Book XIII

THROUGH the shadowy halls all round was a hush—none murmured or stirred;
And they sat as in trance, spell-bound by the charm of the tale that they heard,
Till the voice of Alcinous woke, and across the silence he cried:
‘Odysseus, now thou art come to my palace of brass-built pride,
My high-roofed hall, I trow thou shalt win to thine home at last,
Nor stray from the track any more, for all thy woes overpast.
But now let each of the princes obey this hest of mine,
All ye in mine halls that quaff the chieftains’ flame-flushed wine,
And list to the minstrel’s voice, and are merry of cheer evermore:
Lo now, in the polished chest hath the stranger goodly store
Of raiment and rich-wrought gold, and many a gift of price
Hitherward brought by Phaeacian princes in council wise.
Come then, let us give him a caldron and tripod every one:
And we from the folk will gather, and so for our loss will atone;
For ’tis hard when the weight of the welcoming falleth on one alone.’
So did Alcinous say, and the others were well content;
And away to their own homes they to their rest through the darkness went.
When the fingers rosy-red of the Dawn unveiled the day,
Down to the galley they sped, and the glorious brass brought they:
And Alcinous’ sacred might went over the galley then;
And beneath the girders aright he stowed them, lest haply the men
Should be hindered thereby on the way as they plied the ashen blade.
Then back to the halls went they, and there was the banquet arrayed.
Then Alcinous’ sacred might offered up a stately bull
Unto him that dwelleth in night of clouds, and o’er all doth rule.
And when they had burnt the thighs, they turned to the banquet of wine;
And then did the hall-glee rise, and sang the minstrel divine,
Demodocus, honoured high:—but Odysseus was ever turning
His head unto where in the sky the sun hung glory-burning,
Languishing aye for the night, for he longed, for he longed to return.
And even as a toil-weary wight for the hour of his supper doth yearn,
Whose steers all day have been dragging the share through the furrows brown,
And joyful is he when the lagging sun is at last gone down,
And to supper at last he may go, and his hurrying feet seem slow;
So was Odysseus sore rejoiced to behold that sign;
And straightway he spoke to the oar-loving folk, the sons of the brine:
And chief to the king did he cry, and an eager word he spoke:
‘Lord King Alcinous, high-renowned among all earth-folk,
Pour oblations and send me away in peace; and ye, farewell;
For now are accomplished the things for the which my heart hath been yearning,
Home-speeding and loving gifts; may the Gods in the heavens that dwell
Bless them to me; my wife unstained may I find in returning,
In my home, and my friends well-faring and living sorrowless lives;
And may ye that I leave behind deal bliss to your children and wives;
Whatsoever things be the best may the Gods bestow on you all;
May they grant that nothing of harm may e’er to the nation befall.’
So as he spake, all they commended it, giving advice
To send the stranger away, since the word he had uttered was wise.
And then to the henchman spoke the lord of Phaeacia’s folk:
‘Pontonous, mingle the bowl, and bear of the wine once more
To each several guest, that Zeus Allfather we now may implore,
And so may send the stranger away to his fatherland-shore.’
So the honey-heart wine was crowned; and the henchman, to each drawing nigh,
Bare to the guests all round, and they poured to the Gods on high;
From their seats to the Blessed they poured that abide in the Heaven-dome broad.
But rose and stood by the board Odysseus like to a god.
And the double-chalice cup did he place her hands between,
As the hero lifted up his voice, and spake to the queen:
‘O Queen, farewell; be happiness thine evermore till thou come
Unto eld and a sunset-glorious threshold of all men’s home.
And now must I go, but have thou joy in bower and at board,
Encompassed with praise of the people, and love of thy children and lord.’
Then over the threshold went Odysseus the godlike wight;
And with him a herald was sent by Alcinous’ sacred might,
To lead to the way to the strand, where the swift ship rode by the sea;
And there went, by Arete’s command, along with him handmaids three;
And the first a fair white vest and a flowing mantle bare;
And the second brought on the chest strong-wrought, with the treasures there;
And the third of the maidens bore the bread and the rose-flushed wine.
So when they were come to the shore and the dash of the hoary brine,
The crew of the galley straight received of the maidens their load,
And the precious treasure-freight and the victual below they stowed;
And they made for Odysseus a bed on the deck-planks needfully;
Carpets and linen they spread, that his rest unbroken might be.
Then aboard did the hero go, and silently down he lay:
And along the thwarts arow all orderly ranged were they;
And the hawser loose they cast from the stone wherethrough it was passed;
And they bent to the stroke, and they tore the white surf up with the oar.
Then the dews of a dreamless sleep o’er his weariful eyelids streamed;
Most sweet, unbroken and deep, and likest to death it seemed.
And, as all together dash four stallions over the plains
At the touch of the whistling lash, at the toss of the glancing reins,
And they bound through the air, and they fly, as upborne on the wings of the wind,
So was the stern tossed high as the good ship leapt, and behind
Rushing the dark wave sped of the manifold-roaring sea;
And unswervingly onward she fled: so swiftly, so surely went she,
Not the falcon could match her, whose flight is the fleetest of all things that fly,
So fast did she cleave and so light she rode over the waves tossing high,
As onward the hero she bore who in wisdom was like to a god,
Who had suffered affliction before, heart-troubles, a weariful load,
In battles of warring men, and on waves of the troublous sea:
Yet peaceful slept he then, from their very remembrance free.
Now overhead hung the bright broad star, forerunner of morn,
The chief of the heralds of light, ere breaks from her mist-bed the Dawn;
And now was the galley come nigh to the wave-washed Ithacan shore.
Now a certain haven doth lie,—’tis of Phorcys the sea-god hoar,—
On Ithaca’s coast, and thereby are cliffs upon either side,
Seaward-jutting and high, and they couch by the guarded tide;
And they shelter the smooth-swelling wave from the winds that bluster and rave;
But the well-benched galleys within the sheer rock-rampart may ride
Unanchored; if once they win to the harbour, secure they abide.
By the wash of the innermost wave is an olive, a silvery cloud;
And thereby is a lovely cave which the cool deep shadows shroud.
And the place is a hallowed spot to the Nymphs of the fountain-stream;
And pitchers and bowls through the grot in living marble gleam;
And the bees build there, and their wings make the air as a murmurous dream.
And looms exceeding tall of stone for the Nymphs are there,
And thereon do they weave the pall sea-purple, wondrous fair.
And fountains are there everflowing; and two doors lead thenceforth,
The one is for men’s downgoing, and faceth the sunless north;
But the other, a track whereupon no man’s foot ever hath trod,
Light-paved by the noonday sun, lieth fair for the feet of a God.
So there did they speed to the land in the twilight, the land that they knew;
And the galley high on the strand the half of her keel’s length threw,
So good were the oarsman-band before whose strokes she flew.
Then down did the shipmen leap from the gallant keel to the shore;
And out of the well-girt ship the slumbering hero they bore
With his bed; for to linen and gay bright rugs did they set their hands;
And softly there did they lay him, by sleep overborne, on the sands.
And they brought the shining store that the sea-kings gave, ere he parted
To go to his fatherland-shore, through Athene the mighty-hearted.
And the goodly-gleaming array did they range ’neath an olive-tree,
Aloof from the trodden way, lest any should pass and see,
And the precious treasure steal, or ever Odysseus woke.
Then for home did they launch the keel, and flashed the long swift stroke.
But Poseidon, the Earthshaker dread, remembered his threatenings still
That he hurled at Odysseus’ head; and he asked of the Thunderer’s will:
‘Allfather, where shall my worship be found mid the Deathless in heaven,
I, unto whom by the deathlings honour no more is given,
I, whom the Phaeacians flout, men sprung of mine own high strain?
For in sooth I said that Odysseus should suffer manifold pain
Ere he came to his home; yet I thought not wholly to take away
His return, since first thou hadst sworn and promised his home-coming day.
But over the sea have they borne him lapped in slumber’s fold,
And have set him in Ithaca safe, and have given him gifts untold,
Marvels of woven raiment, and stores of brass and of gold,
More than Odysseus from Ilium ever had carried away,
Scatheless had he come thence with his own full share of the prey.’
Answering spake to the Lord of the sea-tide Zeus, Cloud-king:
‘O mighty Shaker of Earth, that thou shouldest say this thing!
How should the Dwellers in Heaven do dishonour to thee,
To thee, the eldest and noblest of all in Olympus that be?
But if any of men, puffed up with his strength, and in pride of his might,
Denieth thee worship, such deeds evermore is it thine to requite:
Deal with them even as thy heart doth command, and as seemeth thee right.’
Then vengeance-athirst the Shaker of Earth cried sternly aloud:
‘Soon would I do as thou sayest, O shrouded in darkness of cloud;
But ever I stand in fear of thee, and in dread of thy wrath.
Lo, now am I fain to smite amidst of her homeward path
Out on the misty sea the fair Phaeacian ship;
And never again shall they speed any stranger over the deep,
When a monstrous hill hath o’ershadowed their town with its measureless heap.’
Answered the Herder of Clouds, and the Shaker of Earth addressed:
‘O loved of my soul, unto mine heart thus doth it seem to be best:
When all the folk of the city are watching it nearing the strand,
Be it straightway transformed to a rock and riveted nigh to the land,
Still in a swift ship’s likeness, and so shall they marvel all;
And the shroud of a mighty mountain about their city shall fall.’
So when the Earth-shaker dread had heard Allfather’s decree,
Swift to Phaeacia he sped, to the people that dwell by the sea.
There did Poseidon bide, and fleetly the galley flew
Standing in from the outsea wide; but the Earth-shaker nigh to her drew,
And with flat hand striking he smote her, and turned the ship to a stone,—
And rooted her there to the spot,—and behold, the God was gone.
But the people beheld from the shore, and each unto other cried
The folk that deal with the oar and the galley, the sea-king’s pride;
And each ’gan shout, as he turned him about unto those at his side:
‘O look!—the galley!—now who hath fettered her there in the sea,
Even as she stood in shoreward, and full in sight was she?’
But they knew not the thing that was done, and in wildered amaze each spoke;
Till the old king looked thereon, and he cried in the midst of the folk;
‘O, now to me cometh a long-spoken prophecy heard from the lips
Of my sire, how Poseidon, angered against us because of our ships,
Which bear all comers unscathed to the haven wherein they would be,
Would smite a galley of ours one day in the misty sea,
As it homeward returned from some such errand across the deep,
And a monstrous hill should o’ershadow our town with its measure-less heap.
So ran the greybeard’s tale; the fulfilment is on us this day!
But come now, as I shall command, let all the people obey:
Refrain ye from this home-speeding of whatso mortals shall come
To our city, and offer the Sea-God a chosen hecatomb,
Twelve bulls; if so be he will lay his fierceness of anger down,
And the mountain uplift not its measureless height for a shroud of our town.’
He spake, and their souls were afraid, and they hasted the sacrifice:
And so to Poseidon they prayed, and the altar-smoke ’gan rise
From the midst of Phaeacia’s folk, and her captains and lords of renown.
And Odysseus the godlike woke where asleep they had laid him down.
In the land of his fathers he lay, yet strange did it seem unto him,
Who had long dwelt far away; and a mist-veil’s glamour dim
Did Athene around him shed, that the hero might seem as a stranger,
And a timely word be said of the Goddess, a warning of danger,
That his wife might know him not, nor his friends, nor the citizens,
Till the hero’s hands should have wrought for the suitors a recompense.
So to him did all things seem far other than so as they were,
The pathways’ far white gleam, and the havens opening fair,
And the towering crags and steep, and the woodland’s billows of green;
And straight to his feet did he leap, and he wailed as he stared at the scene,—
For he knew not his fatherland,—and he smote upon either thigh
In his grief with a passionate hand, and he cried with a bitter cry:
‘Ah me, what land is this? amidst what people am I?
Are they savage and ruthless men, a justice-scorning kind,
Or a guest-loving folk, that beareth the fear of the Gods in mind?
O where shall I store my treasures, and where shall my footsteps stray?
Ah to have tarried amidst the Phaeacians far away!
Then to another king, some strong war-lord, had I come,
Who had given me kindly welcome, and safely had sped me home.
But now do I know not where I may hide my treasures away;
Yet I may not leave them here, lest others should make them a prey.
Shame on the captains and lords of Phaeacia’s folk, for in sooth
Nor wisdom nor justice they know, nor the sacred lips of truth!
To an alien land have they borne me, who promised over the main
To bear me to Ithaca’s sun-glow strand—their promise was vain!
May the God of the suppliant requite them, Zeus Allfather, whose ken
Comprehendeth all, and who dealeth his vengeance on sins of men!
Go to, let me count my possessions, and see if aught hath been taken
By them whose hollow galley hath left me here forsaken.’
He spake, and he numbered them o’er, the bowls, fair gifts of kings,
The tripods, the golden store, and the lovely woven things.
And there lacked not one to his hand: but then for his home mourned he,
Creeping along the strand of the manifold-seething sea,
With moanings many and sore: but Athene drew nigh unto him,
And the form of a youth she bore, as a shepherd of sheep did she seem;
And as king’s sons wont to be was she tender and sweet to behold,
And a well-woven cloak bare she on her shoulders in fold over fold;
And sandals gleamed on her bright smooth feet, and a javelin she bare.
And Odysseus was fain of the sight, and he went to meet her there;
And he lifted his voice, and sped the light-winged words, and he said:
‘O friend, for that thou art the first that I hap in this place to find,
All hail unto thee; and approach me not with an evil mind!
Nay, save these things and me: lo, I put up my prayer unto thee,
As a man doth pray to a God; and a suppliant I bow at thy knee.
Now answer me soothly this, to the end I may know it well,—
What land is this, and who be the people therein that dwell?
Is it a far-seen isle, or a beach of the mainland shore
Whose deep rich meads slope down to the sea-waves’ ceaseless roar?’
Then did Athene the grey-eyed answer the hero and say:
‘Witless thou art, O stranger, or comest from far away,
That thou askest of this land’s name: it is not thus nameless, I trow,
Nor fameless, this land whereof full many a man doth know,
Even all that dwell in the Dawn-land beneath the sun’s bright way,
And all that be far-withdrawn to the west, and the mist-land grey.
It is rugged enow; no place where the car-borne heroes ride:
Yet the land is good, but from sea unto sea is it nowise wide.
And wealth of corn untold and of wine thereto is given;
Nor ever the rain fails there, nor the nourishing dew of heaven;
And the goat-kind thrive and the kine increase therein, and there grow
All manner of trees of the wood, and the fountains stintless flow.
Stranger, Ithaca’s name hath reached to the Trojan land,
Though far away it lieth, they say, from Achaia’s strand.’
So spake she; and fain of the word was Odysseus the worn with toil,
And was merry in that he heard that this was his fatherland-soil,
As Pallas Athene said, the child of the Aegis-lord;
And he lifted his voice, and sped from his lips the light-winged word;
Yet he spake the thing that was not, and he turned it in soothless wise,
For ever his crafty thought would be shaping him helpful lies:
‘Ithaca—yea, I have heard of it even in Crete the wide,
Far overseas; and now myself have hitherward hied
With this wealth, yea and as much with my children doth yet remain:
Thence fled I, because that Idomeneus’ well-loved son I had slain—
Orsilochus swift of foot, the man that in all wide Crete
Was the best of the sons of the land in the speed of his flying feet—
Because he would fain have robbed me of all my Trojan spoil
That I won with travail of spirit and manifold sorest toil,
As whiles I battled with heroes, and whiles with the troublous sea,
Because that I would not stoop me his father’s henchman to be
In the land of Troy, but was chief over comrades that followed me.
As homeward he hied from the field I lay in wait by the way
With a comrade, and hurled the spear; and dead on the earth he lay.
And the pall of the black dark night was drawn over heaven, and none
Saw us, and ere he was ware the deed of mine hand was done.
So when I had slain my foe with the brazen spear’s sharp stroke,
Seaward I went, to a ship of the haughty Phoenician folk.
And I prayed them, and gave them as much as they would of my booty-store
And bade them bear me away and land me on Pylos’ shore,
Or in Elis the sacred, wherein the Epeian men bear sway;
But in sooth the might of the wind from that coast drave them away.
They meant not to cheat me, but sorely loth, in their own despite
Thence were they drifted and wandered, and hither we came in the night;
And into the haven with toil we rowed, and none took heed
Of supper, so faint were we, though sore was the body’s need;
But even as we landed, down on the strand did we drop and lie;
And sweet sleep came on me there, for that all for wearied was I.
And all my possessions out of the hollow ship took they,
And they laid them down beside me where on the sands I lay;
And they boarded the ship, and to Sidon the fair-built city departed.
But I, I was left alone, forlorn and heavy-hearted.’
But a light smile-ripple ran o’er her lips, and her grey eyes gleamed.
With her hand she caressed the man; and lo, as a woman she seemed,
As a woman stately and fair, and in lovely loom-work skilled;
And she lifted her voice, and there through his heart her winged words thrilled:
‘O shrewd would he be and a crafty knave, who would outwit thee
In manifold wiles, though a God should meet thee in rivalry!
O shiftful, insatiate of guile, it was not in thee to refrain
From deceit, not though thou wast come to thy fatherland-soil again;
And to part from cheating words, thine old tried friends, art thou loth;—
Come, talk we thus no longer, for cunning of heart are we both,
Seeing that thou art the best of all men on earth that be found,
In weaving of counsel and word-weft, and I mid the Gods am renowned
In wisdom and helpful craft; but thou, thou didst not know
Pallas Athene, the daughter of Zeus, who am wont to go
Ever beside thee in toil and in danger to aid and defend:
Yea, and ’twas I unto all the Phaeacians who made thee a friend.
Now too am I hitherward come with intent to weave with thee
A counsel-web, and to hide the wealth that the folk of the sea
Gave thee when homeward thou wentest,—’twas I that moved them thereto,—
And to tell thee all the woes that thy weird must bring thee through
In thy fair-built halls. Thou canst not escape them; be strong to bear.
But to no one of all, not of men nor of women, do thou declare
How that back thou hast wandered; but silently suffer thy manifold pain,
And stoop ’neath the outrage of men, and a little from vengeance refrain.’
And Odysseus the manifold-counselled made answer to her in turn:
‘Goddess, ’tis hard for the mortal that meeteth thee, thee to discern,
Be he never so wise, for that every shape canst thou take upon thee.
But this thing well I know, that of old thou wert gracious to me,
What time the Achaeans’ sons in Troy-land wont to fight.
But when we had wasted the city of Priam, the town high-pight,
And went in the ships, and a God’s wrath scattered the war-host wide,
Never thereafter beheld I the Daughter of Zeus, nor espied
Thee setting foot on my ship to defend me from trouble and bane;
But, bearing within me ever a heart sore smitten with pain,
I wandered on, till the Gods from my evils set me free,
Till in the Phaeacians’ goodly land thou earnest to me
With words of cheer, and into the city thyself didst bring.
But now by thy Sire I beseech thee,—for sorely I doubt this thing,
That in deed and in truth I am come unto far-seen Ithaca,—nay,
I am yet in another land; and I ween that thou dost say
All this but to mock me, and cheat my heart with a phantom of home,—
Oh tell me if I to the dear-loved land of my fathers am come.’
Answering spake unto him the grey-eyed Goddess divine:
‘Ay, even so evermore is the thought in that bosom of thine.
Therefore I cannot forsake thee, how burdened soever with ill,
For that words never fail thee nor wit, and thou holdest the reins of thy will.
Now any man else, who had come from wandering, joyfully
Had rushed, the faces of children and wife in his halls to see.
But thou carest not to know nor enquire of these, until
Of thy wife thou hast made sure trial: she verily sitteth still
Alone in thine halls, and misery-haunted weareth away
In tears and in sickness of hope deferred her night and her day.
Now this thing never I doubted, but held my confidence fast,
That, though thy companions were lost, yet thou wouldst return at the last.
But against Poseidon, my father’s brother, loth was I to fight.
Against thee in his heart had he laid up a store of rancour and spite,
Being wroth that his well-loved son thou didst of sight bereave.
Go to, I will show thee thine Ithacan home, that thou mayest believe.
This is the haven of Phorcys, the Ancient of the Sea;
And lo at the head of the haven the spreading olive-tree;
And hard thereby is the lovely cave where the cool shadows cling,
A sacred haunt of the Nymphs that hight the Maids of the Spring;
And here is the vaulted cavern whereunto thou usedst to come
And offer the Nymphs full many a perfect hecatomb;
And this is the mountain Neritus, mantled with forest gloom.’
So speaking the Goddess dispelled the mist, and the landskip was seen.
Right glad at the thing he beheld was the toil-worn hero, I ween;
And he joyed to look on his land, and he kissed the kind earth there;
And he lifted the suppliant hand, and put up to the Nymphs his prayer:
‘Nymphs of the well-spring, daughters of Zeus, I had thought till now
That I never should see you again; but now with loving vow
I hail you; yea, and your gifts, as in days overpast, will I give,
If the Prey-giver, daughter of Zeus, of her grace will grant me to live,
And foster my dear-loved son, in his father’s steps to tread.’
Answering him the grey-eyed Goddess Athene said:
‘Be thou of good cheer, let this in thy spirit trouble thee not:
But straightway now in a cleft far back in the mighty grot
Let us store thy treasures, safely there for a while to abide;
Then take we counsel so that the best may hereafter betide.’
So speaking she entered the grot, the vast dim-shadowed cave;
There hiding-places she sought, and Odysseus bare and gave
To her hand his treasures all, gold, brass with flawless gleam,
And lovely-woven pall, that the sea-kings gave unto him.
And these she wisely stored; and a stone on the cave’s mouth laid
The child of the Aegis-lord, Athene the warrior-maid.
Then they twain sat them beside the sacred olive’s root,
And devised how the suitors’ pride should bear to them death for fruit.
And thus the grey-eyed Goddess Athene began her rede:
‘O Zeus and Laertes’ seed, Odysseus shiftful at need,
Think how thou mayst lay thine hands on the shameless suitors at last,
Who have lorded it over thy palace now these three years past,
And are wooing thy wife, and are fain with their gifts to win her grace;
But ever her heart is aching sorely for sight of thy face;
And she leadeth on all to hope, and message on message hath sent,
Promising this man and that; yet other is her intent.’
Made answer to her the manifold-counselled Odysseus, and cried:
‘Lo now! and in very sooth as the son of Atreus died,
So was I like in my palace by evil fate to fall,
Except thou, Goddess, hadst shown me the truth and hadst warned me of all.
Come, weave me some counsel, whereby to requite them after their deed;
And stand thou by me, and dauntless spirit breathe for my need,
As thou didst when we rent Troy’s glittering battlement-veil away.
Ah wouldst thou stand by me so, Grey-eyed, in the coming day!
Yea, Goddess, three hundred men would I in battle abide,
If thou of thy grace wouldst aid, in thy might wouldst stand by my side.’
Unto him made answer the Goddess, Athene the grey-eyed spake:
‘Yea, I will surely be with thee, of thee good heed will I take,
What time we set hand to the work; and I ween that with brains and gore
Shall many a man bespatter thy great hall’s mighty floor,
Many a suitor, devourer of substance not his own.
But now will I make thee to be unto all that shall see thee unknown;
I will wrinkle the beautiful skin that wrappeth thy limbs about,
And destroy thy golden hair from thine head, and cast such a clout
O’er thy shoulders that whoso beholdeth shall loathe the wretch that doth wear,
And those thine eyes will I blear that erst were passing-fair,
To make thee appear in unseemly guise to the suitors all,
Yea, to thy wife, and the son thou didst leave in thy palace-hall.
But thou, first go to thine herder of swine that abideth afield,
And, as in the days gone by, unto thee is loyal-willed,
And thy son and thy wife Penelope wise of heart doth he love.
Thou shalt find him abiding beside thy swine, where feedeth the drove
By the Raven’s Rock and the spring Arethusa’s mossy brink;
And they eat the abundant mast, and the shadow-gloomed water they drink,
Such food as maketh the swine well-liking and goodly-grown.
There tarry at hand, and inquire, and all things so shall be known,
Till to Sparta the city of beautiful women myself shall have gone,
To call Telemachus thence, thy well-beloved son,
Who hath hied him to wide Lacedaemon to ask after tidings of thee,
If perchance Menelaus can tell him if anywhere living thou be.’
Spake unto her many-counselled Odysseus answering:
‘But wherefore didst thou not tell him, who knowest everything?
Was it only to cause him to roam the salt sea’s harvestless floods,
Suffering toil and pain, while others devour his goods?’
Made answer the Goddess to him, and Athene the grey-eyed spake:
‘Nay, but thou needest not, thou, to disquiet thine heart for his sake.
Thither I brought him myself, that goodly renown he might win
Of his journey: no trouble hath he, but Atreides’ palace within
He sitteth at quiet, and measureless plenty before him is laid.
But his foes with a long black galley are lurking in ambuscade,
Thinking to slay him, ere back to his fatherland-soil he be come;
But I ween it shall not so fall, or ever the grave hold some,
Even some of the suitors, of them that devour thy goods in thine home.’
When the Goddess had ended her say, with her wand she touched the man;
And the fair smooth skin straightway on his limbs into wrinkles ran;
And she ruined the golden glory of hair from his goodly head;
And the shrivelled skin of a hoary sire o’er his limbs she spread;
And his eyes, so bright erewhile, she bleared, that their beauty was hid;
And the clout most loathly-vile of a tunic upon him she did,
Filthy, a tattered rag, and with smoke all grimy to view;
And the great bare hide of a stag fleet-footed about him she threw:
And a staff for his steps she lent, and a wallet, a thing forlorn,
Foul, and with many a rent, by a twisted cord upborne.
So counselled, so parted the twain; and now is Athene gone
Unto Sparta, the holy plain, to find Odysseus’ son.