Book XIX

IN the hush of the darkening hall Odysseus the godlike stayed,
Plotting the suitors’ fall, with Pallas Athene’s aid.
And the winged words leapt to his lips, and thus to his son did he say:
‘Telemachus, now must we hide all weapons of war away:
Leave none behind, and a guileful answer of soft words frame,
When the suitors shall miss their sheen, and shall ask thee touching the same:
“I have taken them out of the smoke,” say thou, “for they seem no more
Like those that Odysseus left when he sailed for the Trojan shore,
But marred, wherever the wreaths of the fire-reek wont to roll.
And another fear and a greater Kronion hath put in my soul,
Lest perchance ye be heated with wine, and ye break into strife and jar,
And ye wound one another, and shame the feast, and your wooing mar:
For the steel of itself hath a spell, and it draweth men on unto war.”’
He spake; and the son, to obey his father’s command, forth sped;
And he called Eurycleia the grey nurse forth from within, and he said:
‘Mother, come keep me the maids in our halls aloof from us here,
To the end I may store in a chamber my father’s battle-gear,
The fair arms lying so long unheeded and smoke-defiled,
While my sire was afar from his home, and myself was nought but a child;
But now shall they gather soil no more from the hearth-fire’s reek.’
And in answer to him did his dear nurse Eurycleia speak:
‘Ah but I would, my son, thou wouldst rouse thee at last to stand
In defence of thine house, and wouldst guard thine own from the spoiler’s hand!
But tell me, who shall thy torchbearer be as thou toil’st in the night,
If thou wilt not suffer the handmaids, who else had given thee light?’
And Telemachus prudent of spirit answered the woman and said:
‘Even this stranger; for none shall in idleness eat of my bread,
But my bounty his toil must requite, though he come as a far-strayed guest.’
Unwinged was the word as for flight, and it sank deep into her breast;
Now the doors of the great hall fast hath she barred, and thereupon
Upriseth Odysseus in haste, upriseth his glorious son.
And the war-shields boss-bestudded and helmets forth they bore
And the thirsty spears unblooded: Athene glided before
With a golden lamp, that shed all round its beautiful rays.
And Telemachus suddenly said to his father in wildered amaze:
‘O father, what marvel of marvels here of our eyes is seen!
Lo, how the walls of the hall, and the spaces the columns between,
And the beams and the rafters of fir, and the pillars’ stately height,
As though they were burning with fire, are aglow with unearthly light!
Surely a God is within, of the dwellers in heaven-dome wide.’
But Odysseus the manifold-counselled spake unto him and replied:
‘Keep silence, and bridle thy thoughts, and question nothing thereof.
Lo, this is the wont of the Gods who abide in Olympus above.
Now pass thou away to thy rest; but here will I yet remain,
That my story may kindle the hearts of the queen and her hand-maid-train;
For thy mother will ask me of all, in her sorrow and yearning pain.’
So he heedeth his father’s behest, and forth is Telemachus gone
From the hall to his chamber of rest,—and before him the torches shone,—
To the bed where erst he had lain by the sweetness of sleep over-borne:
There now is he resting again, and he waiteth the blessed morn.
In the hush of the darkening hall Odysseus the godlike stayed;
Plotting the suitors’ fall with Pallas Athene’s aid.
Now Penelope passing-wise from her bower to the feast-hall is gone;
As Artemis fair to the eyes, or as Aphrodite, she shone.
And to where the hearth-fire burned, a couch for their lady they brought
Of silver and ivory turned, which the craftsman Icmalius wrought.
And all of the selfsame piece a footstool he added thereto
For the feet of the queen; and a fleece soft-carded thereover they threw.
So the lady of the land sat down on the fashioned chair:
And the white-armed handmaid-band, from the hall of the women, there
’Gan clear the broken bread and the tables fragment-spread,
And the cups, whence a little before men drank amid rioting wild.
And brands did they cast on the floor from the cressets: thereover they piled
Faggot and billet, for light and for heat through the shades of the night.
And Melantho turned once more on Odysseus and foully reviled:
‘Stranger, still through the night wilt thou here be vexing us thus,
Prowling about the palace, and playing the spy upon us?
Out! get thee forth, thou wretch, and feast on thy beggar’s store,
Lest a torch be the rod that shall smite thee and drive from the palace-door.’
Stern frowning answered Odysseus the manifold-counselled wight:
‘Thou quean, what hast thou to do to browbeat me in thy spite?
Is it because I am evil-arrayed and foul to the sight,
And go begging from door to door? I am even constrained there-unto:
For thus must the beggar and homeless wanderer ever do.
Time was when I in a princely palace was wont to live,
A wealthy man, and oft to the wanderer then would I give,
Whosoever he were, whatsoever his need, it mattered not:
I had thralls untold, and with all things else was my bliss full-fraught
That are found with the men that are rich and are praised for a happy lot.
But Zeus brought ruin, for so was his pleasure concerning me.
Wherefore beware thou too, lest thy bravery perish from thee,
Wherein thou surpassest the rest of the maidens thy fellows that be;
Lest the flame of the wrath of the queen should be kindled upon thee and burn,
Or Odysseus should come, for yet is there hope of the hero’s return.
But and if he hath perished, if never again they shall look on his face,
Yet the son in his goodlihead is alive by Apollo’s grace;
And the woman that waxeth wanton, and lifteth a shameless brow,
Shall Telemachus mark; for the days of his childhood are gone by now.’
And Penelope passing-wise heard all that the hero spake;
And she turned with flashing eyes, and her words of wrath outbrake:
‘Never think, O thou reckless and bold-faced, that I shall forgive or forget
The deed of presumption and spite that thine head shall atone for yet!
For thou knewest, full well thou knewest, Penelope’s heart was fain—
Thou heardest me say it—to ask of the stranger, some tidings to gain
Of my husband, seeing mine heart is full of unresting pain.’
Then to the stewardess-handmaid Eurynome turned she, and said:
‘Eurynome, bring thou a chair, and thereover a fleece shalt thou spread,
And thereon shall the stranger sit, and shall tell me his tale; and in turn haste;
Shall he hearken to me when I ask of the thing mine heart would learn.’
She spake, and a polished chair did the stewardess bring with
And she set it before her there, and a fleece thereover she cast.
So there in his beggar-guise sat Odysseus the godlike man:
And Penelope passing-wise with eager words began:
‘Stranger, of all things first this thing would I have thee say:
Who art thou?—thy nation?—thy city and parents, where be they?’
And Odysseus the manifold-counselled answered the queen and replied:
‘O queen, no mortal of all on the earth-plain boundless-wide
May find any fault in thee, for thy fame to the heavens hath soared,
As the fame of a glorious king, a god-revering lord,
Who ruleth a mighty people and strong in the battle-field,
And maintaineth righteousness, and the earth doth her increase yield
Of wheat and of barley and fruit low-curving the laden trees,
And of flocks in the meadows, and fish poured forth from the teeming seas,
Because of his justice; and wise are his people to do that is right.
Wherefore, I pray thee, of other things question me here this night;
But seek not to know of my race and the land that fostered me;
Lest remembrance burden my spirit the more with misery.
Forlorn are my days and sigh-laden; but surely unseemly were this,
Lamenting to sit in the hall of strangers, and shadow their bliss.
For an evil thing it is without surcease to mourn.
The servants, yea thou thyself, might behold me with anger and scorn,
Saying, “These be the drunkard’s tears, for the man is but heavy with wine.”’
Answered the wise-heart queen, the child of a kingly line:
‘Ah stranger, no, but 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.
For all the chieftains that rule in the islands lying around,
Dulichium, Same, Zacynthus moreover, the forest-crowned,
And all the princes that dwell in Ithaca’s far-seen isle,
All these come wooing,—I loathe them,—the house they devour and spoil.
Therefore to strangers’ and suppliants’ stories I give no heed,
Nor to tidings of heralds whose voices be helpful in time of need.
But I yearn for Odysseus: mine heart is pining my bosom within;
And my suitors press me hard, but the threads of guile I spin:
First did a God put a thought in mine heart to escape from my doom,
Even to weave in mine halls a web at a stately loom,
Ample and fine of thread, and straightway I answered and said:
“Youths, suitors to me, since verily godlike Odysseus is dead,
Tarry, how eager soe’er for my bridal, until I have wrought
A shroud,—for I would not the work of mine hands should come to naught,—
A winding-sheet for the hero Laertes, against the day
When the baneful doom of the outstretcher Death shall snatch him away;
Lest Achaia’s daughters at me should in indignation be loud,
If he, after all his wealth, should be lying without a shroud.”
So did I speak, and lightly consented their lordly will:
There through the day at the great tall web was I weaving still:
But at night I unravelled it all, with the torches beside me set.
Three years by my wiles were they baffled, and none mistrusted me yet:
But at last when the fourth year beheld the seasons onward glide,
As the months waned fast, and many a day was born and died,
Then, through my handmaids, the queans that had no care for me,
They came on me there and caught me, and chode with me bitterly.
Thus in my heart’s despite perforce I finished it.
And now can I nowise escape this marriage, and faileth my wit
For any device beside; and my parents are urging me sore
To be wedded, and chafeth my son at the wasters of his store:
Yea, he seeth and understandeth; for now unto man is he grown,
For a warder of the house and a winner of hero-renown.
Howbeit tell of thy birth and thy land; for not of the stock
Of an oak-tree old in story art thou, nor the child of a rock.’
And Odysseus the manifold-counselled spake to her answering:
‘O noble wife of Odysseus the son of Laertes the king,
Will nothing content thee but this, the race of the stranger to know?
Be it so: I will tell thee:—ah me, thou art whelming me deeper in woe!
Well may the grief-tide swell, when a man must speak of the home
From the which for so weary a while his feet have been forced to roam,
Tossed ever from city to city forlorn in misery.
Howbeit my tale will I tell, and the thing that thou askest of me.
There lieth a land in the midst of the wash of the dark sea-swell,
The fair fat land of Crete; and the folk in that isle that dwell
Are a host untold, and cities have they fourscore and ten:
And their speech is of divers tongues: therein be Achaean men,
Great-hearted Eteocretans, Cydonians bow-renowned,
Crest-tossing Dorians, and godlike Pelasgians there be found.
There standeth Cnossus the mighty, where reigned in days gone by
Nine glorious years King Minos, the friend of Zeus most high,
The sire of my mighty-hearted father Deucalion,
Of whose loins withal Idomeneus sprang to sit on his throne.
But he went in the hook-prowed ships for the sons of Atreus’ fame,
Unto Ilium to northward. And Aethon they called my glorious name;
Yet, seeing that I was the younger, they counted him ever the best.
Even there I beheld Odysseus, and gave him the gifts of a guest.
For the might of the wind had carried him down to the land of Crete,
Buffeting wide of Maleia his Troyward-speeding fleet:
So by Eilithyia’s cave in Amnisus anchor he cast,
In a perilous roadstead and scantly screened from the wrath of the blast.
To the city he hasted, and then of Idomeneus sought he to hear;
For he said that in love and in worship he held the king full dear.
O’er late did he come, for by then ’twas the tenth or eleventh dawn
Since the chief in the beak-prowed galleys to Ilium’s shore had gone.
Then I took to mine halls thy lord with princely welcoming,
And entreated him kindly, and gave of my wealth the gifts of a king.
Yea, to him and his battle-fellows that followed the hero to war
Did I give of the meal from the garner and flame-flushed wine good store,
And oxen to slaughter for meat, that their soul might be satisfied.
There did the godlike Achaeans for twelve days’ space abide,
Weather-bound by a hurricane north-wind: none on the earth might stand
For the fury thereof; for therein was a God’s afflicting hand.
But the wind on the thirteenth fell, and the galleys sailed from the land.’
So framed he manifold lies subtle-fashioned in truthful seeming.
But the tears ran down from her eyes, and her wasted cheeks were streaming.
And as from a mountain’s crown the snow, that was scattered abroad
By the west-wind, wasteth adown to the plains, by the east-wind thawed;
And as fadeth its dazzling gleam the rivers swell broad-sweeping;
So wasted her cheeks as the stream ran fast of her bitter weeping,
As she wept for her lost beloved, who sat even then by her knee.
And the soul of Odysseus was moved with ruth her tears to see;
But his eyes were steadfast-set as horn or as steel the while:
No quiver, nor eyelash wet betrayed him, the perfect in guile.
But as soon as the heavy pain at her heart had been eased by her tears,
She lifted her face again, and she spake in Odysseus’ ears:
‘Now stranger, now, I ween, will I make assay of thy truth,
If my lord with his godlike warrior-mates in very sooth
Were guests at the feast in thine halls afar, as sayeth thy word;—
Tell me what manner of vesture arrayed the limbs of my lord,
And what manner of man he was, and they of his war-fellow train.’
Answering spake unto her subtle-witted Odysseus again;
‘Hard is it for one that beheld him but once, and long ago,
To tell of his presence; for now ’tis the twentieth year, I trow,
Since he turned from mine halls, and passed from my fatherland far oversea.
Yet will I tell how cometh aback his image to me.
A mantle Odysseus the godlike wore in fold over fold;
Crimson it was, thick-woven, and clasped by a brooch of gold
With sockets twain, and the face thereof full cunningly wrought;
For thereon was a hound, and a fawn beneath his forefeet caught;
And he glared on the prey as it writhed, men marvelled looking thereon,
How the gold was alive, how the deerhound glared as he strangled the fawn,
Which convulsively kicked with its feet in agonised strain to be free.
And I marked how the garment glanced on his body radiantly;
Fine as the rind that enfoldeth a sun-dried scallion it seemed,
So soft, so smooth was its sheen, and bright as the sun it gleamed:
Ah, many a woman gazed thereon with wondering eye!
This too will I tell thee, and deep in thy breast let my saying lie:
I know not if this was Odysseus’ attire in his island home,
Or was given of a friend what time he sailed thence over the foam,
Or perchance of a stranger; for friends had Odysseus afar and anear,
For in all Achaia-land thou scarce shouldst find his peer.
And I gave him a brazen sword and a fair cloak purple-glowing,
Double-folded, a tunic withal adown to the feet deep-flowing;
And with honour and worship I sent him away o’er the paths of the sea.
There was with him a herald that numbered a few years more than he;
And for him, what manner of man he was will I tell thee now:
Bowed in the shoulders, and swarthy, with curled locks shading his brow;
And Eurybates had he to name, and far beyond the rest
Did Odysseus regard him, for even as his own were the thoughts of his breast.’
In the heart of the Lady anew did a passion of weeping awake,
As she knew the tokens for true whereof Odysseus spake.
So when she had eased her breast with the bitter-sweet dewfall of pain,
She lifted her voice, and addressed her speech to the stranger again:
‘Stranger, or ever thy story was told my compassion hadst thou;
But worship and love shall be thine in the halls of my palace now.
For ’twas I, even I, that folded the garments whereof thou hast told,
When I gave him them out of my bower, and the brooch of the shining gold
I laid on him, to grace him withal,—I shall welcome him never more,
Nor see him returning home to his own dear fatherland -shore!
Ah, in an evil day went Odysseus forth in his ship
To look upon Ilium the cursed, whose name is as gall on the lip.’
Answered Odysseus to her, and the wily of wit spake on:
‘Oh queenly-noble wife of Odysseus Laertes’ son,
No longer with weeping mar thy beauty, nor pine any more
For thy husband with heart-stricken moan: yet I blame thee not therefor.
Though a man were not such as thy lord, yet the widowed woman would mourn
For the arms that had clasped her, the husband whose children her bosom had borne,
Ay, for a lesser than he, who was like to the Gods as they tell;—
But cease from thy lamentation, and heed my saying well.
For without fail now will I tell thee, I will not hide this word,
How that already concerning Odysseus’ return I have heard.
Anigh thee awhile he abides on the wealthy Thesprot shore
Alive, and thence is he bringing abundant treasure-store.
For he asked of the folk, and they gave; but his dear-loved mates hath he lost;
And the hollow ship went down in the dark sea tempest-tossed
As he came from Thrinacria’s isle; for the anger of Zeus was his bane,
And the wrath of the God of the Sun, whose kine his fellows had slain.
Mid crashing of surges they perished, the deep sea found them graves;
But he clung to the galley’s keel, and was shoreward hurled by the waves,
To the land of Phaeacian folk, that are kin to the Dwellers in heaven:
And of these to Odysseus as unto a god high honour was given.
Many gifts they bestowed, and fain had they sent thine island-prince
Scatheless and toilless homeward; and here had he been long since,
But he counted it more for his gain to roam through many a land,
And to gather him wealth of strangers, the gifts of the bountiful hand.
For Odysseus is wisest of men in the gain-craft’s mystery,
And of all that be born but to die no master therein hath he.
Thus Pheidon, the king of the folk of Thesprotia, told unto me;
And he sware unto me, as in hall the wine of libation he poured,
That the galley was launched, and the shipmen ready to go aboard
To speed him over the seas to his own dear fatherland.
But he sent me away before, for a galley with Thesprots manned
For Dulichium’s land wheat-wealthy was spreading her woven wing.
And he showed to me all the gathered wealth of Odysseus the king.
Good sooth, to the tenth generation his house might live thereon;
So huge was the treasure-heap that within the king’s halls shone.
But Odysseus, he said, to Dodona was gone, to learn the behest
Of Zeus from the oak divine, the dark tree lofty-tressed,
Whether openly he should come unto Ithaca’s fruitful isle,
Or in secret; for now had he wandered thence for a weary while.
Yea, he is safe: he shall come in a sudden-joyful day;
And his feet shall linger from friends and from fatherland far away
Not long: lo now with an oath I confirm the word that I say:—
Let Zeus most highest and best of the Deathless hear my word,
And the hearth whereunto I am come of Odysseus thy princely lord!
Surely in all these things shall the truth of my words be shown;
In this year, even in this, shall Odysseus come to his own,
As the old moon waneth away and the new is at point to rise.’
Answered and spake unto him Penelope passing-wise:
‘Ah stranger, I would this saying of thine fulfilled might be!
Then shouldst thou know my kindness, and many a gift from me,
So that happy shouldst thou be accounted of whoso met with thee.
But there lies on my heart a foreboding, and so shall it fall, I trow;
Nevermore shall Odysseus come home, nor thou by our help shalt go
To the bourne that thou wouldst; for no such lords are found in our hall
As Odysseus the peerless of men was, if ever he lived at all,
Who like him would speed the departing, would welcome the coming guest.
But, my handmaidens, wash ye the stranger, array ye the couch for his rest
With bed-gear and shining rugs, and with mantles overstrawn,
That restful and warm he may tarry the coming of gold-throned Dawn.
My guest shall ye bathe and anoint at earliest morning-tide,
To the end he may sit within by my son Telemachus’ side,
Feasting in hall; and if aught of despiteful wrong shall be wrought,
Ill shall it be for the doer, the brutal-souled, and nought
Shall his malice avail him here, though his wrath wax never so hot.
For how shouldst thou know me, stranger, or wot if Penelope’s breast
Hath wisdom above her fellows, or counsel more than the rest,
If thou sit at the meat in a beggar’s foulness and vile array
In mine halls? Soon fadeth the flower of the life-day of man away:
And whoso is ruthless, whose soul unto pity doth never bend,
All pray that his ruin may come with woe at his latter end;
And over his grave the curses of all men flap dark wings.
But whoso is noble of heart and deviseth liberal things,
The guest and the stranger beareth afar his spreading fame
Amongst all folk, and in men’s mouths glorious groweth his name.’
Made answer Odysseus to her, and the wily of wit spake on:
‘O queenly-noble wife of Odysseus Laertes’ son,
Of a truth I have had no heart for mantles glistening-gay,
Since the hour when Crete’s snow-crested mountains faded away
In the offing, as over the surges my long-oared ship flew fast;
And fain would I lie as the sleepless nights heretofore have I passed.
For many a night have I lain upon couches exceeding vile,
And waited through weary hours for the gold-throned Dawning’s smile.
Neither seem to my soul the footbath-lavers in anywise sweet;
Neither would I that any woman should set her hand to my feet,
Not one of thine handmaids that ply their tasks by bower and hall,
Except thou hast with thee a woman old and discreet withal,
Whose spirit as mine hath been hardship-burdened and woe-fordone;
I would not begrudge that my feet should be handled by such an one.’
Answered Penelope passing-wise to the hero divine:
‘Friend stranger, never ere this hath there come to this hall of mine,
Midst the welcome wayfarers from far, any man so wise as thou;
So passing discreet are the words that thy wise lips utter now.
Now an aged woman in spirit exceeding prudent have I,
Which bare on her knees that hapless man in the days gone by:
Her hands were the first that held him and hushed his new-born wail.
Even she shall wash thy feet, albeit her strength is but frail.
Come now, stand up on thy feet, Eurycleia the passing-wise:
Wash him that is old as thy lord:—yea, such, as it seems in mine eyes,
Are the feet of Odysseus by this, and such shall my lord’s hands be;
For eld soon boweth the folk that be compassed with misery.’
Then the woman exceeding old did her face with her thin hands hide;
Hot tears through her fingers rolled, as the word of lamenting she cried:
‘Ah me for my helpless love! dear son, how Zeus hath abhorred
Above all men the man that hath loved him, and given him hate for reward!
Never yet to the Thunder-lover hath any man burnt fat thighs
So oft, and the chosen victims of hecatomb-sacrifice,
As thou didst render, and ever didst pray to be led safe on
To an eld of peace and of bliss, and to rear thee a glorious son.
And now hath he taken the day of return from thee—thee only!
Even now, it may be, is my lord in a far land friendless and lonely,
In a princely palace, the while the scornful handmaids jeer,
Even as these, the shameless, have all made mock at thee here.
Thou shrinkest aback from the flouts and the manifold scoffs of the train,
That thou sufferest not that they wash thee; but this will I do full fain
At the hest of Icarius’ daughter, the lady in wisdom divine.
For her sake therefore thy feet will I wash, yea also for thine;
For mine heart within me is tossed by a tempest of cares to-day.
But come now, hearken the word that my lips are moved to say:
Full many a woe-worn stranger hath come to our halls, I wis;
Yet never beheld I another save thee so like him ere this:
For in stature, in voice, and in feet, thou art even as Odysseus is.’
Swiftly made answer Odysseus in manifold counsels wise:
‘Yea mother, so ever they say, even all that have seen with their eyes
Us twain, how that wondrous like we are in outward seeming,
As thyself hast discerned of thy wisdom, and utterest forth thy deeming.’
Then the handmaid old, for the washing of him that she knew not her lord,
Brought the laver of brass broad-flashing; cold water therein hath she poured,
And she mingled the hot therewithal, and he sat by the hearth-fire’s glow:
Yet he turned him that shadow should fall on his face and his limbs below;
For there flashed on his spirit the thought that the light should his scar betray,
And the doings in secret wrought in a moment be bared to the day.
She drew nigh, and her king she washed:—eftsoons she marketh the scar
That a boar’s white tusk had gashed long ago in the woodland war,
What time to Parnassus he came, where Autolycus dwelt with his sons,
The sire of his mother, whose fame overpassed all earth-born ones
In craft and in thwartwise-turning of oaths, by a God made wise;
For to Hermes full oft was he burning acceptable victims’ thighs,
Of lambs and of kids, and aye went the God by his friend’s right hand.
Now Autolycus came on a day unto Ithaca’s fruitful land.
And behold, the new-born son of his daughter there he sees;
And the helpless little one Eurycleia hath set on his knees,
When the meal of the even was done; and she spake, and her words were these:
‘Autolycus, find us a name thyself, and bestow it now
On thy daughter’s darling, the child of many a prayer and vow.’
And Autolycus opened his lips, and the bodeful answer came:
‘My son-in-law, and my daughter, be this the young child’s name,—
Odious is many an one unto me that have hitherward hied,
Odious are menfolk and women on fostering earth that abide,—
Wherefore his name be Odysseus; and I, in the days to come,
When a stalwart lad and tall to his mother’s maidenhead-home
On the slope of Parnassus, he cometh, where lieth my wealth’s increase,
Thereof will I give him, and send him rejoicing thence in peace.’
So went Odysseus to claim the promise of splendid gifts;
And Autolycus, soon as he came, with the sons of the guileful in shifts,
Greeted him lovingly with speech and with hands warm-grasped,
And his granddame Amphithee to her heart Odysseus clasped;
And she kissed the head of the lad and both his beautiful eyne.
And straightway Autolycus bade the sons of his glorious line
That the supper be dight, and they to the hest of their father gave ear:
And they led to the court straightway a stall-fed five-year steer;
So they flayed it, and each man fell to the work, and they quartered the beast,
And they carved it featly and well, and they spitted the flesh for the feast;
And they roasted the roast with skill, and to each his portion gave.
So all day long, until the sun’s rim dipped in the wave,
They feasted with glee, and their soul lacked nought of the meat and the bowl.
And the sun sank down in the west, and the folds of the dark hung deep;
And they gat them unto their rest and received the gift of sleep.
Out of her mist-veil grey the Rosy-fingered shone.
To the hunting they hasted away, both the hounds and each tall son
Of the prince Autolycus; hied the godlike Odysseus with these.
And they came to a steep hill-side overmantled with forest trees:
Parnassus it was, and anon to the windy gorges they came;
And by this was the slant red sun just smiting the meadows with flame,
As he rose from the softly-fleeting Ocean-stream deep-flowing.
And they came to a glen, ever beating the copses; before them going
The sleuth-hounds followed the scent, and behind them with eager tread
The sons of Autolycus went, and among them Odysseus sped
Hard after the hounds full fast, with his javelin aquiver to slay.
And a tangled copse at the last they found, where a huge boar lay.
No winds blowing mistily-wet through that thick covert could pierce,
Nor the dash of the shower, nor yet the sun, were he never so fierce,
So thickly the boughs overhead intertwined; and abundantly there
Great wealth of leaves had been shed in the acre-waster’s lair.
And the tramp of the hunters’ feet came around, and the hounds’ deep bay
As they pressed on him: forth to meet them he leapt from his lair straightway;
And bristling high his crest, while the fire from his red eyes flashed,
Stood at bay: but before the rest on the brute had Odysseus dashed.
And the long spear high did he lift in his brawny hand fast gripped,
Eager to stab him; but swift as the lightning the monster hath ripped
His thigh by the knee, and the tush a ghastly gash hath rent,
As he caught him with sidelong rush, yet not to the bone it went.
But Odysseus stabbed him between right shoulder and ribs with the brass,
And clean through the breast did the keen-flashing point of the javelin pass.
Down was he hurled to the ground with a scream, and his life fled away.
And Autolycus’ sons came round, and they brittled the mighty prey:
And the godlike Odysseus’ wound with the leech-craft hunters know
Deftly and wisely they bound, and they stanched the dark blood’s flow
By a spell-chant marvellous, and home to their father they wended.
So there of Autolycus and his sons was Odysseus tended,
And was healed of his hurt, and they gave rich gifts and rare to their guest.
And a glad good-speed they wave, as he goeth with gladsome breast
To the dear-loved isle where his sire and his mother hail their son
With exceeding joy, and enquire touching deeds in the far land done.
And they ask him concerning the scar, and the tale thereof he tells,—
Of the wild-boar’s lightning leap, of the white tusk gashing deep,
When he went to the woodland war in Parnassus’ shadowy dells.
That limb hath the old nurse ta’en, and her palms the scar enfold,—
She hath touched it,—she knows it again,—lo his foot, it hath slipped from her hold!
On the laver’s edge did it fall, and the brass-clang rang through the hall,
As swaying and sliding it rolled: on the floor was the water spilled.
But rapture and anguish laid hold on her spirit: her eyes were filled
With tears; and, passion -clutched, was her throat too strait for a cry;
But the beard of Odysseus she touched, and she gasped forth eagerly:
‘Oh thou art he!—thou art very Odysseus my darling son!—
And I knew not my lord till mine hands had rested his body upon!’
Yet quivered her lips with the word as her eyes on the queen she cast,
Being fain to tell how her lord and her love was at home at the last.
But the queen could not glance thither at all, nor at all give heed;
For Athene turned elsewhither her thoughts: but in desperate need
Her throat hath Odysseus caught with his right in a giant grip,
And her face unto his hath he brought with his left; and with stern-set lip,
‘Nurse, wouldst thou slay me?’ he said,’ and for this didst thou bear me in vain
On thy bosom, who now, after manifold toil, after measureless pain,
In the twentieth year am come to the land of my fathers again?
But since thou hast known me, and seeing a God put it into thy thought,
Keep silence, that none beside in mine halls thereof know aught.
Else, this do I tell thee—yea also my saying accomplished shall be:—
If so be that a God shall subdue the suitors under me,
Even thee will I spare not, albeit my nurse thou art, in the hour
When I give death-wage to the handmaids that shame us in hall and bower.’
Made answer to him Eurycleia the passing-wise, and she said:
‘My son, what saying is this through the fence of thy teeth that hath fled!
Thou knowest how steadfast my spirit is, not to be bowed is my will;
Stubborn as flint or as iron thy secret will I guard still.
This thing will I tell thee moreover, and deep in thine heart be it stored:
If so be that a God shall o’ermaster beneath thee the foes of my lord,
Unto thee will I then tell over the women thine halls within,
Both them that be daughters of shame, and them that be stainless of sin.’
But the man of the manifold shifts unto her spake answering:
‘Nurse, why wilt thou name them?—no need hast thou to do this thing.
I, even I, will mark each one with diligent heed.
Thou hold thy peace, and leave to the Gods to order the deed.’
Then the old nurse answered nought, but forth of the hall hath she hasted;
And footbath-water she brought, for that all the first had been wasted.
So when she had washen his feet, and with oil had anointed them o’er,
Odysseus drew him a seat anigh to the hearth once more
For warmth: and, the scar to screen, his tatters thereover he spread.
Then spake the fair sad queen, and the wise Penelope said:
‘Stranger, a little yet would I talk with thee alone;
For the night and the calm sweet slumber-tide cometh hastily on—
Yea, sweet to the sorrowful ones that be lulled in the arms of sleep.
But on me hath a God cast trouble and anguish, a measureless heap;
For mourning and moans are my solace by day, while, hour after hour,
Sick-hearted I labour and look to mine handmaids in hall and bower:
But when night cometh down at the last, and all folk sink into rest,
I lie on my couch; but the throng of the care-ghosts haunteth my breast
With sharp goads pricking my heart, that I wail, ah, bitterly wail.
As the daughter of Pandareus, the brown bright nightingale,
Trilleth her lovely song in the flush of the new-born Spring,
In the tree, as she sitteth mid twilight of leaves thick-clustering,
And with wavering change upon change is her echoing song-flood poured,
As she mourneth her darling, her Itylus, slain by her hand with the sword,
Slain long ago by her folly, the child of Zethus the king;
So my heart is divided in twain; to and fro is it wavering,—
Whether to bide with my son and to watch over everything,
Even my substance and thralls and the high-roofed stately house,
Having respect to the voice of the folk and the bed of my spouse,
Or to yield me a bride, and to follow the noblest Achaean and best
Of my wooers, whose measureless gifts in mine halls overpass the rest.
And my son, while he yet was a child unmighty of hand and of heart,
Suffered me not to be wed, from the home of my lord to depart.
But now is he waxen great, and hath reached fair manhood’s flower;
And behold, he prayeth me now to depart from hall and bower:
For his spirit is wroth for his substance that lawless Achaeans devour.
But prithee interpret my dream, and hearken with diligent heed:
I have twenty geese, and they come to the water-trough to feed
On the wheat that I cast them, and gazing my sad heart warms with delight.
Now a mighty crook-beaked eagle swooped from a mountain height;
And he brake the necks of them all, and he slew them: in heaps they lay
Dead in mine halls, and to heaven’s blue depth he soared away.
And I wept and I shrieked in my dream for sorrow and sore dismay,
And around me thronging came the fair-tressed daughters of Greece,
At my piteous lamenting because that the eagle had slain my geese.
On a sudden the spoiler returned, and he sat on a hall-roof beam;
With the voice of a man did he still my wailing, and cried in my dream:
“O child of Icarius, queen far-famous, have no fear!
No dream, but a vision is this, whereof the fulfilment is near.
The geese are the suitors: and I am the eagle that late was their bane,
But now am thine husband, returned unto home and to thee again;
And a doom of shame will I deal unto all the suitor-train.”
So spake he, and slid from my eyelids slumber’s honey-dew;
And I looked, and lo, the geese in the court-yard full in view
Pecking their wheat at the trough, as before they wont to do.’
Answering her Odysseus the manifold-counselled said:
‘Lady, as touching thy dream, the riddle cannot be read
By wresting it otherwise: of Odysseus’ self thou hast heard
The fulfilment thereof: therein for the suitors hath ruin appeared,
Yea, for all; not one of them all shall escape from doom and death.’
And Penelope passing-wise maketh answer again, and she saith:
‘Stranger, hard to interpret and wildering-dark are dreams;
And the thing men hope cometh not, nor the truth is the thing that seems.
For portals twain for the flitting of bodiless dreams there be,
And the one is fashioned of horn, and the other of ivory.
Now every dream through the ivory dead-smooth-sawn that flies
Is a dream that shall not be fulfilled, and it bringeth a tale of lies.
But they that come up to the earth through the horn-gate’s polished sheen
Fail never, but bring to pass whatsoever the dreamer hath seen.
But it was not through this one, I trow, that my weird dream came unto me,
Or surely a welcome thing unto me and my son would it be.
This too will I tell thee, and lay thou to heart the thing that I say:
To-morrow,—a morrow accursed above all—shall tear me away
From Odysseus’ home; for then will I set them the archery-proof,
The axe-play, seeing my hero of yore ’neath his feast-hall roof
Would set twelve axes up, as the ribs of a galley arow:
Then he shot from afar, and through all of their rings sped the shaft from his bow.
And now will I set this trial, the strife of the suitors to end.
Whosoever of these with his hands shall the bow most easily bend,
And shoot through the rings of the axes twelve ranged all in line,
Him will I follow, forsaking this beautiful home of mine,
Dear home, that knew me a bride, with its wealth of abundant store;
I shall never forget it, in dreams I shall see it for evermore.’
Made answer Odysseus to her, and the subtle of wit spake on:
‘O queenly-noble wife of Odysseus Laertes’ son,
No longer delay this trial-contest here in thine home.
For Odysseus the manifold-counselled, I tell thee, shall hitherward come,
Or ever the suitors, for all their handling the polished bow,
Shall have strained the string, and have shot through the iron rings planted arow.’
Then again unto him Penelope passing-wise replied:
‘Stranger, if thou wouldst be willing to sit in mine halls at my side,
And to gladden me, never the dews of slumber mine eyelids would steep.
But this may nowise be, that mortals never should sleep;
For the Deathless ones have decreed that the season for this shall betide
All mortal folk on the face of the corn-giving earth that abide.
And for me, to my bower will I go, and my limbs on the couch will lay,
The couch that is grown but a couch of sighs for the weary-hearted,
Ever made wet with my tears since the day that Odysseus departed
To look upon Ilium the cursed, whose name I loathe to say.
There will I lie; and within these walls shall be thy bed;
On the ground let it be if thou wilt, or a couch my maidens shall spread.’
Then to her glittering-bright high bower the Lady ascended.
Not alone did she pass from his sight; but by handmaidens twain attended.
Slow went she with tired sad tread till into the chamber they stept;
And there for the dear days dead and the love of Odysseus she wept,
Till Athene the sleep-dews shed on her weariful eyes, and she slept.