strain;
My father wealthy, whose house many a life
Brought forth and bred besides by his true wife,
But me a bond-maid bore, his concubine.
Yet tender’d was I as his lawful line
By him of whose race I my life profess,
Castor his name, surnamed Hylacides –
A man, in fore-times, by the Cretan state,
For goods, good children, and his fortunate
Success in all acts, of no mean esteem.
But death-conferring fates have banish’d him
To Pluto’s kingdom. After whom, his sons
By lots divided his possessions,
And gave me passing little; yet bestow’d
A house on me, to which my virtues woo’d
A wife from rich men’s roofs; nor was borne low,
Nor last in fight, though all nerves fail me now.
But I suppose that you, by thus much seen,
Know by the stubble what the corn hath been.
For, past all doubt, affliction past all mean
Hath brought my age on; but, in seasons past,
Both Mars and Pallas have with boldness grac’d,
And fortitude, my fortunes, when I chus’d
Choice men for ambush, press’d to have produc’d
Ill to mine enemies; my too vent’rous spirit
Set never death before mine eyes, for merit,
But, far the first advanc’d still, still I strook
Dead with my lance whoever overtook
