Improvident, had left behind, no thought
Conceiving of a season so severe;
Shield and belt, therefore, and nought else had I.
The night, at last, nigh spent, and all the stars
Declining in their course, with elbow thrust
Against Ulysses’ side I roused the Chief,
And thus address’d him ever prompt to hear.
I freeze to death. Help me, or I am lost.
No cloak have I; some evil dæmon, sure,
Beguil’d me of all prudence, that I came
Thus sparely clad; I shall, I must expire.
And counsel both, the remedy at once
Devised, and thus, low-whisp’ring, answer’d me.
And leaning on his elbow, spake aloud.
Hath reach’d me, for we lie far from the ships.
Haste, therefore, one of you, with my request
To Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, our Chief,
That he would reinforce us from the camp.
Thoas arose, who, casting off his cloak,
Ran thence toward the ships, and folded warm
Within it, there lay I till dawn appear’d.
Oh for the vigour of such youth again!
Then, some good peasant here, either for love
Or for respect, would cloak a man like me,
Whom, now, thus sordid in attire ye scorn.
My ancient guest! I cannot but approve
Thy narrative, nor hast thou utter’d aught
Unseemly, or that needs excuse. No want
Of raiment, therefore, or of aught beside
Needful to solace penury like thine,
Shall harm thee here; yet, at the peep of dawn
Gird thy own tatters to thy loins again;
For we have no great store of cloaks to boast,
Or change of vests, but singly one for each.
But when Ulysses’ son shall once arrive,
He will himself with vest and mantle both
Cloath thee, and send thee whither most thou would’st.
To the hearth-side, spreading it thick with skins
Of sheep and goats; then lay the Hero down,
O’er whom a shaggy mantle large he threw,
Which oft-times served him with a change, when rough
The winter’s blast and terrible arose.
So was Ulysses bedded, and the youths
Slept all beside him; but the master-swain
Chose not his place of rest so far remote
From his rude charge, but to the outer court
With his nocturnal furniture, repair’d,
Gladd’ning Ulysses’ heart that one so true
In his own absence kept his rural stores.
Athwart his sturdy shoulders, first, he flung
His faulchion keen, then wrapp’d him in a cloak
Thick-woven, winter-proof; he lifted, next,
The skin of a well-thriven goat, in bulk
Surpassing others, and his javelin took
Sharp-pointed, with which dogs he drove and men.
Thus arm’d, he sought his wonted couch beneath
A hollow rock where the herd slept, secure
From the sharp current of the Northern blast.
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