Book XVII: Return of Ulysses to His Palace

Now when the rosy-fingered Morn looked forth—The daughter of the Dawn—Telemachus,The dear son of the great Ulysses, boundThe shapely sandals underneath his feet,And took the massive spear that fitted wellHis grasp, and, as he stood in act to goUp to the town, bespake the swineherd thus:—

“Father, I hasten to the town, that thereMy mother may behold me; for I thinkShe will not cease to grieve, and fear, and weep,Till her eyes rest on me. I leave with theeThe charge of leading our unfortunate guestInto the city, there to beg his bread.Whoever will may give him food and drink.All men I cannot feed, and I have caresEnough already. If he chafe at this,The worse for him. I like to speak my mind.”

And thus Ulysses, the sagacious, spake:“Nor do I wish, my friend, to loiter here.Better it is for one like me to begIn town than in the country. In the town,Whoever chooses will bestow his dole;But here, if I remain about the stalls,I am no longer of an age to doAll that a master may require. Go thou;This man, at thy command, will lead me hence,As soon as I have warmed me at the fire,And the air grows milder. This keen morning-coldMay end me, and the way, ye say, is long.”

He ended; from the lodge TelemachusPassed quickly, meditating to destroyThe suitors. Coming to his stately home,He leaned his spear against a column’s shaft,And, crossing the stone threshold, entered in.First Eurycleia, who had been his nurse,Beheld him, as she spread the beautiful thronesWith skins, and ran to him with weeping eyes;And round him other handmaids of the houseOf resolute Ulysses thronged. They gaveFond welcome, kissing him upon the browAnd shoulders. Issuing from her chamber nextThe chaste Penelope, like Dian’s selfIn beauty, or like golden Venus, came,And, weeping, threw her arms about her son,And kissed him on his forehead and on bothHis glorious eyes, and said, amidst her tears:—

“Light of my eyes! O my Telemachus!Art thou, then, come? I never thought againTo see thee, when I heard thou hadst embarkedFor Pylos—secretly, and knowing meUnwilling—in the hope to gather thereSome tidings of thy father. Tell me nowAll that has happened, all that thou hast seen.”

And thus discreet Telemachus replied:“Nay, mother, waken not my griefs again,Nor move my heart to rage. I have just nowEscaped a cruel death. But go and bathe,And put fresh garments on, and when thou com’stInto thy chamber with thy maidens, makeA vow to all the gods that thou wilt burnA sacrifice of chosen hecatombsWhen Jupiter shall have avenged our wrongs.Now must I hasten to the marketplaceIn quest of one who came with me a guestFrom Pylos. Him, with all my faithful crew,I sent before me to this port, and badePiraeus lead him to his own abode,There to be lodged and honored till I came.”

He spake, nor flew his words unheeded by.The princess bathed, and put fresh garments on,And vowed to all the gods a sacrificeOf chosen hecatombs when JupiterShould punish the wrongdoers. While she prayed,Telemachus went forth, his spear in hand.Two fleet dogs followed him. Minerva shedA godlike beauty o’er his form and face,And all the people wondered as he came.The suitors thronged around him with smooth words,Yet plotting mischief in their hearts. He turnedFrom their assembly hastily, and tookHis place where Mentor sat with Antiphus,And Halitherses—all his father’s friendsAnd his from the beginning. While they askedOf all that he had seen, Piraeus came,The famous spearman, bringing through the townThe stranger with him to the marketplace.Nor long Telemachus delayed, but cameTo meet his guest, and then Piraeus said:—

“Telemachus, despatch to where I dwellThy serving-women; I would send to thee,At once, the gifts which Menelaus gave.”

And then discreet Telemachus replied:“We know not yet, Piraeus, what may beThe event; and if the suitors privilyShould slay me in the palace, and divideThe inheritance among them, I preferThat thou, instead of them, shouldst have the gifts;But should they meet the fate which I have planned,And be cut off, then shalt thou gladly bringThe treasures, which I gladly will receive.”

So spake the prince, and to the palace ledThe unhappy man, his guest. When now they reachedThe stately pile, they both laid down their cloaksUpon the benches, and betook themselvesTo the well-polished baths. The attendant maidsThere ministered and smoothed their limbs with oil,And each received a tunic at their hands,And fleecy mantle. Then they left the bathsAnd took their seats. A damsel came, and pouredWater from a fair ewer wrought of goldInto a silver basin for their hands,And spread a polished table near their seats;And there the matron of the household placedBread, and the many dishes which her storesSupplied. The queen was seated opposite,Beside a column of the pile, and twirledA slender spindle, while the son and guestPut forth their hands and shared the meal prepared.And when the calls of hunger and of thirstHad ceased, thus spake the sage Penelope:—

“Telemachus, when I again go upInto my chamber, I shall lay me downUpon the couch which, since Ulysses sailedFor Troy with Atreus’ sons, has been to meA couch of mourning, sprinkled with my tears.And now thou hast not chosen to reveal,Ere yet the haughty suitors throng againInto these halls, what in thy voyage thouHast haply heard concerning his return.”

And thus discreet Telemachus replied:“Then, mother, will I truly tell thee all.We went to Pylos, and saw Nestor there,The shepherd of the people. Kindly heReceived me in his stately home, as oneMight welcome back a wandering son returnedFrom foreign lands. Such welcome I receivedBoth from the king and his illustrious sons.But he had heard, he said, from living man,No tidings of the much-enduring chiefUlysses, whether he were yet aliveOr dead. He therefore sent me with his steedsAnd chariot to the court of Atreus’ son,The warlike Menelaus. There I sawThe Argive Helen, for whose sake the GreeksAnd Trojans, by the appointment of the gods,Suffered so much. The valiant king inquiredWhat wish of mine had brought me to the townOf hallowed Lacedaemon. I replied,And truly told him all, and everythingIn order. Then he answered me, and said:—

“ ‘So then! these men, unwarlike as they are,Aspire to occupy a brave man’s bed,As when a hart hath left two suckling fawns,Just born, asleep in a strong lion’s lair,And roams for pasturage the mountain slopesAnd grassy lawns, the lion suddenlyComes back, and makes a cruel end of both,So will Ulysses bring a sudden doomUpon the suitors. Would to Father Jove,And Pallas, and Apollo, that the chief,Returning mighty, as he was when onceIn well-built Lesbos, at a wrestling-match,He rose to strive with Philomelides,And threw him heavily, and all the GreeksRejoiced—would he might come as then he was!Short-lived would then the suitors be, and tasteA bitter marriage-feast. But now, to comeTo what thou hast inquired, I will not seekTo turn from it, and talk of other things,Nor will deceive. Of all that I was toldBy the Ancient of the Deep, whose words are true,I will not hide a single word from thee.He saw thy father in an isle, he said,A prey to wasting sorrows, and detained,Unwilling, in the palace of the nymphCalypso. To the country of his birthHe cannot come; no ships are there with oarsAnd crew to bear him o’er the great wide sea.’

“Thus Menelaus, mighty with the spear,The son of Atreus, said. And having nowFulfilled my errand, I returned. The godsGave favoring winds, and sent me swiftly home.”

He ended, and the queen was deeply moved.Then Theoclymenus, the godlike, said:—

“O gracious consort of Laertes’ son,King Menelaus knew not all. Hear nowWhat I shall say—for I will prophesy,And truly, nor will keep back aught from thee.Let Jupiter, the mightiest of the gods,And this thy hospitable board, and thisThe hearth of great Ulysses, where I findA refuge, be my witnesses, that nowUlysses is in his own land again,And sits or walks observant of the deedsOf wrong, and planning vengeance, yet to fallOn all the suitors; such the auguryWhich I beheld when in the gallant barqueI sat and told it to Telemachus.”

And thus the sage Penelope replied:“O stranger! may thy saying be fulfilled!Then shalt thou have such thanks and such rewardsThat all who greet thee shall rejoice with thee.”

So talked they with each other. In the spaceBefore the palace of Ulysses stoodThe suitors, pleased with hurling quoits and spearsOn the smooth pavement, where their insolenceSo oft was seen. But when the supper-hourWas near, and from the fields the cattle came,Driven by the herdsmen, Medon—he whom mostThey liked of all the heralds, and who satAmong them at the feast—bespake them thus:—

“Youths! since ye now have had your pastime here,Come in, and help prepare the evening meal;At the due hour a banquet is not ill.”

He spake; the suitors hearkened and obeyed,And rose, and came into the halls, and laidTheir cloaks upon the benches and the thrones,And slaughtered well-fed sheep and fading goats,And made a victim of a pampered brawn,And a stalled ox, preparing for the feast.Meantime Ulysses and that noble hindThe swineherd hastened to begin their walkTo town, and thus the master swineherd spake:—

“Since, stranger, ’tis thy wish to pass todayInto the city, as my master bade—Though I by far prefer that thou remainA guardian of the stalls, yet much I fearMy master, and am sure that he would chide,And harsh the upbraidings of a master are—Let us depart; the day is now far spent,And chill will be the air of eventide.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“Enough; I know; thy words are heard by oneWho understands them. Let us then depart.Lead thou the way; and if thou hast a staff,Cut from the wood to lean on, give it me,Since, as thou say’st, we have a slippery road.”

He spake, and o’er his shoulders flung a scrip,Old, cracked, and hanging by a twisted thong.Eumaeus gave the staff he asked, and bothWent forth; the dogs and herdsmen stayed to guardThe lodge. The swineherd led his master onTownward, a squalid beggar to the sight,And aged, leaning on a staff, and wrappedIn sordid rags. There by the rugged way,As they drew near the town, they passed a fountWrought by the hand of man, and pouring forthIts pleasant streams, from which the citizensDrew water. Ithacus and NeritusFounded it with Polyctor, and a groveOf alders feeding on the moistened earthGrew round it on all sides. The ice-cold rillGushed from a lofty rock, upon whose browAn altar stood, at which the passersbyWorshipped, and laid their offerings for the Nymphs.There did Melanthius, son of Dolius, meetThe twain, as he was driving to the townThe finest goats of all the flocks, to makeA banquet for the suitors; with him wentTwo shepherds, following the flock. As soonAs he beheld Eumaeus and his guest,He railed at them with rude and violent words,That made the anger of Ulysses rise.

“See that vile fellow lead the vile about!Thus ever doth some god join like with like.Thou worthless swineherd! whither wouldst thou takeThis hungry, haunting beggar-man, this pestOf feasts, who at the posts of many a doorAgainst them rubs his shoulders, asking crusts,Tripods or cauldrons never. Shouldst thou leaveThe wretch to me, to watch my stalls, and sweepThe folds, and bring fresh branches to the kids,He might by drinking whey get stouter thighs.But he has learned no good, and will refuseTo work; he better likes to stroll aboutWith that insatiable stomach, asking almsTo fill it. Let me tell thee what is sureTo happen to him, should he ever comeInto the palace of the glorious chiefUlysses. Many a footstool will be flungAround him by the hands of those who sitAs guests, and they will tear the fellow’s sides.”

He spake, and in his folly thrust his heelAgainst the hero’s thigh. The blow moved notUlysses from his path, nor swerved he aught,But meditated whether with a blowOf his good staff to take the fellow’s life,Or lift him in the air and dash his headAgainst the ground. Yet he endured the affrontAnd checked his wrath. The swineherd spake, and chidThe offender, and thus prayed with lifted hands:—

“Nymphs of the fountain, born to Jupiter!If e’er in sacrifice Ulysses burnedTo you the thighs of lambs and goats, o’erlaidWith fat, be pleased to grant the prayer I make,That, guided by some deity, the chiefMay yet return. Then thy rude boasts would cease.Melanthius, which thou utterest in thy wayFrom place to place while wandering through the town.Unfaithful shepherds make a perishing flock.”

Melanthius, keeper of the goats, rejoined:“ ’Tis wonderful how flippant is the cur,And shrewd! But I shall carry him on boardA good black ship, far off from Ithaca,And there will sell him for a goodly price.Would that Apollo of the silver bowMight in the palace slay TelemachusThis very hour, or that the suitors might,As certainly as that the day which bringsUlysses to his home will never dawn!”

He spake, and left them there. They followed onSlowly. Melanthius hastened, and was soonAt the king’s palace gate, and, entering, tookA seat right opposite Eurymachus,Whose favorite he was. The attendants thereBrought meats, the matron of the household bread,And both were set before them. Meantime stoppedUlysses with the noble swineherd nearThe palace, for around them in the airCame the sweet murmurs of a lyre. Just thenPhemius, the minstrel, had begun his song,Ulysses took the swineherd’s hand, and said:—

“Eumaeus, this must be the noble pileIn which Ulysses dwelt, for easily’Tis known among the others that are near.Rooms over rooms are here; around its courtAre walls and battlements, and folding-doorsShut fast the entrance; no man may contemnIts strength. And I perceive that many guestsBanquet within; the smoke of fat goes up,And the sweet lyre is heard; the gods have givenIts music to accompany the feast.”

And then, Eumaeus, thou didst make reply:“Thou speakest rightly, and in other thingsThou art not slow of thought. Now let us thinkWhat we shall do. First enter, if thou wilt,The sumptuous rooms, while I remain without;Or, if it please thee, I will enter first,While thou remainest; yet delay not long,Lest someone, seeing thee, should deal a blow,Or drive thee hence. I pray thee, think of this.”

Ulysses, the great sufferer, answered thus:“Enough; I know; thy words are heard by oneWho understands them. Go before me, then,And leave me here. I am not quite unusedTo blows and stripes, and patient is my mood,For greatly have I suffered, both at seaAnd in the wars; and I submit to bearThis also. But the stomach’s eagernessIs desperate, and is not to be withstood,And many are the mischiefs which it bringsUpon the race of men; it fits out fleetsThat cross the barren deep arrayed for war,And carry death and woe to hostile realms.”

So talked the twain. A dog was lying near,And lifted up his head and pricked his ears.’Twas Argus, which the much-enduring manUlysses long before had reared, but leftUntried, when for the hallowed town of TroyHe sailed. The young men oft had led him forthIn eager chase of wild goats, stags, and hares;But now, his master far away, he layNeglected, just before the stable doors,Amid the droppings of the mules and beeves,Heaped high till carried to the spacious fieldsOf which Ulysses was the lord. There layArgus, devoured with vermin. As he sawUlysses drawing near, he wagged his tailAnd dropped his ears, but found that he could comeNo nearer to his master. Seeing this,Ulysses wiped away a tear unmarkedBy the good swineherd, whom he questioned thus:—

“Eumaeus, this I marvel at—this dog,That lies upon the dunghill, beautifulIn form, but whether in the chase as fleetAs he is fairly shaped I cannot tell.Worthless, perchance, as house-dogs often are,Whose masters keep them for the sake of show.”

And thus, Eumaeus, thou didst make reply:“The dog belongs to one who died afar.Had he the power of limb which once he hadFor feats of hunting when Ulysses sailedFor Troy and left him, thou wouldst be amazedBoth at his swiftness and his strength. No beastIn the thick forest depths which once he saw,Or even tracked by footprints, could escape.And now he is a sufferer, since his lordHas perished far from his own land. No moreThe careless women heed the creature’s wants;For, when the master is no longer near,The servants cease from their appointed tasks,And on the day that one becomes a slaveThe Thunderer, Jove, takes half his worth away.”

He spake, and, entering that fair dwelling-place,Passed through to where the illustrious suitors sat,While over Argus the black night of deathCame suddenly as soon as he had seenUlysses, absent now for twenty years.Telemachus, the godlike, was the firstTo mark the swineherd coming through the hall,And, nodding, called to him. The swineherd lookedAbout him, and beheld a seat on whichThe carver of the feast was wont to sit,Distributing the meats. He bore it thenceAnd placed it opposite Telemachus,And at his table. Then he sat him down,And thither came the herald, bringing himA portion of the feast, and gave him breadFrom the full canister. Soon after himUlysses entered, seemingly an oldAnd wretched beggar, propped upon a staff,And wrapped in sordid weeds. He sat him downOn the ashen threshold, just within the doors,And leaned against a shaft of cypress-wood,Which some artificer had skilfullyWrought by a line, and smoothed. TelemachusCalled to the swineherd, bade him come, and tookA loaf that lay in the fair canister,And all the flesh which his two hands could grasp.

“Bear this to yonder stranger; bid him goAnd ask a dole from every suitor here.No beggar should be bashful in his need.”

He spake, the hind obeyed, and, drawing nearUlysses, said to him in winged words:—

“These from Telemachus, who bids thee askA dole from every suitor, for he saysNo beggar should be bashful in his need.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“May Jove, the sovereign, make TelemachusA happy man among the sons of men,And grant him all his heart desires in life!”

He spake, and took the gift in both his hands,And laid it down upon his tattered scripClose to his feet. Then, while the poet sang,He ate, and, just as he had supped, the bardClosed his divine recital. Then ensuedGreat clamor in the hall, but Pallas cameAnd moved Ulysses to arise, and askFrom every suitor there a dole of bread,That he might know the better from the worse,Though none were to be spared. From right to leftHe took his way, and asked of every man,With outstretched hand, as if he had been longA beggar. And they pitied him, and gave,And looked at him with wonder, and inquiredOne of another who he was, and whence.Then spake Melanthius, keeper of the goats:—

“Give ear, ye suitors of the illustrious queen.As to this stranger, I have seen him once.The swineherd brought him; but I know him not,And of what race he is I cannot tell.”

He spake; Antinoüs chid the swineherd thus:“Why hast thou brought him, too well known thyself?Have we not vagabonds enough? enoughOf sturdy beggars, pests of every feast.Or is it a light matter that they throngHither to waste the substance of thy lord,And therefore thou art with this fellow here?”

And thus, Eumaeus, thou didst make reply:“Antinoüs, high as is thy station, thouHast spoken ill. What man goes ever forthTo bid a stranger to his house, unlessThe stranger be of those whose office isTo serve the people, be he seer, or leech,Or architect, or poet heaven-inspired,Whose song is gladly heard? All these are calledTo feasts wherever men are found; but noneCall in the poor, to live upon their means.Antinoüs, thou, of all the suitor-train,Dost ever with the greatest harshness treatThe servants of Ulysses, chiefly me.I heed it not while sage PenelopeDwells in the palace with her godlike son.”

Then interposed discreet Telemachus:“Nay, have no strife of words with him, I pray.Antinoüs takes delight in bitter words,And rails, and stirs up railing in the rest.”And then he turned, and thus with winged wordsBespake Antinoüs: “Truly thou dost careFor me as might a father for a son,Bidding me drive a stranger from my doorWith violent words—which God forbid. Take nowSomewhat and give to him. I grudge it not,Nay, I advise it. Fear not to offendMy mother, or displease a single oneOf all the household of the godlike chief,Ulysses. But thou hast not thought of this.It suits thee best to feast and never give.”

Antinoüs thus rejoined: “O uttererOf big and braggart words! Telemachus,If all the other suitors would bestowAs much as I will, he would not be seenWithin these halls for three months yet to come.”

So speaking, he brought forward to the sight,From underneath the board, a stool, on whichRested his dainty feet. The others allGave somewhat to Ulysses, till his scripWas filled with meat and bread. Then as he wentBack to the threshold, there to feast on whatThe Greeks had given him in his rounds, he stoppedBeside Antinoüs, and bespake him thus:—

“Give somewhat also, friend. Thou dost not seemOne of the humbler rank among the Greeks,But of the highest. Kingly is thy look;It therefore will become thee to bestowMore freely than the rest, and I will soundThy praise through all the earth. Mine too was onceA happy lot, for I inhabitedA palace filled with goods, and often gaveTo wanderers, whosoever they might beThat sought me out, and in whatever need.And I had many servants, and large storeOf everything by which men live at easeAnd are accounted rich. Saturnian Jove—Such was his pleasure—brought me low; for, movedBy him, I joined me to a wandering bandOf pirates, and to my perdition sailedUpon a distant voyage to the coastOf Egypt. In the river of that landI stationed my good ships, and bade my menRemain with them and watch them well. I placedSentries upon the heights. Yet confidentIn their own strength, and rashly giving wayTo greed, my comrades ravaged the fair fieldsOf the Egyptians, slew them, and bore offTheir wives and little ones. The rumor reachedThe city soon; the people heard the alarmAnd came together. With the dawn of dayAll the great plain was thronged with horse and foot,And gleamed with brass, while Jove, the Thunderer, sentA deadly fear into our ranks, where noneDared face the foe. On every side was death.The Egyptians hewed down many with the sword,And some they led away alive to toilFor them in slavery. Me my captors gaveInto a stranger’s hands, upon his wayTo Cyprus, where he reigned, a mighty king,Demetor, son of Jasus. Thence at lastI came through many hardships to this isle.”

Antinoüs lifted up his voice, and said:“What god hath sent this nuisance to disturbThe banquet? Take thyself to the mid-hall,Far from thy table, else expect to seeAn Egypt and a Cyprus of a sortThat thou wilt little like. Thou art a boldAnd shameless beggar. Thou dost take thy roundAnd ask from each, and foolishly they give,And spare not nor consider; well suppliedIs each, and freely gives what is not his.”

Then sage Ulysses said as he withdrew:“ ’Tis strange; thy mind agrees not with thy form.Thou wouldst not give a suppliant even saltIn thine own house—thou who, while sitting hereFed at another’s table, canst not bearTo give me bread from thy well-loaded board.”

He spake. Antinoüs grew more angry still,And frowned and answered him with winged words:—

“Dealer in saucy words! I hardly thinkThat thou wilt leave this palace unchastised.”

He spake, and raised the footstool in his hand,And smote Ulysses on the lower partOf the right shoulder. Like a rock he stood,Unmoved beneath the blow Antinoüs gave,But shook his head in silence as he thoughtOf vengeance. Then, returning, he sat downUpon the threshold, where he laid his scripWell filled, and thus bespake the suitor-train:—

“Hear me, ye suitors of the illustrious queen.Grief or resentment no man feels for blowsReceived by him while fighting for his own—His beeves or white-woolled sheep. But this man here,Antinoüs, dealt that blow on me becauseI have an empty stomach; hunger bringsGreat mischiefs upon men. If there be godsOr furies who avenge the poor, may deathO’ertake Antinoüs ere his marriage-day!”

He ended. Then again Eupeithes’ son,Antinoüs, spake: “Eat, stranger, quietly;Sit still, or get thee hence; our young men elseWho hear thy words will seize thee by the feetOr hands, and drag thee forth and flay thee there.”

He spake, and greatly were the rest incensed,And one of those proud youths took up the word:—

“Antinoüs, it was ill of thee to smiteThat hapless wanderer. Madman! what if heCame down from heaven and were a god! The godsPut on the form of strangers from afar,And walk our towns in many different shapes,To mark the good and evil deeds of men.”

Thus spake the suitors, but he heeded notTheir words. Telemachus, who saw the blow,Felt his heart swell with anger and with grief,Yet from his eyelids fell no tear; he shookHis head in silence, pondering to repayThe wrong. Meantime the sage PenelopeHeard of the stranger smitten in her halls,And thus bespake the maidens of her train:—

“Would that Apollo, mighty with the bow,Might smite thee also!” Then Eurynomè,The matron of the household, said in turn:

“O, were our prayers but heard, not one of theseShould look upon the golden morn again!”

Then spake again the sage Penelope:“Mother, they all are hateful; every onePlots mischief, but Antinoüs most of all;And he is like black death, to be abhorred.A friendless stranger passes through these halls,Compelled by need, and asks an alms of each,And all the others give, and fill his scrip;Antinoüs flings a footstool, and the blowBruises the shoulder of the suppliant man.”

So talked they with each other where they satIn the queen’s chamber, mid the attendant trainOf women, while meantime Ulysses tookThe evening meal. The queen then bade to callThe noble swineherd, and bespake him thus:—

“My worthy friend Eumaeus, go and bringThe stranger hither. I would speak with him,And ask if anywhere he saw or heardAught of Ulysses; for he seems like oneWhose wanderings have been in many lands.”

And thus, Eumaeus, thou didst make reply:“Would that these Greeks, O queen, would hold their peace,Then might this stranger in thy hearing speakWords full of consolation. For three nightsI had him with me, for three days I madeMy lodge his home—for at the very firstHe came to me, escaping from his ship—Nor when he left me had he told of allThat he had suffered. As a hearer looksUpon a minstrel whom the gods have taughtTo sing the poems that delight all hearts,And, listening, longs to listen without end;So, as the stranger sat beneath my roof,He held me charmed. He was the ancestral friend,He said, of thy Ulysses, and his homeWas Crete, where dwells the stock of Minos yet.From Crete he came, and much had suffered since,Driven on from place to place. And he had heardSome tidings of Ulysses yet alive—So he affirmed—in a rich region nearThe realm of the Thesprotians, and preparedTo bring much riches to his native isle.”

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Go, call him hither, that he may relateHis story in my presence. Let these men,As it may please them, sitting at our gatesOr in our halls, amuse themselves, for lightAre they of heart. Unwasted in their homesLie their possessions, and their bread and wineAre only for their servants, while themselvesFrequent our palace, day by day, and slayOur beeves and sheep and fatling goats, and feast,And drink abundantly the dark red wine,And all with lavish waste. No man is here,Such as Ulysses was, to drive awayThis pest from our abode. Should he returnTo his own land, he and his son would takeSwift vengeance on the men who do him wrong.”

She ended. Suddenly TelemachusSneezed loudly, so that all the palace rang;And, laughing as she heard, PenelopeBespake Eumaeus thus with winged words:—

“Go, call the stranger. Dost thou not perceiveMy son has sneezed as to confirm my words.Not unfulfilled will now remain the doomThat waits the suitors; none will now escapeDeath and the Fates. This further let me say,And thou remember it; if what he tellsBe true, I will bestow on him a changeOf fair attire, a tunic and a cloak.”

She spake, the swineherd went, and, drawing nearUlysses, said to him in winged words:—

“Stranger and father, sage Penelope,The mother of the prince, hath sent for thee.Though sorrowing, she is minded to inquireWhat of her husband thou canst haply say;And should she find that all thy words are true,She will bestow a tunic and a cloak,Garments which much thou needest. For thy food,What will appease thy hunger thou wilt findAmong the people; ask, and each will give.”

Ulysses, much-enduring man, replied:“Eumaeus, faithfully will I declareAll that I know to sage Penelope,The daughter of Icarius. Well I knewHer husband, and with like calamitiesWe both have suffered. But I greatly dreadThis reckless suitor-crew, whose riotous actsAnd violence reach to the iron heavens.Even now, when that man dealt me, as I passed,A painful blow, though I had done no harm,None interposed, not even Telemachus,In my defence. Now, therefore, ask, I pray,Penelope that she will deign to waitTill sunset in her rooms, though strong her wishTo hear my history. Of her husband then,And his return, she may inquire, while ISit by the blazing hearth; for scant have beenMy garments, as thou knowest, since the dayWhen first I came, a suppliant, to thy door.”

He spake; the swineherd went, and as he crossedThe threshold of Penelope she said:—

“Thou bringst him not, Eumaeus? What may beThe wanderer’s scruple? Fear of someone here?Or in a palace is he filled with awe?To be a bashful beggar is most hard.”

And thus, Eumaeus, thou didst answer her:“Rightly he speaks, and just as one would thinkWho shuns the encounter of disorderly men.He prays that thou wilt wait till set of sun;And better were it for thyself, O queen,To speak with him and hear his words alone.”

Then spake discreet Penelope again:“Whoe’er may be the stranger, not unwiseHe seems; for nowhere among men are doneSuch deeds of wrong and outrage as by these.”

She spake, and the good swineherd, having toldThe lady all, went forth among the crowdOf suitors, drawing near Telemachus,And bowed his head beside him that none elseMight hear, and said to him in winged words:—

“I go, my friend, to tend the swine and guardWhat there thou hast, thy sustenance and mine.The charge of what is here belongs to thee.Be thy first care to save thyself, and watchTo see that mischief overtake thee not—For many are the Achaians plotting it,Whom Jove destroy ere we become their prey!”

Then spake discreet Telemachus in turn:“So be it, father, and, when thou hast supped,Depart, but with the morning come, and bringChoice victims for the sacrifice. The careOf all things here is with the gods and me.”

He spake; the swineherd sat him down againUpon his polished seat, and satisfiedHis appetite and thirst with food and wine.Then he departed to his herd, and leftThe palace and the court before it throngedWith revellers, who gave the hour to song,And joined the dance; for evening now was come.