Though brief, for soon the hour of soft repose
Grateful to all, and even to the sad
Whom gentle sleep forsakes not, will arrive.
But heav’n to me immeasurable woe
Assigns,—whose sole delight is to consume
My days in sighs, while here retired I sit,
Watching my maidens’ labours and my own;
But (night return’d, and all to bed retired)
I press mine also, yet with deep regret
And anguish lacerated, even there.
As when at spring’s first entrance, her sweet song
The azure-crested nightingale renews,
Daughter of Pandarus; within the grove’s
Thick foliage perch’d, she pours her echoing voice
Now deep, now clear, still varying the strain
With which she mourns her Itylus, her son
By royal Zethus, whom she, erring, slew,
So also I, by soul-distressing doubts
Toss’d ever, muse if I shall here remain
A faithful guardian of my son’s affairs,
My husband’s bed respecting, and not less
My own fair fame, or whether I shall him
Of all my suitors follow to his home
Who noblest seems, and offers richest dow’r.
My son while he was infant yet, and own’d
An infant’s mind, could never give consent
That I should wed and leave him; but at length,
Since he hath reached the stature of a man,
He wishes my departure hence, the waste
Viewing indignant by the suitors made.
But I have dream’d. Hear, and expound my dream.
My geese are twenty, which within my walls
I feed with sodden wheat; they serve to amuse
Sometimes my sorrow. From the mountains came
An eagle, huge, hook-beak’d, brake all their necks,
And slew them; scatter’d on the palace- floor
They lay, and he soar’d swift into the skies.
Dream only as it was, I wept aloud,
Till all my maidens, gather’d by my voice,
Arriving, found me weeping still, and still
Complaining, that the eagle had at once
Slain all my geese. But, to the palace-roof
Stooping again, he sat, and with a voice
Of human sound, forbad my tears, and said—
Icarius! no vain dream thou hast beheld,
But, in thy sleep, a truth. The slaughter’d geese
Denote thy suitors. I who have appear’d
An eagle in thy sight, am yet indeed
Thy husband, who have now, at last, return’d,
Death, horrid death designing for them all.
An anxious look around, and saw my geese
Beside their tray, all feeding as before.
O Queen! it is not possible to miss
Thy dream’s plain import, since Ulysses’ self
Hath told thee the event; thy suitors all
Must perish; not one suitor shall escape.
Dreams are inexplicable, O my guest!
And oft-times mere delusions that receive
No just accomplishment. There are two gates
Through which the fleeting phantoms pass; of horn
Is one, and one of ivory. Such dreams
As through the thin-leaf’d iv’ry portal come
Soothe, but perform not, utt’ring empty sounds;
But such as through the polish’d horn escape,
If, haply seen by any mortal eye,
Prove faithful witnesses, and are fulfill’d.
But through those gates my wond’rous dream, I think,
Came not; thrice welcome were it else to me
And to my son. Now mark my words; attend.
This is the hated morn that from the house
Removes me of Ulysses. I shall fix,
This day, the rings for trial to them all
Of archership; Ulysses’ custom was
To plant twelve spikes, all regular arranged
Like galley-props, and crested with a ring,
Then standing far remote, true in his aim
He with his whizzing shaft would third them all.
This is the contest in which now I mean
To prove the suitors; him, who with most ease
Shall bend the bow, and shoot through all the rings,
I follow, this dear mansion of my youth
Leaving, so fair, so fill’d with ev’ry good,
Though still to love it even in my dreams.
Consort reversed of Laertiades!
Postpone not this contention, but appoint
Forthwith the trial; for Ulysses here
Will sure arrive, ere they, (his polish’d bow
Long tamp’ring) shall prevail to stretch the nerve,
And speed the arrow through the iron rings.
Would’st thou with thy sweet converse, O my guest!
Here sooth me still, sleep ne’er should influence
These eyes the while; but always to resist
Sleep’s pow’r is not for man, to whom the Gods
Each circumstances of his condition here
Fix universally. Myself will seek
My own apartment at the palace-top,
And there will lay me down on my sad couch,
For such it hath been, and with tears of mine
Ceaseless bedew’d, e’er since Ulysses went
To that bad city, never to be named.
There will I sleep; but sleep thou here below,
Either, thyself, preparing on the ground
Thy couch, or on a couch by these prepared.
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