Book XVIII

NOW a beggar-wight came to the place: few Ithacan homes but saw
Daily his impudent face, and marvelled at that vast maw;
For giantlike he devoured and he drank, but his bodily might
Was naught, albeit he towered most huge in bulk to the sight.
Now the name whereby his mother her son from the birth-hour named
Was Arnaeus, albeit another for him had the young men framed,
Irus—the messenger flying at each man’s beck and call.
Now cometh this beggar trying to chase the king from his hall,
Yea, from his own house-door; and with churlish words he railed:
‘Dotard, begone from the threshold, lest forth by the foot thou be haled.
Dost thou not mark how they wink with the eye to me, all sitting there,
Bidding me drag thee away?—but for very shame I forbear.
Up, or contention of hands ’twixt us full soon shall arise.’
Spake Odysseus the manifold-counselled with sternly-glaring eyes;
‘Man, neither by word nor deed do I do any wrong unto thee;
Neither grudge I that any man give thee, though never so much it be.
This threshold hath room for us both, and thou hast not need nor right
To be grudging of other men’s goods. I deem thee a beggar-wight
As I, and I doubt not the Gods will vouchsafe to thy prayers good speed.
But provoke not me with thine hands, lest thou waken my wrath to the deed,
And, old though I be, I bedabble thy breast and thy lips with gore;
Then should I have for the morrow quietness more than before.
For thou wilt not return any more, nor a second time, I trow,
Thy face in the halls of Odysseus Laertes’ son wilt thou show.’
Then all aquiver with wrath cried Irus the beggar-wight:
‘Gods! how the tongue of the gluttonous hound runs trippingly light,
Like an old oven-wife, like a scolding shrew!—I will give him his due!
Mine hands shall smite him, and dash the teeth from his jaws, and strew
On the ground, as they break the teeth of a cornfield-wasting swine.
Gird up thy loins, that these may all behold us two
Fighting—ha, ha! thou fight with youth and strength like mine!’
So there on the threshold the twain ’neath the hall-door’s stately height
In bitter-gibing strain each kindled the other’s spite.
But Antinous, soon as he spied the railers, would set them to fight;
And he laughed for glee, and he cried to the rest with malicious delight:
‘Friends, never till now did anything like unto this befall,
Such merry sport as a God hath brought this day to the hall!
The stranger and Irus are wrangling together and ready to smite
With the clenched hand: come, let us straightway set them together to fight.’
Upspringing with laughter loud did they hie them forth right glad.
In a great ring gathered the crowd round the beggars sorrily clad.
And now unto these doth Antinous, son of Eupeithes, cry:
‘Hearken, ye lordly suitors, a word for your ears have I:
Here hiss on the fire two paunches of goats, for we laid them thereon
Filled full with fat and with blood for our supper awhile agone.
Now whoever shall conquer in fight and prove him the mightier one,
Let him rise and take of the bakemeats whichso he will for his own;
And ever thereafter shall he feast here, and nevermore
Will we suffer another beggar to enter the feast-hall door.’
So did he speak, and the thing was good in the suitors’ eyes.
But wilily dealt the king, and he spake in cunning guise:
‘O friends, it may nowise be that an old man woe-fordone
Should fight with the young and strong; but my belly goadeth me on,
This tyrant within, to the end that buffets my bane may be.
But come now, all of you swear a mighty oath unto me
That none, showing favour to Irus, will deal me a heavy blow
With wrongful-smiting hand, to subdue me under my foe.’
So did he speak, and each one of them pledged him thereto, nothing loth:
And as soon as the swearing was done, and they all had finished the oath,
Out spake the sacred might of the unknown hero’s son:
‘If thine heart, O stranger, and manful spirit pricketh thee on
To defend thee against this man, fear not for any beside;
For the battle-onset of many must whoso smites thee abide.
The friend of the stranger am I, and the kings say yea unto it,
Antinous here, and Eurymachus, princes prudent of wit.’
Then all approved with a shout; and Odysseus for fight prepared.
He girdeth his rags about his loins, and his thighs hath he bared,
Goodly and great to behold, and his shoulders broad and square,
And his arms of sinewy mould, and his chest; and Athene there
Made greater each huge limb of the shepherd of Ithaca’s folk.
And all they marvelled at him, and forth their amazement broke,
As this one and that one cried to his fellow that stood by his side:
‘Irus un-Irus’d full soon on his head shall draw down woe,
So brawny a thigh from the veil of his rags doth the old man show!’
But the dastard’s heart was stirred with most exceeding affright;
Yet did the house-carles gird him and drag in his own despite
To the midst of the ring, while shook his flesh upon every limb;
And with scornful withering look Antinous cried unto him:
‘Why wast thou born, thou lubber?—why shouldst thou live any more,
If thou fear’st such a man as this, and dost shake with trembling sore
At an old man woe-forspent, overburdened with misery?
But this do I tell thee, and surely fulfilled shall my promise be:
If this man prove him the better, and conquer thee in the fray,
In a black ship’s hold to the mainland shore will I send thee away
Unto Echetus, unto the king that never doth pity nor spare,
Who shall lop thy nose and thine ears with the ruthless brass, and tear
From thy body thy manhood, and cast to his hounds the blood-raw fare.’
But the threat redoubled his dread, and his knees were bowed with affright;
Yet him to the midst they led, and they lifted their hands to smite.
Then a moment Odysseus pondered whether to lay him low
With his soul from his body sundered by one fierce lightning-blow,
Or lightly to strike, and but stretch on the ground the craven wretch.
Swiftly he thought, and best it seemed in the hero’s eyes
Lightly to smite, lest the rest should pierce the king’s disguise.
Then Irus strikes, but the stroke o’er the hero’s right arm slips;
Flashed out Odysseus’s blow to the neck ’neath the ear of his foe,
And the bones of the jaw it broke, and the black blood gushed from his lips;
With a howl in the dust fell he, and he gnashed his teeth for pain,
Kicking convulsively on the ground; but the suitor-train
Cast up their hands in their glee, and they reeled, with laughter slain.
But Odysseus dragged him thence by the foot through the porchway fair
On to the court and the fence of the garth, and he set him there
Propped by the wall, and a staff thrust into his trembling hand;
And he spake with a scornful laugh the light-winged word of command:
‘Now sit thou there, and be keeping the swine and the dogs from the door:
Neither lord it, thou pitiful wretch, o’er the stranger and poor any more,
Lest thou reap thee a heavier harvest of evil than ever before.’
Then over his shoulders he flung his unseemly wallet forlorn,
Tattered and patched, by a thong of twisted hide upborne;
And again to his threshold-seat he goeth, and all the throng no
Stream past with laughter, and greet the hero with favouring tongue:
‘Stranger, may Zeus and the rest of the Deathless, on high that reign,
Grant thee thy dearest wish for the which thine heart is fain,
Who hast ended the begging of this insatiate glutton to-day.
Forthright to the mainland, to Echetus, hence will we send him away,
To the king who lusts to destroy, and the hands that never spare.’
Then Odysseus was filled with joy for the omen uttered there.
And the prize Antinous brought, the great goat-paunch with the blood
And the hissing fat full-fraught, and the princely Amphinomus stood
And reached two loaves from a maund, and bade the hero take:
And with golden chalice in hand he pledged him, and kindly he spake:
‘Hail, father stranger; in days to be may thy bliss abound,
Albeit to-day with manifold ills thou be compassed around.’
Answered Odysseus, the man in many a counsel wise:
‘Amphinomus, prudent of wit dost thou verily seem in mine eyes,
As the son of thy father may well be; oft have I heard of his fame.
There was prowess and wealth in the sound of Dulichian Nisus’ name.
Of him wert thou gotten, they say: a word-wise man seem’st thou.
Therefore my rede shall be spoken: O hearken and heed it now.
Earth nourisheth nought that the Gods have created more puny than man
Of all things that breathe and move on the earth their little span;
For he saith “I shall suffer no ill in the days that shall come after these,”
While the Gods yet prosper his hands, and unbowed is the strength of his knees:
But when sorrow and trouble are meted forth by the Gods ever-blest,
Contentless he groweth thereunder, and beareth a burdened breast.
For the mind of the earth-abiders is even such as the day
That is sent by the Father of Gods and men, so waver they.
For I too of old bade fair to be wealthy and great among men;
And I walked in the pride of my strength, and did manifold folly then.
In the might of my sire and my brethren’s array my trust did I put:
And what am I now?—let no man trample the right under foot;
But let all men receive the Gods’ gifts humbly and silently.
—What deeds of the suitors, what outrage and shame is this that I see!
Lo how they dishonour the wife, lo how the possessions they spoil
Of a man who shall linger afar from his friends and his fatherland-soil
Not long: he is even at the door. Mayest thou be withdrawn from his path,
Safe at home by the grace of a God, that thou meet him not in his wrath
In the day that he cometh again to his own dear fatherland;
For not without blood shall they part, even he and the suitor-band
In the hour when the hero’s feet on his threshold-stone shall stand.’
Then the drops of libation he poured, and he drank of the gladdening cup,
And again to the hand of the lord of the isle-folk yielded it up.
Through the hall with slow sad tread, heart-stricken with vague strange pain,
Went Amphinomus bowing his head, for his spirit foreboded his bane.
Dimly he saw—too late: his feet in the gin were ta’en;
And Athene had fixed his fate by Telemachus’ spear to be slain;
For behold, on the seat whence of late he had risen he sitteth again.
But now the queen bethought her—’twas She of the flashing eyes
That moved Icarius’ daughter, Penelope passing-wise,
To appear to the suitors, that so the spoilers’ heart of greed
Might ope, and their bounty flow, and more than before through her deed
The hearts of her lord and her child might with reverent love be stirred.
And she somewhat dreamily smiled, and musing she spake the word:
‘Eurynome, fain is my heart, as it never hath been before,
To appear to the suitors, albeit I hate them exceeding sore.
A word to my son would I speak to deliver his soul from harm,
That he trust him no more to the place where the arrogant suitors swarm;
For they speak fair words to his face, but their hearts are devising his bane.’
And Eurynome, stewardess-handmaid, answered the queen again:
‘Yea, wisely and well, my child, hast thou uttered thy bosom’s thought.
Go then, and speak the word to thy son, and hide it not.
Be thy body bathed, and anointed thy cheeks, or ever thou go;
But let them not see thee with face furrow-stained from the fountains of woe;
For evil it is to be grieving without surcease for aye.
Lo, now thy request is granted wherein thou wert wont to pray,
That thy son a bearded man might gladden thy living eyes.’
Answered and spake unto her Penelope passing-wise:
‘Eurynome, counsel not this, how tender soever thy care,
That I bathe my limbs and anoint me with unguent rich and rare.
For the Deathless ruined my beauty, the Gods in Olympus that dwell,
Since the day that he went in his galleys over the wide sea-swell.
But bid thou Autonoe come, and Hippodameia withal,
To the end they may stand beside me amidst of the banqueting-hall;
But for shame will I not go alone unto where men revel and brawl.’
So the ancient stewardess passed from the bower: though the palace she hied,
To bid the handmaids haste unto queen Penelope’s side.
But Athene with eyes grey-gleaming of this thing too bethought her,
That she sent the sleep-dews streaming adown on Icarius’ daughter.
Into dreamland she floated away, and relaxed with a restful smile
Were her limbs on the couch as she lay; and the Goddess gave her the while
Gifts of celestial grace to enthrall the Achaeans thereby;
And she bathed the sweet sad face with the charm of the Dwellers on high,
Even such as anointeth queen Cytherea the beautiful-crowned,
When she goes to the fairy green where the Graces’ dance sweeps round.
And Athene made her height and her breadth more stately to see,
And her skin more flawless-white than the smooth-sawn ivory.
So wrought she unseen; and light from the chamber flitted she.
From the hall anigh to the door the white-armed handmaids drew,
And their voices entered before them, that sleep from the queen’s eyes flew:
And she wiped her cheeks bright-glowing adown with her hands, and said:
‘O soft was the rest that hath folded me round in mine anguish dread!
Ah that a death as gentle by stainless Artemis’ dart
This moment were dealt me, that nevermore with mourning heart
I might waste and pine with yearning for all the glory gone,
For the dear lost husband, of all the Achaeans the noblest one!’
Down from her bright bower then that lovely lady descended:
Not alone went she to the men, but by handmaidens twain attended.
So she came to the feasting-place of the suitors, that lady divine;
And she stood by a column tall of the richly-carven hall,
Holding in front of her face her headveil dainty and fine;
And a trusty handmaid stood by the queen upon either side.
And their knees were loosed with desire, and with love were their souls afire,
And a tumult stirred their blood with the hope of so queenly a bride:
But she turned in reproachful mood to her dear-loved son, and she cried:
‘Telemachus, where is the strength of thy heart and thy steadfastness now?
When thou wert but a lad, more wit in discerning the right hadst thou.
Lo, now art thou stalwart and tall, and art grown to the stature of man;
Yea, the outland wight whose eye should thy stately comeliness scan
Would say that a happy sire had begotten so goodly a son:
But thy wisdom is overworn, and thine heart astray hath gone.
Lo, what a deed is this that within these halls hath been done,
That thou shouldst have suffered a stranger-wight to be outraged thus!
How then if a stranger-guest in our palace sitting with us
Gat sore hurt, buffeted thus in cruel shameful wise?
Thou shouldst be but a byword, a thing of scorn in all men’s eyes!’
And Telemachus prudent of wit spake out to the queen and replied:
‘My mother, thou doest well to be angry at this and to chide:
Yet still have I skill to discern, and my knowledge remaineth still;
But I was but a child erewhile in dividing the good from the ill.
Yet I cannot in all things be wise, and I err in mine heart’s despite;
For these with amazement bewilder me, thronging to left and to right;
And the thoughts of their hearts are evil, and helpers with me are there none.
Yet as touching the strife of the stranger and Irus, it was not done
As the suitors willed; but the stranger the mightier proved of the twain.
O Zeus Allfather, Athene, Apollo! my heart is fain
That now the suitors that vex our robber-haunted home
Were helplessly drooping their vanquished heads, in the forecourt some,,
And some in the house, and their knees were loosed in the self-same sort
As Irus, who sitteth yonder hard by the gates of the court,
Helplessly swaying his head like a drunken man’s down-hung,
Strengthless to stand on his feet, like a weed on the mixen flung:
To his home he cannot return, for his limbs are all unstrung.’
In such wise mother and son in the midst of the feast-hall spoke.
But Eurymachus gazing upon the queen into praises broke:
‘O child of Icarius’ line, Penelope passing-wise,
If all the Achaeans in Argos on thee should cast their eyes,
Many a suitor beside in thy palace halls would there be
Feasting to-morrow: for none other woman is like unto thee,
None other so lovely and tall nor so wise, O heart’s desire!’
Answered Penelope passing-wise to the smooth-faced liar:
‘Ah no, Eurymachus, all my beauty and goodlihead
The Deathless destroyed, when over the waters the Argives sped
Unto Troy, and with them mine husband Odysseus passed oversea.
Ah should he come back again, a defender of mine and me,
Greater than ever then and fairer were my renown.
But now have I anguish; for troubles untold have the Gods sent down.
Ah me, I remember the hour when he left his fatherland,
How mine husband spake unto me, on my right wrist laying his hand:
‘My wife, I deem that Achaia’s goodly-harnessed host
Shall not all scatheless return triumphant from Troyland coast:
For they say that the Trojan warriors are mighty men in the fight;
They hurl the javelin true, and they speed the arrow’s flight;
And they drive the fleet-foot horses, and high on the war-surge ride,
When the down-rushing flood of the chariots turneth the battle-tide.
So I know not if heaven ordains my return, or dooms me to fall
Yonder in Troyland: but here give thou good heed unto all.
Forget not my father and mother when feeble they are and grey:
Love them as now—yea more, seeing I shall be far away.
But when unto bearded manhood this child of ours shall be come,
Wed whomsoever thou wilt, and depart from this thine home.”
So spake he, and now I behold the sign, and I know my doom:
And the night shall come when the marriage I loathe, adding gloom unto gloom,
Shall meet the lost one, whose days Allfather hath robbed of their bliss.
Yet a sharper anguish, that deeper pierceth my heart, is this:
Such as yours was the manner of suitors never before on the earth!
Whensoever the high-born woo a lady of noble birth,
And strive for a rich man’s daughter in princely rivalry,
It is they bring kine and fatling sheep from the meadow-lea;
And they feast the damsel’s kindred, and bring gifts fair to see:
But never, they never devour another’s goods scot-free.’
Then glad was Odysseus the toil-worn, hearing the wise lips plead,
How from spoilers they charmed the spoil, and bewitched the hearts of greed,
And with sweet words drew them on—but her hate was keen as a sword.
Then did Antinous son of Eupeithes take up the word:
‘Icarius’ daughter, exceeding wise Penelope,
Receive what gifts soever thy suitors shall bring unto thee;
For ’tis shameful to turn from the gift and the giver scornfully.
But not to our lands, neither elsewhither hence will we ever depart,
Ere thou wed an Achaean, what man soever shall please thine heart.’
So did he speak; and they commended his counselling.
And each of them sent away a henchman the gifts to bring.
And Antinous’ messenger brought the royally-sweeping fold
Of a robe all broidery-wrought; and lightened the splendour of gold
From its brooches twelve, and the same with bended clasps were arrayed.
And Eurymachus’ messenger came with a necklace cunningly made,
Golden, with amber between: ’twas a sunlight-gleaming chain.
And earrings were borne to the queen by Eurydamas’ henchmen twain,
Triple-dropped, and as stars they shone, far-flashing their glorious sheen.
And Polyctor’s princely son Peisander gave to the queen
A carcanet fair to behold. So come they with treasures untold,
Till the dim hall gleams with the splendour that streams from the gems and the gold.
Then to her bower ascended the woman divine again:
And bearing the gifts attended their queen the handmaidens twain.
But the men to the winsome song and the light dance turned for their mirth;
And they revelled throughout the hall till the shadows of even should fall;
And, as wantoned the rioting throng, came the darkness over the earth.
In the halls they rear straightway three cressets flaring high
Over the revel and lay; about them were billets dry,
And sapless logs by the keen bill cleft, right swift to burn,
With pine-brands there-between; and the maids of Odysseus in turn
Those great hall-beacons fed. But he deemed it a shameful thing;
And spake to the damsels and said the manifold-counselled king:
‘Handmaids of Odysseus, the king of his folk long time unseen,
Get you away to the chamber where sitteth your lady the queen,
And turn ye the distaff beside her, or card with your hands the wool:
Yea, womanlike sit in her bower, and so shall her joy be full.
And I will feed the cressets for all these feasting here.
Yea, though they should revel on till the fair-throned Dawning appear,
They shall not outweary me, toil-tireless and hardy to bear.’
But they looked on each other, and smiled with wicked-laughing eyes;
And the fair Melantho reviled the hero in shameful wise:
Dolius’ daughter was she, yet the queen as a babe of her own
Nursed her: she played at her knee in the innocent child-days gone:
Yet Penelope’s grief ne’er came upon her, nor the shadow thereof;
But she wrought the deed of shame, and Eurymachus had her love:
And now doth she fling on Odysseus the king foul taunt and scoff:
‘Thou pitiful stranger-wretch! some brain-struck wight thou art,
Who hast no will to thy sleep in the coppersmith’s forge to depart,
Or where other such varlets gossip, but thou must be babbling here
Unabashed in the presence of princes, and hast nor shame nor fear!
Good sooth, but the wine hath o’ermastered thine head—or belike ever thus
Were thy witless wits, and thou pratest thy folly from ancient use.
Art thou mad with the pride of laying Irus the beggar low?
Take heed lest a mightier champion than Irus arise thy foe,
To deal on thine head with his stalwart hands blows many and sore,
And to drive thee forth of the house with thy face bedabbled in gore.’
Answered Odysseus the manifold-counselled frowning grim:
‘I will go to Telemachus, bold-faced wanton, and tell unto him
What things thou art saying, and so shall he cut thee limb from limb.’
Then the women shivered with dread at his stern deep-thrilling speech:
And like fluttered birds they fled, and shook the knees of each:
For their hearts within them said that his threat might well befall.
But Odysseus stood and fed the cressets that flamed in the hall;
And he gazed on the throng, nor spake; but the surge of his thoughts tossed high
With the wind of his wrath awake and the storm of revenge drawing nigh.
But Athene let not the rout of the arrogant suitors refrain
From heart-stinging taunt and flout, to the end that the goad of pain
In the heart of Odysseus the king of the isle-folk should rankle and sting:
So Eurymachus turned to the rest, and against Odysseus he spake
A scoff and a bitter jest, and the laughter loud outbrake:
‘Hear me, ye suitors that woo the fair queen world-renowned,
To the end I may speak the words that my heart for my lips hath found.
The hand of a God is at work in this man’s coming, I deem;
For the light of the torches streams in a very glory-gleam
From his radiant head, unveiled by a single straggling hair!’
Then he turned to Odysseus the city-waster, and sneered on him there:
‘Stranger, say, wouldst thou serve with a master, even with me,
On a lone farm-steading—thine hire should be paid, fair wage and free—
Piling the stones of the dyke and planting the sapling-tree?
Nought shouldst thou lack: I would give thee abundant store of meat,
I would clothe thy body with raiment and give thee shoes for thy feet.
Not thou! thou hast learnt but the trade of the rogue: thou hast no will
To toil as a honest man, but, crouching and cringing still,
Thou lookest by begging to fill the maw that nothing can fill.’
And to him Odysseus the manifold-counselled made answer again:
‘Eurymachus, would we were matched in the toil of the field, we twain,
In the spring, when the days wax long and the lush meadow-grass stands deep,
And I stood in the swathe bowed over a great scythe’s mighty sweep,
And thou with another, to make assay of our prowess so,
Fasting till gloaming-tide, and there lacked not grass to mow:
Or had we but oxen to drive, yea, the goodliest beasts that be,
Glossy of hide, great-girthed, full-fed on the pasture-lea,
Teams even-matched in age and in draught, and tireless of toil,
And our shares in a four-acre field went swiftly cleaving the soil,
Thou shouldst see how the straight clean furrows should lengthen behind my plough.
Or if Zeus brought war on the land, and the foe came down on us now,
And I, even I, had a shield and the warrior’s lances two,
And the glittering brass of the morion over my temples drew,
Far afront shouldst thou see me stemming the on-rushing billows of men,
And the mock should be dead on thy white lips—thou wouldst not be-glutton me then!
Go to, thou heartless scorner; O soul unacquainted with ruth!
Thou deemest thyself some great one, a mighty man, forsooth,
For that few be thy fellows, and they little-hearted and deedless of hand:
But O if Odysseus should come, should return to his fatherland,
In a moment the doorway’s stately breadth should be all too strait
For the haste of thy dastard feet fleeing forth to the porchway gate.’
So he spake; but Eurymachus’ soul with a madness of anger was stirred,
And he glared with a murderous scowl as he loosed the swift-winged word:
‘O wretch, thou shalt never go scatheless for that thou hast spoken here
Unabashed in the presence of princes, and hast nor shame nor fear.
Good sooth, but the wine hath o’ermastered thine head—or belike ever so
Were thy witless wits, and thou still must be prating thy folly, I trow!
Art thou mad with the pride of laying Irus the beggar low?’
So cried he, and furiously he caught up a footstool to fling:
But with wary heed by the knee of Amphinomus crouched the king,
And over his head it whirled, but it crashed with a stroke full sore
On the cupbearer’s hand, and it hurled the clanging bowl to the floor.
And the lad with a woeful shriek staggered backward and fell to the ground.
And the suitors with tumult and brawl were loud through the shadowy hall,
And thus ’gan some of them speak as they turned to their fellows around:
‘O that the vagabond stranger had perished beyond the sea
Ere he cast his brand of confusion amongst our revelry!
Lo how we brawl for a beggar’s sake! The hall-glee now
Of the glorious banquet must die if the best to the worst shall bow.’
Out spake in the midst of them all Telemachus’ sacred might:
‘Sirs, ye are mad, and the meat and the wine of your feast this night
Bewrayeth itself. Ye are driven by a ‘God in your own despite!
Ye have banqueted: get you gone, so soon as ye list, to your rest;
But for no man’s pleasure I drive from Odysseus’ hall any guest.’
So the brave young voice rang clear, and biting their lips they heard,
Half wondering, half in fear, that stout and defiant word.
But Amphinomus cried to the rest, and he uttered his counselling—
Son of Nisus and goodliest of the line of Aretus the king:—
‘Friends, no man sure would be wroth for a just word spoken aright,
To requite it with railing speech and with thoughts of mischief and spite.
Meddle not with the stranger, nor buffet, nor any beside of the thralls
That pass to and fro in your sight in the hero Odysseus’ halls.
Let the cupbearer pour us the drops of libation, our banquet to end;
And so will we pour to the Gods, and home to our sleep will we wend.
But the stranger-wight in the halls of Odysseus leave we alone
In Telemachus’ hands, for the house and the guest-right thereof are his own.’
So spake he, and all at the board that sat of his counsel were fain.
And the hero Mulius poured and mingled the wine again—
The Dulichian herald of lord Amphinomus’ princely train;—
Then for guest after guest he filled: to the Deathless Ones divine
The drops of libation they spilled, and they drank of the honey-sweet wine:
And when, the libations done, they had drunk to their hearts’ content,
Homeward away each one to his rest through the gloaming went.