The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems. Homer

repair?

       ‭ To tell Ulysses’ maids that they must cease

       ‭ From doing our work, and their banquets dress?

       ‭ I would to heav’n, that, leaving wooing me,

       ‭ Nor ever troubling other company,

       ‭ Here might the last feast be, and most extreme,

       ‭ That ever any shall address for them.

       ‭ They never meet but to consent in spoil,

       ‭ And reap the free fruits of another’s toil.

       ‭ O did they never, when they children were,

       ‭ What to their fathers was Ulysses, hear?

       ‭ Who never did ’gainst anyone proceed

       ‭ With unjust usage, or in word or deed?

       ‭ ’Tis yet with other kings another right,

       ‭ One to pursue with love, another spite;

       ‭ He still yet just, nor would, though might, devour,

       ‭ Nor to the worst did ever taste of pow’r.

       ‭ But their unrul’d acts show their minds’ estate.

       ‭ Good turns receiv’d once, thanks grow out of date.”

       ‭ Medon, the learn’d in wisdom, answer’d her:

       ‭ “I wish, O queen, that their ingratitudes were

       ‭ Their worst ill towards you; but worse by far,

       ‭ And much more deadly, their endeavours are,

       ‭ Which Jove will fail them in. Telemachus

       ‭ Their purpose is, as he returns to us,

       ‭ To give their sharp steels in a cruel death;

       ‭ Who now is gone to learn, if fame can breathe

       ‭ News of his sire, and will the Pylian shore,

       ‭ And sacred Sparta, in his search explore.”

       ‭ This news dissolv’d to her both knees and heart,

       ‭ Long silence held her ere one word would part,

       ‭ Her eyes stood full of tears, her small soft voice

       ‭ All late use lost; that yet at last had choice

       ‭ Of wonted words, which briefly thus she us’d:

       ‭ “Why left my son his mother? Why refus’d

       ‭ His wit the solid shore, to try the seas,

       ‭ And put in ships the trust of his distress,

       ‭ That are at sea to men unbridled horse,

       ‭ And run, past rule, their far-engagéd course,

       ‭ Amidst a moisture past all mean unstaid?

       ‭ No need compell’d this. Did he it, afraid

       ‭ To live and leave posterity his name?”

       ‭ “I know not,” he replied, “if th’ humour came

       ‭ From current of his own instinct, or flow’d

       ‭ From others’ instigations; but he vow’d

       ‭ Attempt to Pylos, or to see descried

       ‭ His sire’s return, or know what death he died.”

       ‭ This said, he took him to Ulysses’ house

       ‭ After the Wooers; the Ulyssean spouse,

       ‭ Run through with woes, let Torture seize her mind,

       ‭ Nor in her choice of state chairs stood inclin’d

       ‭ To take her seat, but th’ abject threshold chose

       ‭ Of her fair chamber for her loath’d repose,

       ‭ And mourn’d most wretch-like. Round about her fell

       ‭ Her handmaids, join’d in a continuate yell.

       ‭ From ev’ry corner of the palace, all

       ‭ Of all degrees tun’d to her comfort’s fall

       ‭ Their own dejections; to whom her complaint

       ‭ She thus enforc’d: “The Gods, beyond constraint

       ‭ Of any measure, urge these tears on me;

       ‭ Nor was there ever dame of my degree

       ‭ So past degree griev’d. First, a lord so good,

       ‭ That had such hardy spirits in his blood,

       ‭ That all the virtues was adorn’d withall,

       ‭ That all the Greeks did their superior call,

       ‭ To part with thus, and lose! And now a son,

       ‭ So worthily belov’d, a course to run

       ‭ Beyond my knowledge; whom rude tempests have

       ‭ Made far from home his most inglorious grave!

       ‭ Unhappy wenches, that no one of all

       ‭ (Though in the reach of ev’ry one must fall

       ‭ His taking ship) sustain’d the careful mind,

       ‭ To call me from my bed, who this design’d

       ‭ And most vow’d course in him had either stay’d,

       ‭ How much soever hasted, or dead laid

       ‭ He should have left me. Many a man I have,

       ‭ That would have call’d old Dolius my slave,

       ‭ (That keeps my orchard, whom my father gave

       ‭ At my departure) to have run, and told

       ‭ Laertes this; to try if he could hold

       ‭ From running through the people, and from tears,

       ‭ In telling them of these vow’d murderers;

       ‭ That both divine Ulysses’ hope, and his,

       ‭ Resolv’d to end in their conspiracies.”

       ‭ His nurse then, Euryclea, made reply:

       ‭ “Dear sov’reign, let me with your own hands die,

       ‭ Or cast me off here, I’ll not keep from thee

       ‭ One word of what I know. He trusted me

       ‭ With all his purpose, and I gave him all

       ‭ The bread and wine for which he pleas’d to call.

       ‭ But then a mighty oath he made me swear,

       ‭ Not to report it to your royal ear

       ‭ Before the twelfth day either should appear,

       ‭ Or you should ask me when you heard him gone.

       ‭ Impair not then your beauties with your moan,

       ‭ But wash, and put untear-stain’d garments on,

       ‭ Ascend your chamber with your ladies here,

       ‭ And pray the seed of goat-nurs’d Jupiter,

       ‭ Divine Athenia, to preserve your son,

       ‭ And she will save him from confusión,

       ‭ Th’ old king, to whom your hopes stand so inclin’d

       ‭ For his grave counsels, you perhaps may find

       ‭ Unfit affected, for his age’s sake.

       ‭ But heav’n-kings wax not old, and therefore make

       ‭ Fit pray’rs to them; for my thoughts never will

       ‭ Believe the heav’nly Pow’rs conceit so ill