Her proper scope, but as beseems her well.
Her voice obey; yet the effect of all
Must on Alcinoüs himself depend.
I ratify the word. So shall be done,
As surely as myself shall live supreme
O’er all Phæacia’s maritime domain.
Then let the guest, though anxious to depart,
Wait till the morrow, that I may complete
The whole donation. His safe conduct home
Shall be the gen’ral care, but mine in Chief,
To whom dominion o’er the rest belongs.
Alcinoüs! Prince! exalted high o’er all
Phæacia’s sons! should ye solicit, kind,
My stay throughout the year, preparing still
My conduct home, and with illustrious gifts
Enriching me the while, ev’n that request
Should please me well; the wealthier I return’d,
The happier my condition; welcome more
And more respectable I should appear
In ev’ry eye to Ithaca restored.
Ulysses! viewing thee, no fears we feel
Lest thou, at length, some false pretender prove,
Or subtle hypocrite, of whom no few
Disseminated o’er its face the earth
Sustains, adepts in fiction, and who frame
Fables, where fables could be least surmised.
Thy phrase well turn’d, and thy ingenuous mind
Proclaim thee diff’rent far, who hast in strains
Musical as a poet’s voice, the woes
Rehears’d of all thy Greecians, and thy own.
But say, and tell me true. Beheld’st thou there
None of thy followers to the walls of Troy
Slain in that warfare? Lo! the night is long—
A night of utmost length; nor yet the hour
Invites to sleep. Tell me thy wond’rous deeds,
For I could watch till sacred dawn, could’st thou
So long endure to tell me of thy toils.
Alcinoüs! high exalted over all
Phæacia’s sons! the time suffices yet
For converse both and sleep, and if thou wish
To hear still more, I shall not spare to unfold
More pitiable woes than these, sustain’d
By my companions, in the end destroy’d;
Who, saved from perils of disast’rous war
At Ilium, perish’d yet in their return,
Victims of a pernicious woman’s crime.
Those female shades, the spirit sore distress’d
Of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, appear’d;
Encircled by a throng, he came; by all
Who with himself beneath Ægisthus’ roof
Their fate fulfill’d, perishing by the sword.
He drank the blood, and knew me; shrill he wail’d
And querulous; tears trickling bathed his cheeks,
And with spread palms, through ardour of desire
He sought to enfold me fast, but vigour none,
Or force, as erst, his agile limbs inform’d.
I, pity-moved, wept at the sight, and him,
In accents wing’d by friendship, thus address’d.
What hand inflicted the all-numbing stroke
Of death on thee? Say, didst thou perish sunk
By howling tempests irresistible
Which Neptune raised, or on dry land by force
Of hostile multitudes, while cutting off
Beeves from the herd, or driving flocks away,
Or fighting for Achaia’s daughters, shut
Within some city’s bulwarks close besieged?
Ulysses, noble Chief, Laertes’ son
For wisdom famed! I neither perish’d sunk
By howling tempests irresistible
Which Neptune raised, nor on dry land received
From hostile multitudes the fatal blow,
But me Ægisthus slew; my woeful death
Confed’rate with my own pernicious wife
He plotted, with a show of love sincere
Bidding me to his board, where as the ox
Is slaughter’d at his crib, he slaughter’d me.
Such was my dreadful death; carnage ensued
Continual of my friends slain all around,
Num’rous as boars bright-tusk’d at nuptial feast,
Or feast convivial of some wealthy Chief.
Thou hast already witness’d many a field
With warriors overspread, slain one by one,
But that dire scene had most thy pity moved,
For we, with brimming beakers at our side,
And underneath full tables bleeding lay.
Blood floated all the pavement. Then the cries
Of Priam’s daughter sounded in my ears
Most pitiable of all. Cassandra’s cries,
Whom Clytemnestra close beside me slew.
Expiring as I lay, I yet essay’d
To grasp my faulchion, but the trayt’ress quick
Withdrew herself, nor would vouchsafe to close
My languid eyes, or prop my drooping chin
Ev’n in the moment when I sought the shades.
So that the thing breathes not, ruthless and fell
As woman once resolv’d on such a deed
Detestable, as my base wife contrived,
The murther of the husband of her youth.
I thought to have return’d welcome to all,
To my own children and domestic train;
But she, past measure profligate, hath poured
Shame on herself, on women yet unborn,
And even on the virtuous of her sex.
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |