The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (98 page)

This shady mountain. They, in fear, obey’d,

Slew all the beeves, and to the godhead pray’d,

The dukes and princes all ensphering round

The sacred altar; while whose tops were crown’d,

Divine Ulysses, on his country’s breast

Laid bound in sleep, now rose out of his rest,

Nor (being so long remov’d) the region knew.

Besides which absence, yet Minerva threw

A cloud about him, to make strange the more

His safe arrival, lest upon his shore

He should make known his face, and utter all

That might prevent th’ event that was to fall.

Which she prepar’d so well, that not his wife,

Presented to him, should perceive his life –

No citizen, no friend, till righteous fate

Upon the wooers’ wrongs were consummate.

Through which cloud all things show’d now to the king

Of foreign fashion; the enflower’d spring

Amongst the trees there, the perpetual waves,

The rocks, that did more high their foreheads raise

To his rapt eye than naturally they did,

And all the hav’n, in which a man seem’d hid

From wind and weather, when storms loudest chid.

He therefore, being risen, stood and view’d

His country earth; which, not perceiv’d, he ru’d,

And, striking with his hurl’d-down hands his thighs,

He mourn’d, and said: ‘O me! Again where lies

My desert way? To wrongful men and rude,

And with no laws of human right endu’d?

Or are they human, and of holy minds?

What fits my deed with these so many kinds

Of goods late giv
’
n? What with myself will floods

And errors do? I would to god, these goods

Had rested with their owners, and that I

Had fall’n on kings of more regality,

To grace out my return, that lov’d indeed,

And would have giv’n me consorts of fit speed

To my distresses’ ending! But, as now,

All knowledge flies me, where I may bestow

My labour’d purchase. Here they shall not stay,

Lest what I car’d for others make their prey.

O gods! I see the great Phaeacians then

Were not all just and understanding men,

That land me elsewhere than their vaunts pretended,

Assuring me my country should see ended

My miseries told them, yet now eat their vaunts.

O Jove! Great guardian of poor suppliants,

That others sees, and notes too, shutting in

All in thy plagues, that most presume on sin,

Revenge me on them. Let me number now

The goods they gave, to give my mind to know

If they have stol’n none, in their close retreat.’

The goodly cauldrons then, and tripods, set

In sev’ral ranks from out the heap, he told,

His rich wrought garments too, and all his gold,

And nothing lack’d; and yet this man did mourn

The but suppos’d miss of his home-return –

And creeping to the shore, with much complaint,

Minerva (like a shepherd, young and quaint,

As king
’
s sons are, a double mantle cast

Athwart his shoulders, his fair goers grac’d

With fitted shoes, and in his hand a dart)

Appear’d to him, whose sight rejoic’d his heart;

To whom he came, and said: ‘O friend! Since first

I meet your sight here, be all good the worst

That can join our encounter. Fare you fair,

Nor with adverse mind welcome my repair,

But guard these goods of mine, and succour me.

As to a god I offer pray’rs to thee,

And low access make to thy loved knee.

Say truth, that I may know, what country then,

What common people live here, and what men?

Some famous isle is this? Or gives it vent,

Being near the sea, to some rich continent?’

She answer’d: ‘Stranger, whatsoe’er you are,

Y’ are either foolish, or come passing far,

That know not this isle, and make that doubt trouble,

For ’tis not so exceedingly ignoble,

But passing many know it; and so many,

That of all nations there abides not any,

From where the morning rises and the sun,

To where the ev’n and night their courses run,

But know this country. Rocky ’tis, and rough,

And so for use of horse unapt enough,

Yet with sad barrenness not much infested,

Since clouds are here in frequent rains digested,

And flow’ry dews. The compass is not great,

The little yet well-fill’d with wine and wheat.

It feeds a goat and ox well, being still

Water’d with floods, that ever over-fill

With heav’n’s continual showers; and wooded so,

It makes a spring of all the kinds that grow.

And therefore, stranger, the extended name

Of this dominion makes access by fame

From this extreme part of Achaia

As far as Ilion, and ’tis Ithaca.’

This joy’d him much, that so unknown a land

Turn’d to his country. Yet so wise a hand

He carried, ev’n of this joy, flown so high,

That other end he put to his reply

Than straight to show that joy, and lay abroad

His life to strangers. Therefore he bestow’d

A veil on truth; for evermore did wind

About his bosom a most crafty mind,

Which thus his words show’d: ‘I have far at sea,

In spacious Crete, heard speak of Ithaca,

Of which myself, it seems, now reach the shore,

With these my fortunes; whose whole value more

I left in Crete amongst my children there,

From whence I fly for being the slaughterer

Of royal Idomen’s most loved son,

Swift-foot Orsilochus, that could out-run

Profess’d men for the race. Yet him I slew,

Because he would deprive me of my due

In Trojan prise; for which I suffer’d so

(The rude waves piercing) the redoubled woe

Of mind and body in the wars of men.

Nor did I gratify his father then

With any service, but, as well as he

Sway’d in command of other soldiery,

So, with a friend withdrawn, we waylaid him,

When gloomy night the cope of heav
’
n did dim,

And no man knew; but, we lodged close, he came,

And I put out to him his vital flame.

Whose slaughter having author’d with my sword,

I instant flight made, and straight fell aboard

A ship of the renown’d Phoenician state;

When pray’r, and pay at a sufficient rate,

Obtain’d my pass of men in her command;

Whom I enjoin’d to set me on the land

Of Pylos, or of Elis the divine,

Where the Epeians in great empire shine.

But force of weather check’d that course to them,

Though (loath to fail me) to their most extreme

They spent their willing pow’rs. But, forc’d from thence,

We err’d, and put in here, with much expence

Of care and labour, and in dead of night,

When no man there serv’d any appetite

So much as with the memory of food,

Though our estates exceeding needy stood.

But, going ashore, we lay; when gentle sleep

My weary powers invaded, and from ship

They fetching these my riches, with just hand

About me laid them, while upon the sand

Sleep bound my senses; and for Sidon they

(Put off from hence) made sail, while here I lay,

Left sad alone.’ The goddess laugh’d, and took

His hand in hers, and with another look

(Assuming then the likeness of a dame,

Lovely and goodly, expert in the frame

Of virtuous housewi
f
’
ries) she answer’d thus:

‘He should be passing sly, and covetous

Of stealth, in men’s deceits, that coted thee

In any craft, though any god should be

Ambitious to exceed in subtilty.

Thou still-wit-varying wretch! Insatiate

In over-reaches! Not secure thy state

Without these wiles, though on thy native shore

Thou sett’st safe footing, but upon thy store

Of false words still spend, that ev’n from thy birth

Have been thy best friends? Come, our either worth

Is known to either. Thou of men art far,

For words and counsels, the most singular,

But I above the gods in both may boast

My still-tried faculties. Yet thou hast lost

The knowledge ev’n of me, the seed of Jove,

Pallas Athenia, that have still out-strove

In all thy labours their extremes, and stood

Thy sure guard ever, making all thy good

Known to the good Phaeacians, and receiv’d.

And now again I greet thee, to see weav’d

Fresh counsels for thee, and will take on me

The close reserving of these goods for thee,

Which the renown’d Phaeacian states bestow’d

At thy deduction homewards, only mov’d

With my both spirit and counsel. All which grace

I now will amplify, and tell what case

Thy household stands in, uttering all those pains

That of mere need yet still must wrack thy veins.

Do thou then freely bear, nor one word give

To man nor dame to show thou yet dost live,

But silent suffer over all again

Thy sorrows past, and bear the wrongs of men.’

‘Goddess,’ said he, ‘unjust men, and unwise,

That author injuries and vanities,

By vanities and wrongs should rather be

Bound to this ill-abearing destiny,

Than just and wise men. What delight hath heav’n,

That lives unhurt itself, to suffer giv’n

Up to all domage those poor few that strive

To imitate it, and like the deities live?

But where you wonder that I know you not

Through all your changes, that skill is not got

By sleight or art, since thy most hard-hit face

Is still distingtush’d by thy free-giv
’
n grace;

And therefore, truly, to acknowledge thee

In thy encounters, is a mastery

In men most knowing; for to all men thou

Tak’st several likeness. All men think they know

Thee in their wits; but, since thy seeming view

Appears to all, and yet thy truth to few,

Through all thy changes to discern thee right

Asks chief love to thee, and inspired light.

But this I surely know, that, some years past,

I have been often with thy presence grac’d,

All time the sons of Greece waged war at Troy;

But when fate’s full hour let our swords enjoy

Our vows in sack of Priam’s lofty town,

Our ships all boarded, and when god had blown

Our fleet in sunder, I could never see

The seed of Jove, nor once distinguish’d thee

Boarding my ship, to take one woe from me.

But only in my proper spirit involv’d,

Err’d here and there, quite slain, till heav’n dissolv’d

Me, and my ill; which chanc’d not, till thy grace

By open speech confirm’d me, in a place

Fruitful of people, where, in person, thou

Didst give me guide, and all their city show;

And that was the renown’d Phaeacian earth.

Now then, even by the author of thy birth,

Vouchsafe my doubt the truth (for far it flies

My thoughts that thus should fall into mine eyes

Conspicuous Ithaca, but fear I touch

At some far shore, and that thy wit is such

Thou dost delude me) is it sure the same

Most honour’d earth that bears my country’s name?’

‘I see,’ said she, ‘thou wilt be ever thus

In every worldly good incredulous,

And therefore have no more the pow
’
r to see

Frail life more plagu’d with infelicity

In one so eloquent, ingenious, wise.

Another man, that so long miseries

Had kept from his lov’d home, and thus return’d

To see his house, wife, children, would have burn’d

In headlong lust to visit. Yet t’ inquire

What states they hold, affects not thy desire,

Till thou hast tried if in thy wife there be

A sorrow wasting days and nights for thee

In loving tears, that then the sight may prove

A full reward for either’s mutual love.

But I would never credit in you both

Least cause of sorrow, but well knew the troth

Of this thine own return, though all thy friends,

I knew as well, should make returnless ends;

Yet would not cross mine uncle Neptune so

To stand their safeguard, since so high did go

His wrath for thy extinction of the eye

Of his lov’d son. Come then, I’ll show thee why

I call this isle thy Ithaca, to ground

Thy credit on my words: this hav’n is own’d

By th’ aged sea-god Phorcys, in whose brow

This is the olive with the ample bough;

And here, close by, the pleasant-shaded cave

That to the fount-nymphs th’ Ithacensians gave,

As sacred to their pleasures. Here doth run

The large and cover’d den, where thou hast done

Hundreds of offerings to the Naiades.

Here Mount Neritus shakes his curled tress

Of shady woods.’ This said, she clear’d the cloud

That first deceiv’d his eyes; and all things show’d

His country to him. Glad he stood with sight

Of his lov’d soil, and kiss’d it with delight.

And instantly to all the nymphs he paid

(With hands held up to heav’n) these vows, and said:

‘Ye nymphs the Naiades, great seed of Jove,

I had conceit that never more should move

Your sight in these spheres of my erring eyes,

And therefore, in the fuller sacrifice

Of my heart’s gratitude, rejoice, till more

I pay your names in of
f
’
rings as before,

Which here I vow, if Jove’s benign descent,