With head-strokes rude, and the floor swam with blood.
Such, royal Agamemnon! was the fate
By which we perish’d all whose bodies lie
Unburied still, and in Ulysses’ house,
For tidings none have yet our friends alarm’d
And kindred, who might cleanse from sable gore
Our clotted wounds, and mourn us on the bier,
Which are the rightful privilege of the dead.
Oh happy offspring of Laertes! shrewd
Ulysses! matchless valour thou hast shewn
Recov’ring thus thy wife; nor less appears
The virtue of Icarius’ daughter wise,
The chaste Penelope, so faithful found
To her Ulysses, husband of her youth.
His glory, by superior merit earn’d,
Shall never die, and the immortal Gods
Shall make Penelope a theme of song
Delightful in the ears of all mankind.
Not such was Clytemnestra, daughter vile
Of Tyndarus; she shed her husband’s blood,
And shall be chronicled in song a wife
Of hateful memory, by whose offence
Even the virtuous of her sex are shamed.
Of Pluto’s house, conferring mutual stood.
Ulysses, by his son and by his swains
Follow’d, arrived at the delightful farm
Which old Laertes had with strenuous toil
Himself long since acquired. There stood his house
Encompass’d by a bow’r in which the hinds
Who served and pleased him, ate, and sat, and slept.
An ancient woman, a Sicilian, dwelt
There also, who in that sequester’d spot
Attended diligent her aged Lord.
Then thus Ulysses to his followers spake.
The best for our regale; myself, the while,
Will prove my father, if his eye hath still
Discernment of me, or if absence long
Have worn the knowledge of me from his mind.
His arms; they swift proceeded to the house.
And to the fruitful grove himself as swift
To prove his father. Down he went at once
Into the spacious garden-plot, but found
Nor Dolius there, nor any of his sons
Or servants; they were occupied elsewhere,
And, with the ancient hind himself, employ’d
Collecting thorns with which to fence the grove.
In that umbrageous spot he found alone
Laertes, with his hoe clearing a plant;
Sordid his tunic was with many a patch
Mended unseemly; leathern were his greaves,
Thong-tied and also patch’d, a frail defence
Against sharp thorns, while gloves secured his hands
From briar-points, and on his head he bore
A goat-skin casque, nourishing hopeless woe.
No sooner then the Hero toil-inured
Saw him age-worn and wretched, than he paused
Beneath a lofty pear-tree’s shade to weep.
There standing much he mused, whether, at once,
Kissing and clasping in his arms his sire,
To tell him all, by what means he had reach’d
His native country, or to prove him first.
At length, he chose as his best course, with words
Of seeming strangeness to accost his ear,
And, with that purpose, moved direct toward him.
He, stooping low, loosen’d the earth around
A garden-plant, when his illustrious son
Now, standing close beside him, thus began.
Of culture, but thy garden thrives; I mark
In all thy ground no plant, fig, olive, vine,
Pear-tree or flow’r-bed suff’ring through neglect.
But let it not offend thee if I say
That thou neglect’st thyself, at the same time
Oppress’d with age, sun-parch’d and ill-attired.
Not for thy inactivity, methinks,
Thy master slights thee thus, nor speaks thy form
Or thy surpassing stature servile aught
In thee, but thou resemblest more a King.
Yes—thou resemblest one who, bathed and fed,
Should softly sleep; such is the claim of age.
But tell me true—for whom labourest thou,
And whose this garden? answer me beside,
For I would learn; have I indeed arrived
In Ithaca, as one whom here I met
Ev’n now assured me, but who seem’d a man
Not overwise, refusing both to hear
My questions, and to answer when I ask’d
Concerning one in other days my guest
And friend, if he have still his being here,
Or have deceas’d and journey’d to the shades.
For I will tell thee; therefore mark. Long since
A stranger reach’d my house in my own land,
Whom I with hospitality receiv’d,
Nor ever sojourn’d foreigner with me
Whom I lov’d more. He was by birth, he said,
Ithacan, and Laertes claim’d his sire,
Son of Arcesias. Introducing him
Beneath my roof, I entertain’d him well
And proved by gifts his welcome at my board.
I gave him seven talents of wrought gold,
A goblet, argent all, with flow’rs emboss’d,
Twelve single cloaks, twelve carpets, mantles twelve
Of brightest lustre, with as many vests,
And added four fair damsels, whom he chose
Himself, well born and well accomplish’d all.
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