Disclose thyself to thy own son, that, death
Concerting and destruction to your foes,
Ye may the royal city seek, nor long
Shall ye my presence there desire in vain,
For I am ardent to begin the fight.
Touch’d him; his mantle, first, and vest she made
Pure as new- blanch’d; dilating, next, his form,
She gave dimensions ampler to his limbs;
Swarthy again his manly hue became,
Round his full face, and black his bushy chin.
The change perform’d, Minerva disappear’d,
And the illustrious Hero turn’d again
Into the cottage; wonder at that sight
Seiz’d on Telemachus; askance he look’d,
Awe-struck, not unsuspicious of a God,
And in wing’d accents eager thus began.
Nor are thy cloaths, nor is thy port the same.
Thou art a God, I know, and dwell’st in heav’n.
Oh, smile on us, that we may yield thee rites
Acceptable, and present thee golden gifts
Elaborate; ah spare us, Pow’r divine!
I am no God. Why deem’st thou me divine?
I am thy father, for whose sake thou lead’st
A life of woe, by violence oppress’d.
Tears trickled, tears till then, perforce restrained.
Telemachus, (for he believed him not
His father yet) thus, wond’ring, spake again.
But some Divinity beguiles my soul
With mock’ries to afflict me still the more;
For never mortal man could so have wrought
By his own pow’r; some interposing God
Alone could render thee both young and old,
For old thou wast of late, and foully clad,
But wear’st the semblance, now, of those in heav’n!
Telemachus! it is not well, my son!
That thou should’st greet thy father with a face
Of wild astonishment, and stand aghast.
Ulysses, save myself, none comes, be sure.
Such as thou seest, after ten thousand woes
Which I have borne, I visit once again
My native country in the twentieth year.
This wonder Athenæan Pallas wrought,
She cloath’d me even with what form she would,
For so she can. Now poor I seem and old,
Now young again, and clad in fresh attire.
The Gods who dwell in yonder heav’n, with ease
Dignify or debase a mortal man.
His arms around his father’s neck, and wept.
Desire intense of lamentation seized
On both; soft murmurs utt’ring, each indulged
His grief, more frequent wailing than the bird,
(Eagle, or hook-nail’d vulture) from whose nest
Some swain hath stol’n her yet unfeather’d young.
So from their eyelids they big drops distill’d
Of tend’rest grief, nor had the setting sun
Cessation of their weeping seen, had not
Telemachus his father thus address’d.
My father! and what country boast the crew?
For, that on foot thou not arriv’dst, is sure.
My son! I will explicit all relate.
Conducted by Phæacia’s maritime sons
I came, a race accustom’d to convey
Strangers who visit them across the Deep.
Me, o’er the billows in a rapid bark
Borne sleeping, on the shores of Ithaca
They lay’d; rich gifts they gave me also, brass,
Gold in full bags, and beautiful attire,
Which, warn’d from heav’n, I have in caves conceal’d.
By Pallas prompted, hither I repair’d
That we might plan the slaughter of our foes,
Whose numbers tell me now, that I may know
How pow’rful, certainly, and who they are,
And consultation with my dauntless heart
May hold, if we be able to contend
Ourselves with all, or must have aid beside.
My father! thy renown hath ever rung
In thy son’s ears, and by report thy force
In arms, and wisdom I have oft been told.
But terribly thou speak’st; amazement-fixt
I hear; can two a multitude oppose,
And valiant warriors all? for neither ten
Are they, nor twenty, but more num’rous far.
Learn, now, their numbers. Fifty youths and two
Came from Dulichium; they are chosen men,
And six attendants follow in their train;
From Samos twenty youths and four arrive,
Zacynthus also of Achaia’s sons
Sends twenty more, and our own island adds,
Herself, her twelve chief rulers; Medon,
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