Fail’d under her, and all her spirits went.
Speechless she long remain’d, tears filled her eyes,
And inarticulate in its passage died
Her utt’rance, till at last with pain she spake.
On board swift ships to ride, which are to man
His steeds that bear him over seas remote.
Went he, that, with himself, his very name
Might perish from among mankind for ever?
I know not whether him some God impell’d
Or his own heart to Pylus, there to hear
News of his Sire’s return, or by what fate
At least he died, if he return no more.
Departed; she with heart consuming woe
O’erwhelm’d, no longer could endure to take
Repose on any of her num’rous seats,
But on the threshold of her chamber-door
Lamenting sat, while all her female train
Around her moan’d, the antient and the young,
Whom, sobbing, thus Penelope bespake.
Coeval with me, none hath e’er received
Such plenteous sorrow from the Gods as I,
Who first my noble husband lost, endued
With courage lion-like, of all the Greeks
The Chief with ev’ry virtue most adorn’d,
A prince all-excellent, whose glorious praise
Through Hellas and all Argos flew diffused.
And now, my darling son,—him storms have snatch’d
Far hence inglorious, and I knew it not.
Ah treach’rous servants! conscious as ye were
Of his design, not one of you the thought
Conceived to wake me when he went on board.
For had but the report once reach’d my ear,
He either had not gone (how much soe’er
He wish’d to leave me) or had left me dead.
But haste ye,—bid my antient servant come,
Dolion, whom (when I left my father’s house
He gave me, and whose office is to attend
My num’rous garden-plants) that he may seek
At once Laertes, and may tell him all,
Who may contrive some remedy, perchance,
Or fit expedient, and shall come abroad
To weep before the men who wish to slay
Even the prince, godlike Ulysses’ son.
Nurse of Telemachus. Alas! my Queen!
Slay me, or spare, deal with me as thou wilt,
I will confess the truth. I knew it all.
I gave him all that he required from me.
Both wine and bread, and, at his bidding, swore
To tell thee nought in twelve whole days to come,
Or till, enquiry made, thou should’st thyself
Learn his departure, lest thou should’st impair
Thy lovely features with excess of grief.
But lave thyself, and, fresh attired, ascend
To thy own chamber, there, with all thy train,
To worship Pallas, who shall save, thenceforth,
Thy son from death, what ills soe’er he meet.
Add not fresh sorrows to the present woes
Of the old King, for I believe not yet
Arcesias’ race entirely by the Gods
Renounced, but trust that there shall still be found
Among them, who shall dwell in royal state,
And reap the fruits of fertile fields remote.
No longer stream’d. Then, bathed and fresh attired,
Penelope ascended with her train
The upper palace, and a basket stored
With hallow’d cakes off’ring, to Pallas pray’d.
If ever wise Ulysses offer’d here
The thighs of fatted kine or sheep to thee,
Now mindful of his piety, preserve
His darling son, and frustrate with a frown
The cruelty of these imperious guests!
Pallas received. And now the spacious hall
And gloomy passages with tumult rang
And clamour of that throng, when thus, a youth,
Insolent as his fellows, dared to speak.
To chuse another mate, and nought suspects
The bloody death to which her son is doom’d.
Untaught, what course the dread concern elsewhere
Had taken, whom Antinoüs thus address’d.
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