by Homer
Perhaps some sacred godhead goes enclos’d
Even 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, pursu’d
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 Eurynome,’
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 every 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 Eumaeus call’d, and said:
‘Go, good Eumaeus, 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 unreverend 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 given a perfect end
To his relation of what woes did spend
The spite of fate on him; but as you see
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
Tired 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 ruins. 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 sneezings made a horrid sound;
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 sneezing brake
From my Telemachus? From whence I make
This sure conclusion: that the death and fate
Of every 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’ evening’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 shu
n
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
Eumaeus 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
Of whatsoever here the safeties are.’
This said, he sat in his elaborate throne.
Eumaeus (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 ev’n’s near-ending day.
The end of the seventeenth book
Book 18
The Argument
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.
Another Argument
Sigma
The beggar’s glee,
The king’s high fame.
Gifts giv’n to see
A virtuous dame.
Book 18
There came a common beggar to the court,
Who in the city begg’d of all resort,
Excell’d in madness of the gut, drunk, ate
Past intermission, was most hugely great,
Yet had no fibres in him nor no force,
In sight a man, in mind a living corse.
His true name was Arnaeus, for his mother
Impos’d it from his birth, and yet another
The city youth would give him (from the course
He after took, deriv’d out of the force
That need held on him, which was up and down
To run on all men’s errands through the town),
Which sounded Irus. When whose gut was come,
He needs would bar Ulysses his own home,
And fell to chiding him: ‘Old man,’ said he,
‘Your way out of the entry quickly see
Be with fair language taken, lest your stay
But little longer see you dragg’d away.
See, sir, observe you not how all these make
Direct signs at me, charging me to take
Your heels, and drag you out? But I take shame.
Rise yet, y’ are best, lest we two play a game
At cuffs together.’ He bent brows, and said:
‘Wretch! I do thee no ill, nor once upbraid
Thy presence with a word, nor, what mine eye
By all hands sees thee giv’n, one thought envy.
Nor shouldst thou envy others. Thou may’st see
The place will hold us both, and seem’st to me
A beggar like myself; which who can mend?
The gods give most to whom they least are friend.
The chief goods gods give, is in good to end.
But to the hands’ strife, of which y’ are so free,
Provoke me not, for fear you anger me,
And lest the old man, on whose scorn you stood,
Your lips and bosom make shake hands in blood.
I love my quiet well, and more will love
Tomorrow than to day. But if you move
My peace beyond my right, the war you make
Will never after give you will to take
Ulysses’ house into your begging walk.’
‘O gods,’ said he, ‘how volubly doth talk
This eating gulf! And how his fume breaks out,
As from an old crack’d ov’n! Whom I will clout
So bitterly, and so with both hands mall
His chaps together, that his teeth shall fall
As plain seen on the earth as any sow’s,
That ruts the cornfields, or devours the mows.
Come, close we now, that all may see what wrong
An old man tempts that takes at cuffs a young.’
Thus in the entry of those lofty tow’rs
These two, with all spleen, spent their jarring pow’rs.
Antinous took it, laugh’d, and said: ‘O friends,
We never had such sport! This guest contends
With this vast beggar at the buffets’ fight.
Come, join we hands, and screw up all their spite.’
All rose in laughters, and about them bore
All the ragg’d rout of beggars at the door.
Then moved Antinous the victor’s hire
To all the wooers thus: ‘There are now at fire
Two breasts of goat; both which let law set down
Before the man that wins the day’s renown,
With all their fat and gravy. And of both
The glorious victor shall prefer his tooth,
To which he makes his choice of, from us all,
And ever after banquet in our hall,
With what our boards yield; not a beggar more
Allow’d to share, but all keep out at door.’
This he proposed; and this they all approv’d.
To which Ulysses answer’d: ‘O most lov’d,
By no means should an old man, and one old
In chief with sorrows, be so over-bold
To combat with his younger; but, alas,
Man’s own-ill-working belly needs will pass
This work upon me, and enforce me, too,
To beat this fellow. But then, you must do
My age no wrong, to take my younger’s part,
And play me foul play, making your strokes’ smart
Help his to conquer; for you easily may
With your strengths crush me. Do then right, and lay
Your honours on it in your oaths, to yield
His part no aid, but equal leave the field.’
All swore his will. But then Telemachus
His father’s scoffs with comforts serious
Could not but answer, and made this reply:
‘Guest! If thine own pow’rs cheer thy victory,
Fear no man’s else that will not pass it free.
He fights with many that shall touch but thee.
I’ll see thy guest-right paid. Thou here art come
In my protection; and to this the sum
Of all these wooers (which Antinous are
And King Eurymachus) conjoin their care.’
Both vow’d it; when Ulysses, laying by
&nbs
p; His upper weed, his inner beggary
Near show’d his shame, which he with rags prevented
Pluck’d from about his thighs, and so presented
Their goodly sight, which were so white and great,
And his large shoulders were to view so set
By his bare rags, his arms, his breast and all,
So broad and brawny – their grace natural
Being kept by Pallas, ever standing near –
That all the wooers his admirers were
Beyond all measure, mutual whispers driv’n
Through all their cluster, saying: ‘Sure as heav’n
Poor Irus pull’d upon him bitter blows.
Through his thin garment what a thigh he shows!’
They said; but Irus felt. His coward mind
Was mov’d at root. But now he needs must find
Facts to his brags; and forth at all parts fit
The servants brought him, all his arteries smit
With fears and tremblings. Which Antinous saw,
And said: ‘Nay, now too late comes fear. No law
Thou shouldst at first have giv’n thy braggart vein,
Nor should it so have swell’d, if terrors strain
Thy spirits to this pass, for a man so old,
And worn with penuries that still lay hold
On his ragg’d person. Howsoever, take
This vow from me for firm: that if he make
Thy forces stoop, and prove his own supreme,
I’ll put thee in a ship, and down the stream
Send thee ashore where King Echetus reigns
(The roughest tyrant that the world contains),
And he will slit thy nostrils, crop each ear,
Thy shame cut off, and give it dogs to tear.’
This shook his nerves the more. But both were now
Brought to the lists, and up did either throw
His heavy fists – Ulysses in suspense,
To strike so home that he should fright from thence
His coward soul, his trunk laid prostrate there,
Or let him take more leisure to his fear,
And stoop him by degrees. The last show’d best,
To strike him slightly, out of fear the rest
Would else discover him. But, peace now broke,
On his right shoulder Irus laid his stroke.
Ulysses struck him just beneath the ear,
His jawbone broke, and made the blood appear;
When straight he strew’d the dust, and made his cry
Stand for himself; with whom his teeth did lie,
Spit with his blood out; and against the ground
