BOOK XXIV
ARGUMENT
Mercury conducts the souls of the suitors down to Ades. Ulysses discovers himself to Laertes, and quells, by the aid of Minerva, an insurrection of the people resenting the death of the suitors.
And now Cyllenian Hermes summon’d forth
The spirits of the suitors; waving wide
The golden wand of pow’r to seal all eyes
In slumber, and to ope them wide again,
He drove them gibb’ring down into the shades,
As when the bats within some hallow’d cave
Flit squeaking all around, for if but one
Fall from the rock, the rest all follow him,
In such connexion mutual they adhere,
So, after bounteous Mercury, the ghosts, 10
Troop’d downward gibb’ring all the dreary way.
The Ocean’s flood and the Leucadian rock,
The Sun’s gate also and the land of Dreams
They pass’d, whence, next, into the meads they came
Of Asphodel, by shadowy forms possess’d,
Simulars of the dead. They found the souls
Of brave Pelides there, and of his friend
Patroclus, of Antilochus renown’d,
And of the mightier Ajax, for his form
And bulk (Achilles sole except) of all 20
The sons of the Achaians most admired.
These waited on Achilles. Then, appear’d
The mournful ghost of Agamemnon, son
Of Atreus, compass’d by the ghosts of all
Who shared his fate beneath Ægisthus’ roof,
And him the ghost of Peleus’ son bespake.
Atrides! of all Heroes we esteem’d
Thee dearest to the Gods, for that thy sway
Extended over such a glorious host
At Ilium, scene of sorrow to the Greeks. 30
But Fate, whose ruthless force none may escape
Of all who breathe, pursued thee from the first.
Thou should’st have perish’d full of honour, full
Of royalty, at Troy; so all the Greeks
Had rais’d thy tomb, and thou hadst then bequeath’d
Great glory to thy son; but Fate ordain’d
A death, oh how deplorable! for thee.
To whom Atrides’ spirit thus replied.
Blest son of Peleus, semblance of the Gods,
At Ilium, far from Argos, fall’n! for whom 40
Contending, many a Trojan, many a Chief
Of Greece died also, while in eddies whelm’d
Of dust thy vastness spread the plain, nor thee
The chariot aught or steed could int’rest more!
All day we waged the battle, nor at last
Desisted, but for tempests sent from Jove.
At length we bore into the Greecian fleet
Thy body from the field; there, first, we cleansed
With tepid baths and oil’d thy shapely corse,
Then placed thee on thy bier, while many a Greek 50
Around thee wept, and shore his locks for thee.
Thy mother, also, hearing of thy death
With her immortal nymphs from the abyss
Arose and came; terrible was the sound
On the salt flood; a panic seized the Greeks,
And ev’ry warrior had return’d on board
That moment, had not Nestor, ancient Chief,
Illumed by long experience, interposed,
His counsels, ever wisest, wisest proved
Then also, and he thus address’d the host. 60
Sons of Achaia; fly not; stay, ye Greeks!
Thetis arrives with her immortal nymphs
From the abyss, to visit her dead son.
So he; and, by his admonition stay’d,
The Greeks fled not. Then, all around thee stood
The daughters of the Ancient of the Deep,
Mourning disconsolate; with heav’nly robes
They clothed thy corse, and all the Muses nine
Deplored thee in full choir with sweetest tones
Responsive, nor one Greecian hadst thou seen 70
Dry-eyed, such grief the Muses moved in all.
Full sev’nteen days we, day and night, deplored
Thy death, both Gods in heav’n and men below,
But, on the eighteenth day, we gave thy corse
Its burning, and fat sheep around thee slew
Num’rous, with many a pastur’d ox moon-horn’d.
We burn’d thee clothed in vesture of the Gods,
With honey and with oil feeding the flames
Abundant, while Achaia’s Heroes arm’d,
Both horse and foot, encompassing thy pile, 80
Clash’d on their shields, and deaf’ning was the din.
But when the fires of Vulcan had at length
Consumed thee, at the dawn we stored thy bones
In unguent and in undiluted wine;
For Thetis gave to us a golden vase
Twin-ear’d, which she profess’d to have received
From Bacchus, work divine of Vulcan’s hand.
Within that vase, Achilles, treasured lie
Thine and the bones of thy departed friend
Patroclus, but a sep’rate urn we gave 90
To those of brave Antilochus, who most
Of all thy friends at Ilium shared thy love
And thy respect, thy friend Patroclus slain.
Around both urns we piled a noble tomb,
(We warriors of the sacred Argive host)
On a tall promontory shooting far
Into the spacious Hellespont, that all
Who live, and who shall yet be born, may view
Thy record, even from the distant waves.
Then, by permission from the Gods obtain’d, 100
To the Achaian Chiefs in circus met
Thetis appointed games. I have beheld
The burial rites of many an Hero bold,
When, on the death of some great Chief, the youths
Girding their loins anticipate the prize,
But sight of those with wonder fill’d me most,
So glorious past all others were the games
By silver-footed Thetis giv’n for thee,
For thou wast ever favour’d of the Gods.
Thus, hast thou not, Achilles! although dead, 110
Foregone thy glory, but thy fair report
Is universal among all mankind;
But, as for me, what recompense had I,
My warfare closed? for whom, at my return,
Jove framed such dire destruction by the hands
Of fell Ægisthus and my murth’ress wife.
Thus, mutual, they conferr’d; meantime approach’d,
Swift messenger of heav’n, the Argicide,
Conducting thither all the shades of those
Slain by Ulysses. At that sight amazed 120
Both moved toward them. Agamemnon’s shade
Knew well Amphimedon, for he had been
Erewhile his father’s guest in Ithaca,
And thus the spirit of Atreus’ son began.
Amphimedon! by what disastrous chance,
Coœvals as ye seem, and of an air
Distinguish’d all, descend ye to the Deeps?
For not the chosen youths of a whole town
Should form a nobler band. Perish’d ye sunk
Amid vast billows and rude tempests raised 130
By Neptune’s pow’r? or on dry land through force
Of hostile multitudes, while cutting off
Beeves from the herd, or driving flocks away?
Or fighting for your city and your wives?
Resolve me? I was once a guest of yours.
Remember’st not what time at your abode
With godlike Menelaus I arrived,
That we might win Ulysses with his fleet
To follow us to Troy? scarce we prevail’d
At last to gain the city-waster Chief, 140
And, after all, consumed a whole month more
The wide sea traversing from side to side.
To whom the spirit of Amphimedon.
Illustrious Agamemnon, King of men!
All this I bear in mind, and will rehearse
The manner of our most disastrous end.
Believing brave Ulysses lost, we woo’d
Meantime his wife; she our detested suit
Would neither ratify nor yet refuse,
But, planning for us a tremendous death, 150
This novel stratagem, at last, devised.
Beginning, in her own recess, a web
Of slend’rest thread, and of a length and breadth
Unusual, thus the suitors she address’d.
Princes, my suitors! since the noble Chief
Ulysses is no more, enforce not yet
My nuptials; wait till I shall finish first
A fun’ral robe (lest all my threads decay)
Which for the ancient Hero I prepare,
Laertes, looking for the mournful hour 160
When fate shall snatch him to eternal rest;
Else, I the censure dread of all my sex,
Should he so wealthy, want at last a shroud.
So spake the Queen; we, unsuspicious all,
With her request complied. Thenceforth, all day
She wove the ample web, and by the aid
Of torches ravell’d it again at night.
Three years she thus by artifice our suit
Eluded safe, but when the fourth arrived,
And the same season, after many moons 170
And fleeting days, return’d, a damsel then
Of her attendants, conscious of the fraud,
Reveal’d it, and we found her pulling loose
The splendid web. Thus, through constraint, at length,
She finish’d it, and in her own despight.
But when the Queen produced, at length, her work
Finish’d, new-blanch’d, bright as the sun or moon,
Then came Ulysses, by some adverse God
Conducted, to a cottage on the verge
Of his own fields, in which his swine-herd dwells; 180
There also the illustrious Hero’s son
Arrived soon after, in his sable bark
From sandy Pylus borne; they, plotting both
A dreadful death for all the suitors, sought
Our glorious city, but Ulysses last,
And first Telemachus. The father came
Conducted by his swine-herd, and attired
In tatters foul; a mendicant he seem’d,
Time-worn, and halted on a staff. So clad,
And ent’ring on the sudden, he escaped 190
All knowledge even of our eldest there,
And we reviled and smote him; he although
Beneath his own roof smitten and reproach’d,
With patience suffer’d it awhile, but roused
By inspiration of Jove Ægis-arm’d
At length, in concert with his son convey’d
To his own chamber his resplendent arms,
There lodg’d them safe, and barr’d the massy doors
Then, in his subtlety he bade the Queen
A contest institute with bow and rings 200
Between the hapless suitors, whence ensued
Slaughter to all. No suitor there had pow’r
To overcome the stubborn bow that mock’d
All our attempts; and when the weapon huge
At length was offer’d to Ulysses’ hands,
With clamour’d menaces we bade the swain
Withhold it from him, plead he as he might;
Telemachus alone with loud command,
Bade give it him, and the illustrious Chief
Receiving in his hand the bow, with ease 210
Bent it, and sped a shaft through all the rings.
Then, springing to the portal steps, he pour’d
The arrows forth, peer’d terrible around,
Pierced King Antinoüs, and, aiming sure
His deadly darts, pierced others after him,
Till in one common carnage heap’d we lay.
Some God, as plain appear’d, vouchsafed them aid,
Such ardour urged them, and with such dispatch
They slew us on all sides; hideous were heard
The groans of dying men fell’d to the earth 220
With head-strokes rude, and the floor swam with blood.
Such, royal Agamemnon! was the fate
By which we perish’d, all whose bodies lie
Unburied still, and in Ulysses’ house,
For tidings none have yet our friends alarm’d
And kindred, who might cleanse from sable gore
Our clotted wounds, and mourn us on the bier,
Which are the rightful privilege of the dead.
Him answer’d, then, the shade of Atreus’ son.
Oh happy offspring of Laertes! shrewd 230
Ulysses! matchless valour thou hast shewn
Recov’ring thus thy wife; nor less appears
The virtue of Icarius’ daughter wise,
The chaste Penelope, so faithful found
To her Ulysses, husband of her youth.
His glory, by superior merit earn’d,
Shall never die, and the immortal Gods
Shall make Penelope a theme of song
Delightful in the ears of all mankind.
Not such was Clytemnestra, daughter vile 240
Of Tyndarus; she shed her husband’s blood,
And shall be chronicled in song a wife
Of hateful memory, by whose offence
Even the virtuous of her sex are shamed.
Thus they, beneath the vaulted roof obscure
Of Pluto’s house, conferring mutual stood.
Meantime, descending from the city-gates,
Ulysses, by his son and by his swains
Follow’d, arrived at the delightful farm
Which old Laertes had with strenuous toil 250
Himself long since acquired. There stood his house
Encompass’d by a bow’r in which the hinds
Who served and pleased him, ate, and sat, and slept.
An ancient woman, a Sicilian, dwelt
There also, who in that sequester’d spot
Attended diligent her aged Lord.
Then thus Ulysses to his followers spake.
Haste now, and, ent’ring, slay ye of the swine
The best for our regale; myself, the while,
Will prove my father, if his eye hath still 260
Discernment of me, or if absence long
Have worn the knowledge of me from his mind.
He said, and gave into his servants’ care
His arms; they swift proceeded to the house,
And to the fruitful grove himself as swift
To prove his father. Down he went at once
Into the spacious garden-plot, but found
Nor Dolius there, nor any of his sons
Or servants; they were occupied elsewhere,
And, with the ancient hind himself, employ’d 270
Collecting thorns with which to fence the grove.
In that umbrageous spot he found alone
Laertes, with his hoe clearing a plant;
Sordid his tunic was, with many a patch
Mended unseemly; leathern were his greaves,
Thong-tied and also patch’d, a frail defence
Against sharp thorns, while gloves secured his hands
From briar-points, and on his head he bore
A goat-skin casque, nourishing hopeless woe.
No sooner then the Hero toil-inured 280
Saw him age-worn and wretched, than he paused
Beneath a lofty pear-tree’s shade to weep.
There standing much he mused, whether, at once,
Kissing and clasping in
his arms his sire,
To tell him all, by what means he had reach’d
His native country, or to prove him first.
At length, he chose as his best course, with words
Of seeming strangeness to accost his ear,
And, with that purpose, moved direct toward him.
He, stooping low, loosen’d the earth around 290
A garden-plant, when his illustrious son
Now, standing close beside him, thus began.
Old sir! thou art no novice in these toils
Of culture, but thy garden thrives; I mark
In all thy ground no plant, fig, olive, vine,
Pear-tree or flow’r-bed suff’ring through neglect.
But let it not offend thee if I say
That thou neglect’st thyself, at the same time
Oppress’d with age, sun-parch’d and ill-attired.
Not for thy inactivity, methinks, 300
Thy master slights thee thus, nor speaks thy form
Or thy surpassing stature servile aught
In thee, but thou resemblest more a King.
Yes — thou resemblest one who, bathed and fed,
Should softly sleep; such is the claim of age.
But tell me true — for whom labourest thou,
And whose this garden? answer me beside,
For I would learn; have I indeed arrived
In Ithaca, as one whom here I met
Ev’n now assured me, but who seem’d a man 310
Not overwise, refusing both to hear
My questions, and to answer when I ask’d
Concerning one in other days my guest
And friend, if he have still his being here,
Or have deceas’d and journey’d to the shades.
For I will tell thee; therefore mark. Long since
A stranger reach’d my house in my own land,
Whom I with hospitality receiv’d,
Nor ever sojourn’d foreigner with me
Whom I lov’d more. He was by birth, he said, 320
Ithacan, and Laertes claim’d his sire,
Son of Arcesias. Introducing him
Beneath my roof, I entertain’d him well,
And proved by gifts his welcome at my board.
I gave him seven talents of wrought gold,
A goblet, argent all, with flow’rs emboss’d,
Twelve single cloaks, twelve carpets, mantles twelve
Of brightest lustre, with as many vests,
And added four fair damsels, whom he chose
Himself, well born and well accomplish’d all. 330
Then thus his ancient sire weeping replied.
Stranger! thou hast in truth attain’d the isle
Of thy enquiry, but it is possess’d
By a rude race, and lawless. Vain, alas!
Were all thy num’rous gifts; yet hadst thou found
Him living here in Ithaca, with gifts
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 187
