Book XIII: Arrival of Ulysses at Ithaca

He spake, and all within those shadowy hallsWere silent; all were held in mute delight.Alcinoüs then took up the word and said:—

“Since thou hast come, Ulysses, as a guest,To this high pile and to these brazen rooms,So long a sufferer, thou must not departUpon thy homeward way a wanderer still.And this let me enjoin on each of youWho in this palace drink at our repastsThe choice red wine, and listen to the bard:Already in a polished chest are laidChanges of raiment, works of art in gold,And other gifts, which the Phaeacian chiefsHave destined for our guest; now let us eachBestow an ample tripod and a vase,And we in an assembly of the realmWill see the cost repaid, since otherwiseGreat would the burden be that each must bear.”So spake Alcinoüs; they approved, and soughtTheir homes to sleep, but when the child of Dawn,The rosy-fingered Morn, appeared, they came,All bringing to the ship their gifts of brassIn honor of the guest. The mighty princeAlcinoüs, going through the ship, bestowedThe whole beneath the benches, that no oneOf those who leaned to pull the oar might thenceMeet harm or hindrance. Then they all went backTo the king’s palace, and prepared a feast.

The mighty prince Alcinoüs offered upFor them an ox to cloud-compelling Jove,The son of Saturn, ruler over all.They burned the thighs, and held high festival,And all was mirth. Divine DemodocusThe bard, whom all men reverenced, sang to them.Meantime Ulysses often turned to lookAt the bright Sun, and longed to see him set,So eager was the hero to set sailUpon his homeward way. As when a swainAwaits his evening meal, for whom all dayTwo dark-brown steers have dragged the solid ploughThrough fallow grounds, and welcome is the hourOf sunset, calling him to his repast,And wearily he walks with failing knees,So welcome to Ulysses did the lightOf day go down. Then did he hold discourseWith the Phaeacians, lovers of the sea,And chiefly with Alcinoüs, speaking thus:—

“O monarch most illustrious of thy race,Alcinoüs, now when ye have duly pouredWine to the gods, be pleased to send me henceIn peace, and fare ye well! All that my heartCould wish have ye provided bounteously—An escort and rich gifts; and may the godsBestow their blessing with them! May I meetMy blameless wife again, and find my friendsProsperous! And ye whom I shall leave behind,Long may ye make the wives of your young yearsAnd children happy! May the gods vouchsafeTo crown with every virtue you and them,And may no evil light upon your isle!”

He spake; the assembly all approved his words,And bade send forth the stranger on his way,Who spake so nobly. Then the mighty princeAlcinoüs turned, and to the herald said:—

“Now mix the wine, Pontonoüs, in a jar,And bear a part to all beneath our roof,That we with prayers to Father JupiterMay send the stranger to his native land.”

He spake; Pontonoüs mingled for the guestsThe generous wine, and went with it to each,Who poured it on the ground, from where they sat,To all the dwellers of the ample heaven;And then the great Ulysses, rising up,Placed the round goblet in Aretè’s hands,And thus bespake the queen with winged words:—

“Farewell, O queen, through the long years, till ageAnd death, which are the lot of all, shall come.Now I depart, but mayst thou, here amongThy people, and the children of thy love,And King Alcinoüs, lead a happy life!”

So spake the highborn chieftain, and withdrew,And crossed the threshold. King Alcinoüs sentA herald with him to direct his wayTo the fleet ship and border of the deep.Aretè also sent her servant-maids—One bearing a fresh cloak and tunic, oneA coffer nobly wrought, and yet a thirdBread and red wine; and when they reached the shipBeside the sea, the diligent crew receivedTheir burdens, and bestowed within the holdThe food and drink, but spread upon the deckAnd at the stern a mat and linen sheet,That there Ulysses undisturbed might sleep.He went on board and silently lay down,While all the rowers in due order tookTheir seats upon the benches. Loosing firstThe hawser from the perforated rock,They bent them to their task, and flung the brineUp from the oar, while on the chieftain’s lidsLighted a sweet and deep and quiet sleep,Most like to death. As, smitten by the lash,Four harnessed stallions spring on high and dartAcross the plain together; so the prowRose leaping forward, while behind it rolledA huge dark billow of the roaring sea.Safely and steadily the galley ran,Nor could a falcon, swiftest of the birds,Have kept beside it, with such speed it flew,Bearing a hero who was like the godsIn wisdom, and whose sufferings in the warsAnd voyages among the furious wavesWere great and many, though he slumbered nowIn peace, forgetful of misfortunes past.

Now when that brightest star, the harbingerOf Morning, daughter of the Dawn, arose,The barque had passed the sea, and reached the isle.

A port there is in Ithaca, the hauntOf Phorcys, Ancient of the Sea. Steep shoresStretch inward toward each other, and roll backThe mighty surges which the hoarse winds hurlAgainst them from the ocean, while withinShips ride without their hawsers when they onceHave passed the haven’s mouth. An olive-treeWith spreading branches at the farther endOf that fair haven stands, and overbrowsA pleasant shady grotto of the nymphsCalled Naiads. Cups and jars of stone are rangedWithin, and bees lay up their honey there.There from their spindles wrought of stone the nymphsWeave their sea-purple robes, which all beholdWith wonder; there are ever-flowing springs.Two are the entrances: one toward the northBy which men enter; but a holier oneLooks toward the south, nor ever mortal footMay enter there. By that way pass the gods.

They touched the land, for well they knew the spot.The galley, urged so strongly by the armsOf those who plied the oar, ran up the beachQuite half her length. And then the crew came forthFrom the good ship, and first they lifted outUlysses with the linen and rich foldsOf tapestry, and laid him on the sandsIn a deep slumber. Then they also tookThe presents from the hold, which, as he leftTheir isle, the princes of Phaeacia gaveBy counsel of wise Pallas. These they piledClose to the olive-tree, without the way,That none, in passing, ere Ulysses woke,Might do their owner wrong. Then homeward sailedThe crew; but Neptune, who could not forgeThe threats which he had uttered long beforeAgainst the godlike chief Ulysses, thusSought to explore the will of Jupiter:—

“O Father Jove! I shall no more be heldIn honor with the gods, since mortal men,The people of Phaeacia, though their raceIs of my lineage, do not honor me.I meant Ulysses should not reach his homeSave with much suffering, though I never thoughtTo hinder his return, for thou hadst givenThy promise and thy nod that it should be.Yet these Phaeacians, in a gallant barque,Have borne him o’er the deep, and while he slept,Have laid him down in Ithaca, and givenLarge gifts, abundant store of brass and gold,And woven work, more than he could have broughtFrom captured Ilium, if he had returnedSafely, with all his portion of the spoil.”

Then cloud-compelling Jupiter replied:“Earth-shaker, ruler of a mighty realm!What hast thou said? The gods deny thee notDue honor; perilous it were for themTo show contempt for one who stands in ageAnd might above them all. But if amongThe sons of men be one who puts such trustIn his own strength as not to honor thee,Do as seems good to thee, and as thou wilt.”

Promptly the god who shakes the shores replied;“What thou dost bid me I would do at once,But that I fear and would avoid thy wrath.I would destroy that fair Phaeacian barqueIn its return across the misty seaFrom bearing home Ulysses, that no moreMay the Phaeacians lend an escort thusTo wandering men, and I would also causeA lofty mount to rise and hide their town.”

Then spake again the Cloud-compeller Jove:“Thus were it best, my brother: when the crowdOf citizens already see the shipApproaching, then transform it to a rockIn semblance of a galley, that they allMay gaze in wonder; thus wilt thou have causedA lofty mount to stand before their town.”

This when the shaker of the shores had heard,He flew to Scheria, the Phaeacian isle,And stood, until that galley, having crossedThe sea, came swiftly scudding. He drew nearAnd smote it with his open palm, and madeThe ship a rock, fast rooted in the bedOf the deep sea, and then he went his way.

Then winged words were spoken in that throngOf the Phaeacians, wielders of long oars,And far renowned in feats of seamanship.And, looking on each other, thus they said:—

“Ha! what has stayed our good ship on the sea?This moment we beheld her hastening home.”

’Twas thus they talked, unweeting of the cause.But then Alcinoüs to the assembly said:—

“Yes! now I call to mind the ancient wordsOf prophecy—my father’s—who was wontTo say that Neptune sorely is displeasedThat we should give to every man who comesSafe escort to his home. In coming times—Such was my father’s prophecy—the godWould yet destroy a well-appointed barqueOf the Phaeacians on the misty deepReturning from an escort, and would causeA lofty mount to stand before our town.So prophesied the aged man; his wordsAre here fulfilled. Now do as I appoint,And let us all obey. Henceforth refrainFrom bearing to their homes the strangers thrownUpon our coast; and let us sacrificeTo Neptune twelve choice bullocks of the herd,That he may pity us, nor hide our townWith a huge mountain from the sight of men.”

He spake, and they were awed and straightway broughtThe bullocks for the sacrifice. So prayedTo sovereign Neptune the Phaeacian chiefsAnd princes, standing round the altar-fires.

Now woke the great Ulysses from his sleepIn his own land, and yet he knew it not.Long had he been away, and Pallas now,The goddess-child of Jove, had cast a mistAround him, that he might not yet be knownTo others, and that she might tell him firstWhat he should learn; nor even might his wife,Nor friends, nor people, know of his return,Ere he avenged upon the suitor crewHis wrongs, and therefore all things wore to himAnother look—the footways stretching far,The bights where ships were moored, the towering rocks,And spreading trees. He rose and stood upright,And gazed upon his native coast and wept,And smote his thigh, and said in bitter grief:—

“Ah me! what region am I in, amongWhat people? lawless, cruel, and unjust?Or are they hospitable men, who fearThe gods? And where shall I bestow these goods,And whither go myself? Would that they allWere still with the Phaeacians, and that IHad found some other great and mighty kingKindly to welcome me, and send me backTo my own land. I know not where to placeThese treasures, and I must not leave them here,Lest others come and seize them as a spoil.Nay, these Phaeacian chiefs and counsellorsWere not, in all things, either wise or just.They gave their word to land me on the coastOf pleasant Ithaca, and have not keptTheir promise. O, may Jove avenge this wrong!He who protects the suppliant, who beholdsAll men with equal eye, and punishesThe guilty. Now will I review my storesAnd number them again, that I may seeIf those who left me here have taken aught.”

Thus having said, he numbered all his gifts—Beautiful tripods, cauldrons, works of gold,And gorgeous woven raiment; none of theseWere wanting. Then he pined to see againHis native isle, and slowly paced the beachOf the loud sea, lamenting bitterly.There Pallas came to meet him in the shapeOf a young shepherd, delicately formed,As are the sons of kings. A mantle layUpon her shoulder in rich folds; her feetShone in their sandals: in her hand she boreA javelin. As Ulysses saw, his heartWas glad within him, and he hastened on,And thus accosted her with winged words:—

“Fair youth, who art the first whom I have metUpon this shore, I bid thee hail, and hopeThou meetest me with no unkind intent.Protect what thou beholdest here and me;I make my suit to thee as to a god,And come to thy dear knees. And tell, I pray,That I may know the truth, what land is this?What people? who the dwellers? may it beA pleasant isle, or is it but the shoreOf fruitful mainland shelving to the sea?”

And then the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, said:“Of simple mind art thou, unless perchanceThou comest from afar, if thou dost askWhat country this may be. It is not quiteA nameless region; many know it wellOf those who dwell beneath the rising sun,And those, behind, in Evening’s dusky realm.Rugged it is, and suited ill to steeds,Yet barren it is not, though level groundsAre none within its borders. It is richIn corn and wine, for seasonable rainsAnd dews refresh its soil. Large flocks of goatsAnd herds of beeves are pastured here; all kindsOf trees are in its forests, and its springsAre never dry. The fame of Ithaca,Stranger, has travelled to the Trojan coast,Though that, I hear, lies far away from Greece.”

She spake; Ulysses, the great sufferer,Rejoiced to be in his own land, whose namePallas, the child of aegis-bearing Jove,Had just now uttered. Then with winged wordsHe spake, but not the truth; his artful speechPut that aside, forever in his breastThe power of shrewd invention was awake:—

“In the broad fields of Crete, that lie far offBeyond the sea, I heard of Ithaca,To which I now am come with these my goods.I left as many for my sons and fled,For I had slain Orsilochus, the fleetOf foot, the dear son of Idomeneus,Who overcame by swiftness in the raceThe foremost runners in the realm of Crete.He sought to rob me wholly of my shareOf Trojan spoil, for which I had enduredHardships in war with heroes, and at seaAmong the angry waves. The cause was this:I would not in the siege of Troy submitTo serve his father, but, apart from him,I led a troop, companions of my own.The youth returning from the fields I met,And smote him with the spear—for near the wayI lay in ambush with a single friend.A night exceeding dark was in the sky;No human eye beheld, nor did he knowWho took his life. When I had slain him thusWith the sharp spear I hastened to a shipOf the Phoenicians, and besought their aid,And gave them large reward, and bade them steerTo Pylos, bearing me, and leave me there,Or where the Epeians hold the hallowed coastOf Elis. But the force of adverse windsDrove them unwilling thence; they meant no fraud.We wandered hither, just at night we came;And rowing hard, the seamen brought their shipWithin the port. No word was said of food,Though great our need. All disembarked in hasteAnd lay upon the shore. Deep was the sleepThat stole upon my weary limbs. The menTook from the hold my goods, and, bearing themTo where I slumbered on the sand, set sailFor populous Sidonia, leaving meHere quite alone with sorrow in my heart.”

He spake; the blue-eyed goddess, Pallas, smiled,And touched the chief caressingly. She seemedA beautiful and stately woman now,Such as are skilled in works of rare device,And thus she said to him in winged words:—

“Full shrewd were he, a master of deceit,Who should surpass thee in the ways of craft,Even though he were a god—thou unabashedAnd prompt with shifts, and measureless in wiles!Thou canst not even in thine own land refrainFrom artful figments and misleading words,As thou hast practised from thy birth. But nowSpeak we of other matters, for we bothAre skilled in stratagem. Thou art the firstOf living men in counsel and in speech,And I am famed for foresight and for craftAmong the immortals. Dost thou not yet knowPallas Athenè, child of Jove, whose aidIs present to defend thee in all timeOf peril, and but lately gained for theeThe favor of the whole Phaeacian race?And hither am I come to frame for theeWise counsels, and to hide away the storesGiven by the opulent Phaeacian chiefsAt thy departure. I shall also tellWhat thou must yet endure beneath the roofOf thine own palace, by the will of fate.Yet bear it bravely, since thou must, nor speakTo any man or woman of thyselfAnd of thy wandering hither, but submitTo many things that grieve thee, silently,And bear indignities from violent men.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, thus rejoined:“O goddess, it is hard for mortal manTo know thee when he meets thee, though his sightBe of the sharpest, for thou puttest onAt pleasure any form. Yet this I know,That thou wert kind to me when we, the sonsOf Greece, were warring in the realm of Troy.But when we had o’erthrown the lofty townOf Priam, and embarked, and when some godHad scattered the Achaians, after that,Daughter of Jove, I never saw thee more,Never perceived thee entering my barqueAnd guarding me from danger—but I roamedEver from place to place, my heart weighed downBy sorrow, till the gods delivered me,And till thy counsels in the opulent realmOf the Phaeacians brought my courage back,And thou thyself didst guide me to the town.And now in thy great father’s name I pray—For yet I cannot think that I am comeTo pleasant Ithaca, but have been thrownUpon some other coast, and fear that thouArt jesting with me, and hast spoken thusBut to deceive me—tell me, is it trueThat I am in my own beloved land?”

And then the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, said:“Such ever are thy thoughts, and therefore IMust not forsake thee in thy need. I knowHow prompt thy speech, how quick thy thought, how shrewdThy judgment. If another man had comeFrom such long wanderings, he had flown at onceDelighted to his children and his wifeIn his own home. But thou desirest notTo ask or hear of them till thou hast putThy consort to the trial of her truth—Her who now sits within thy halls and waitsIn vain for thee, and in perpetual griefAnd weeping wears her nights and days away.I never doubted—well, in truth, I knewThat thou, with all thy comrades lost, wouldst reachThy country, but I dreaded to withstandMy father’s brother Neptune, who was wroth,And fiercely wroth, for that thou hadst deprivedHis well-beloved son of sight. But nowAttend, and I will show thee IthacaBy certain tokens; mark them and believe.The port of Phorcys, Ancient of the Deep,Is here; and there the spreading olive-tree,Just at the haven’s head; and, close beside,The cool dark grotto, sacred to the nymphsCalled Naiads—a wide-vaulted cave where onceThou earnest oft with chosen hecatombs,An offering to the nymphs—and here thou seestThe mountain Neritus with all his woods.”

So spake the goddess, and dispersed the mist,And all the scene appeared. Ulysses sawWell pleased, rejoicing in his own dear land,And, stooping, kissed the bountiful earth, and raisedHis hands, and thus addressed the nymphs in prayer:—

“Nymphs, Naiads, born to Jove, I did not hopeTo be with you again. With cheerful prayersI now salute you. We shall bring you soonOur offerings, as of yore, if graciouslyJove’s daughter, huntress-queen, shall grant me yetTo live, and bless my well-beloved son.”

And then the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, said:“Be of good cheer, and let no anxious thoughtDisturb thy mind. Let us bestir ourselvesTo hide away the treasures thou hast broughtWithin this hallowed grot in some recessWhere they may lie in safety; afterwardWill we take counsel what should next be done.”

The goddess said these words, and took her wayInto the shadowy cavern, spying outIts hiding-places; while Ulysses broughtThe treasures thither in his arms—the gold,The enduring brass, the raiment nobly wrought—Which the Phaeacians gave him. These they laidTogether in due order; Pallas then,The daughter of the Aegis-bearer Jove,Closed up the opening with a massive rock.Then, sitting by the sacred olive-tree,They plotted to destroy the haughty crewOf suitors, and the blue-eyed Pallas said:—

“O nobly born, and versed in many wiles,Son of Laertes! now the hour is comeTo think how thou shalt lay avenging handsUpon the shameless crew who, in thy house,For three years past have made themselves its lords,And wooed thy noble wife and brought her gifts,While, pining still for thy return, she gaveHopes to each suitor, and by messagesMade promises to all, though cherishingA different purpose in her secret heart.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her:“Ah me, I should have perished utterly,By such an evil fate as overtookAtrides Agamemnon, in the hallsOf my own palace, but for thee, whose words,O goddess, have revealed what I should know.Now counsel me how I may be avenged.Be ever by my side, and strengthen meWith courage, as thou didst when we o’erthrewThe towery crest of Ilium. Would thou wertStill my ally, as then! I would engage,O blue-eyed Pallas, with three hundred foes,If thou, dread goddess, wouldst but counsel me.”

And then the blue-eyed Pallas spake again:“I will be present with thee. When we onceBegin the work, thou shalt not leave my sight;And many a haughty suitor with his bloodAnd brains shall stain thy spacious palace floor.Now will I change thine aspect, so that noneShall know thee. I will wither thy fair skin,And it shall hang on crooked limbs; thy locksOf auburn I will cause to fall away,And round thee fling a cloak which all shall seeWith loathing. I will make thy lustrous eyesDull to the sight, and thus shalt thou appearA squalid wretch to all the suitor train,And to thy wife, and to the son whom thouDidst leave within thy palace. Then at firstRepair thou to the herdsman, him who keepsThy swine; for he is loyal, and he lovesThy son and the discreet Penelope.There wilt thou find him as he tends his swine,That find their pasturage beside the rockOf Corax, and by Arethusa’s fount.On nourishing acorns they are fed, and drinkThe dark clear water, whence the flesh of swineIs fattened. There remain, and carefullyInquire of all that thou wouldst know, while I,Taking my way to Sparta, the abodeOf lovely women, call Telemachus,Thy son, Ulysses, who hath visitedKing Menelaus in his broad domain,To learn if haply thou art living yet.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her:“Why didst not thou, to whom all things are known,Tell him concerning me? Must he too roamAnd suffer on the barren deep, and leaveTo others his estates, to be their spoil?”

And then the blue-eyed goddess spake again:“Let not that thought distress thee. It was IWho sent him thither, that he might deserveThe praise of men. No evil meets him there;But in the halls of Atreus’ son he sits,Safe mid the abounding luxuries. ’Tis trueThat even now the suitors lie in wait,In their black ship, to slay him ere he reachHis native land; but that will hardly beBefore the earth shall cover many a oneOf the proud suitors who consume thy wealth.”

So Pallas spake, and touched him with her wand,And caused the blooming skin to shrivel upOn his slow limbs, and the fair hair to fall,And with an old man’s wrinkles covered allHis frame, and dimmed his lately glorious eyes.Another garb she gave—a squalid vest;A ragged, dirty cloak, all stained with smoke;And over all the huge hide of a stag,From which the hair was worn. A staff, beside,She gave, and shabby scrip with many a rent,Tied with a twisted thong. This said and done,They parted; and the goddess flew to seekTelemachus in Sparta’s sacred town.