Book I: Visit of Pallas to Telemachus

Tell me, O Muse, of that sagacious manWho, having overthrown the sacred townOf Ilium, wandered far and visitedThe capitals of many nations, learnedThe customs of their dwellers, and enduredGreat suffering on the deep: his life was oftIn peril, as he labored to bring backHis comrades to their homes. He saved them not,Though earnestly he strove; they perished all,Through their own folly; for they banqueted,Madmen! upon the oxen of the Sun—The all-o’erlooking Sun, who cut them offFrom their return. O goddess, virgin-childOf Jove, relate some part of this to me.

Now all the rest, as many as escapedThe cruel doom of death, were at their homesSafe from the perils of the war and sea,While him alone, who pined to see his homeAnd wife again, Calypso, queenly nymph,Great among goddesses, detained withinHer spacious grot, in hope that he might yetBecome her husband. Even when the yearsBrought round the time in which the gods decreedThat he should reach again his dwelling-placeIn Ithaca, though he was with his friends,His toils were not yet ended. Of the godsAll pitied him save Neptune, who pursuedWith wrath implacable the godlike chief,Ulysses, even to his native land.

Among the Ethiopians was the godFar off—the Ethiopians most remoteOf men. Two tribes there are; one dwells beneathThe rising, one beneath the setting sun.He went to grace a hecatomb of beevesAnd lambs, and sat delighted at the feast;While in the palace of Olympian JoveThe other gods assembled, and to themThe father of immortals and of menWas speaking. To his mind arose the thoughtOf that Aegisthus whom the famous sonOf Agamemnon, Prince Orestes, slew.Of him he thought and thus bespake the gods:—

“How strange it is that mortals blame the godsAnd say that we inflict the ills they bear,When they, by their own folly and againstThe will of fate, bring sorrow on themselves!As late Aegisthus, unconstrained by fate,Married the queen of Atreus’ son and slewThe husband just returned from war. Yet wellHe knew the bitter penalty, for weWarned him. We sent the herald Argicide,Bidding him neither slay the chief nor wooHis queen, for that Orestes, when he cameTo manhood and might claim his heritage,Would take due vengeance for Atrides slain.So Hermes said; his prudent words moved notThe purpose of Aegisthus who now paysThe forfeit of his many crimes at once.”

Pallas, the blue-eyed goddess, thus replied:—“O father, son of Saturn, king of kings!Well he deserved his death. So perish allGuilty of deeds like his! But I am grievedFor sage Ulysses, that most wretched man,So long detained, repining, and afarFrom those he loves, upon a distant isleGirt by the waters of the central deep—A forest isle, where dwells a deityThe daughter of wise Atlas, him who knowsThe ocean to its utmost depths, and holdsUpright the lofty columns which divideThe earth from heaven. The daughter there detainsThe unhappy chieftain, and with flattering wordsWould win him to forget his Ithaca.Meanwhile, impatient to behold the smokesThat rise from hearths in his own land, he pinesAnd willingly would die. Is not thy heart,Olympics, touched by this? And did he notPay grateful sacrifice to thee besideThe Argive fleet in the broad realm of Troy?Why then, O Jove, art thou so wroth with him?”

Then answered cloud-compelling Jove: “My child,What words have passed thy lips? Can I forgetGodlike Ulysses, who in gifts of mindExcels all other men, and who has broughtLarge offerings to the gods that dwell in heaven?Yet he who holds the earth in his embrace,Neptune, pursues him with perpetual hateBecause of Polypheme, the Cyclops, strongBeyond all others of his giant race,Whose eye Ulysses had put out. The nymphThoosa brought him forth—a daughter sheOf Phorcys, ruling in the barren deep—And in the covert of o’erhanging rocksShe met with Neptune. For this cause the godWho shakes the shores, although he slay him not,Sends forth Ulysses wandering far awayFrom his own country. Let us now consultTogether and provide for his return,And Neptune will lay by his wrath, for vainIt were for one like him to strive aloneAgainst the might of all the immortal gods.”

And then the blue-eyed Pallas spake again:—“O father! son of Saturn, king of kings!If such the pleasure of the blessed godsThat now the wise Ulysses shall returnTo his own land, let us at once despatchHermes, the Argicide, our messenger,Down to Ogygia, to the bright-haired nymph,And make our steadfast purpose known to bringThe sufferer Ulysses to his home,And I will haste to Ithaca, and moveHis son, that with a resolute heart he callThe long-haired Greeks together and forbidThe excesses of the suitor train, who slayHis flocks and slow-paced beeves with crooked horns.To Sparta I will send him and the sandsOf Pylos, to inquire for the returnOf his dear father. So a glorious fameShall gather round him in the eyes of men.”

She spake, and fastened underneath her feetThe fair, ambrosial golden sandals wornTo bear her over ocean like the wind,And o’er the boundless land. In hand she took,Well tipped with trenchant brass, the mighty spear,Heavy and huge and strong, with which she bearsWhole phalanxes of heroes to the earth,When she, the daughter of a mighty sire,Is angered. From the Olympian heights she plunged,And stood among the men of Ithaca,Just at the porch and threshold of their chief,Ulysses. In her hand she bore the spear,And seemed the stranger Mentes, he who ledThe Taphians. There before the gate she foundThe haughty suitors. Some beguiled the timeWith draughts, while sitting on the hides of beevesWhich they had slaughtered. Heralds were with them,And busy menials: some who in the bowlsTempered the wine with water, some who cleansedThe tables with light sponges, and who setThe banquet forth and carved the meats for all.

Telemachus the godlike was the firstTo see the goddess as he sat amongThe crowd of suitors, sad at heart, and thoughtOf his illustrious father, who might comeAnd scatter those who filled his palace halls,And win new honor, and regain the ruleOver his own. As thus he sat and musedAmong the suitors, he beheld where stoodPallas, and forth he sprang; he could not bearTo keep a stranger waiting at his door.He came, and taking her right hand receivedThe brazen spear, and spake these winged words:—

“Hail, stranger! thou art truly welcome here,First come and share our feast and be refreshed,Then say what thou requirest at our hands.”

He spake and led the way, and in his stepsPallas Athenè followed. Entering thenThe lofty halls, he set the spear uprightBy a tall column, in the armoryWith polished walls, where rested many a lanceOf the large-souled Ulysses. Then he placedHis guest upon a throne, o’er which he spreadA covering many-hued and beautiful,And gave her feet a footstool. Near to herHe drew his parti-colored seat, aloofFrom where the suitors sat; that so his guestMight not amid those haughty revellersBe wearied with the tumult and enjoyHis meal the less, and that himself might askNews of his absent father. In a bowlOf silver, from a shapely ewer of gold,A maid poured water for the hands, and setA polished table near them. Then approachedA venerable matron bringing breadAnd delicacies gathered from the board;And he who served the feast before them placedChargers with various meats, and cups of gold;While round the board a herald moved, and pouredWine for the guests. The haughty suitors nowCame in, and took their places on the thronesAnd couches; heralds poured upon their handsThe water; maidens heaped the canistersWith bread, and all put forth their hands to shareThe banquet on the board, while to the brimBoys filled the beakers. When the calls of thirstAnd hunger were appeased, the suitors thoughtOf other things that well become a feast—Song and the dance. And then a herald broughtA shapely harp, and gave it to the handsOf Phemius, who had only by constraintSung to the suitors. On the chords he struckA prelude to his lay, while, as he played,Telemachus, that others might not hear,Leaned forward, and to blue-eyed Pallas spake:—

“My friend and guest, wilt thou take no offenceAt what I say? These revellers enjoyThe harp and song, for at no cost of theirsThey waste the substance of another man,Whose white bones now are mouldering in the rainUpon some mainland, or are tossed aboutBy ocean billows. Should they see him onceIn Ithaca, their prayers would rather riseFor swifter feet than richer stores of goldAnd raiment. But an evil fate is his,And he has perished. Even should we hearFrom any of the dwellers upon earthThat he is near at hand, we could not hope.For him is no return. But now, I pray,Tell me, and frankly tell me, who thou art,And of what race of men, and where thy home,And who thy parents; how the marinersBrought thee to Ithaca, and who they claimTo be, for well I deem thou couldst not comeHither on foot. All this, I pray, relateTruly, that I may know the whole. Art thouFor the first time arrived, or hast thou beenMy father’s guest? for many a stranger onceResorted to our palace, and he knewThe way to win the kind regard of men.”

Pallas, the blue-eyed goddess, answered thus:—“I will tell all and truly. I am namedMentes; my father was the great in warAnchialus. I rule a people skilledTo wield the oar, the Taphians, and I comeWith ship and crew across the dark blue deepTo Temesè, and to a race whose speechIs different from my own, in quest of brass,And bringing bright steel with me. I have leftMoored at the field behind the town my barque,Within the bay of Reithrus, and beneathThe woods of Neius. We claim to beGuests by descent, and from our fathers’ time,As thou wilt learn if thou shouldst meet and askLaertes, the old hero. It is saidHe comes no more within the city walls,But in the fields dwells sadly by himself,Where an old handmaid sets upon his boardHis food and drink when weariness unnervesHis limbs in creeping o’er the fertile soilOf his rich vineyard. I am come becauseI heard thy father had at last returned,And now am certain that the gods delayHis journey hither; for the illustrious manCannot have died, but is detained aloneSomewhere upon the ocean, in some spotGirt by the waters. There do cruel menAnd savage keep him, pining to depart.Now let me speak of what the gods reveal,And what I deem will surely come to pass,Although I am no seer and have no skillIn omens drawn from birds. Not long the chiefWill be an exile from his own dear land,Though fettered to his place by links of steel;For he has large invention, and will planA way for his escape. Now tell me this,And truly; tall in stature as thou art,Art thou in fact Ulysses’ son? In faceAnd glorious eyes thou dost resemble himExceedingly; for he and I of yoreWere oftentimes companions, ere he sailedFor Ilium, whither also went the bestAmong the Argives in their roomy ships,Nor have we seen each other since that day.”

Telemachus, the prudent, spake: “O guest,True answer shalt thou have. My mother saysI am his son; I know not; never manKnew his own father. Would I were the sonOf one whose happier lot it was to meetAmidst his own estates the approach of age.Now the most wretched of the sons of menIs he to whom they say I owe my birth.Thus is thy question answered.” Then againSpake blue-eyed Pallas: “Of a truth, the godsOrdain not that thy race, in years to come,Should be inglorious, since PenelopeHath borne thee such as I behold thee now.But frankly answer me—what feast is here,And what is this assembly? What may beThe occasion? is a banquet given? is thisA wedding? A collation, where the guestsFurnish the meats, I think it cannot be,So riotously goes the revel onThroughout the palace. A well-judging man,If he should come among them, would be movedWith anger at the shameful things they do.”

Again Telemachus, the prudent, spake:—“Since thou dost ask me, stranger, know that onceRich and illustrious might this house be calledWhile yet the chief was here. But now the godsHave grown unkind and willed it otherwise,They make his fate a mystery beyondThe fate of other men. I should not grieveSo deeply for his loss if he had fallenWith his companions on the field of Troy,Or midst his kindred when the war was o’er.Then all the Greeks had built his monument,And he had left his son a heritageOf glory. Now has he become the preyOf Harpies, perishing ingloriously,Unseen, his fate unheard of, and has leftMourning and grief, my portion. Not for himAlone I grieve; the gods have cast on meYet other hardships. All the chiefs who ruleThe isles, Dulichium, Samos, and the grovesThat shade Zacynthus, and who bear the swayIn rugged Ithaca, have come to wooMy mother, and from day to day consumeMy substance. She rejects not utterlyTheir hateful suit, and yet she cannot bearTo end it by a marriage. Thus they wasteMy heritage, and soon will seek my life.”

Again in grief and anger Pallas spake:—“Yea, greatly dost thou need the absent chiefUlysses here, that he might lay his handsUpon these shameless suitors. Were he nowTo come and stand before the palace gateWith helm and buckler and two spears, as firstI saw him in our house, when drinking wineAnd feasting, just returned from EphyrèWhere Ilus dwelt, the son of Mermerus—For thither went Ulysses in a barque,To seek a deadly drug with which to taintHis brazen arrows; Ilus gave it not;He feared the immortal gods; my father gaveThe poison, for exceedingly he lovedHis guest—could now Ulysses, in such guise,Once meet the suitors, short would be their livesAnd bitter would the marriage banquet be.Yet whether he return or not to takeVengeance, in his own palace, on this crewOf wassailers, rests only with the gods.Now let me counsel thee to think betimesHow thou shalt thrust them from thy palace gates.Observe me, and attend to what I say:Tomorrow thou shalt call the Achaian chiefsTo an assembly; speak before them all,And be the gods thy witnesses. CommandThe suitors all to separate for their homes;And if thy mother’s mind be bent to wed,Let her return to where her father dwells,A mighty prince, and there they will appointMagnificent nuptials, and an ample dowerSuch as should honor a beloved child.And now, if thou wilt heed me, I will giveA counsel for thy good. Man thy best shipWith twenty rowers, and go forth to seekNews of thy absent father. Thou shalt hearHaply of him from someone of the sonsOf men, or else some word of rumor sentBy Jove, revealing what mankind should know.First shape thy course for Pylos, and inquireOf noble Nestor; then, at Sparta, askOf fair-haired Menelaus, for he cameLast of the mailed Achaians to his home.And shouldst thou learn that yet thy father lives,And will return, have patience yet a year,However hard it seem. But shouldst thou findThat he is now no more, return forthwithTo thy own native land, and pile on highHis monument, and let the funeral ritesBe sumptuously performed as may becomeThe dead, and let thy mother wed again.And when all this is fully brought to pass,Take counsel with thy spirit and thy heartHow to destroy the suitor crew that hauntThy palace, whether by a secret snareOr open force. No longer shouldst thou actAs if thou wert a boy; thou hast outgrownThe age of childish sports. Hast thou not heardWhat honor the divine Orestes gainedWith all men, when he slew the murderer,The crafty wretch Aegisthus, by whose handThe illustrious father of Orestes died?And then, my friend—for I perceive that thouArt of a manly and a stately growth—Be also bold, that men hereafter bornMay give thee praise. And now must I departTo my good ship, and to my friends who wait,Too anxiously perhaps, for my return.Act wisely now, and bear my words in mind.”

The prudent youth Telemachus rejoined:—“Well hast thou spoken, and with kind intent,O stranger! like a father to a son;And ne’er shall I forget what thou hast said.Yet stay, I pray thee, though in haste, and batheAnd be refreshed, and take to thy good shipSome gift with thee, such as may please thee well,Precious and rare, which thou mayst ever keepIn memory of me—a gift like thoseWhich friendly hosts bestow upon their guests.”

Then spake the blue-eyed Pallas: “Stay me not,For now would I depart. Whatever giftThy heart may prompt thee to bestow, reserveTill I come back, that I may bear it home,And thou shalt take some precious thing in turn.”

So spake the blue-eyed Pallas, and withdrew,Ascending like a bird. She filled his heartWith strength and courage, waking vividlyHis father’s memory. Then the noble youthWent forth among the suitors. Silent allThey sat and listened to the illustrious bard,Who sang of the calamitous returnOf the Greek host from Troy, at the commandOf Pallas. From her chamber o’er the hallThe daughter of Icarius, the sage queenPenelope, had heard the heavenly strain,And knew its theme. Down by the lofty stairsShe came, but not alone; there followed herTwo maidens. When the glorious lady reachedThe threshold of the strong-built hall, where satThe suitors, holding up a delicate veilBefore her face, and with a gush of tears,The queen bespake the sacred minstrel thus:—

“Phemius! thou knowest many a pleasing theme—The deeds of gods and heroes, such as bardsAre wont to celebrate. Take then thy placeAnd sing of one of these, and let the guestsIn silence drink the wine; but cease this strain;It is too sad; it cuts me to the heart,And wakes a sorrow without bounds—such griefI bear for him, my lord, of whom I thinkContinually; whose glory is abroadThrough Hellas and through Argos, everywhere.”

And then Telemachus, the prudent, spake:—“Why, O my mother! canst thou not endureThat thus the well-graced poet should delightHis hearers with a theme to which his mindIs inly moved? The bards deserve no blame;Jove is the cause, for he at will inspiresThe lay that each must sing. Reprove not, then,The minstrel who relates the unhappy fateOf the Greek warriors. All men most applaudThe song that has the newest theme; and thou—Strengthen thy heart to hear it. Keep in mindThat not alone Ulysses is cut offFrom his return, but that with him at TroyHave many others perished. Now withdrawInto thy chamber; ply thy household tasks,The loom, the spindle; bid thy maidens speedTheir work. To say what words beseem a feastBelongs to man, and most to me; for hereWithin these walls the authority is mine.”

The matron, wondering at his words, withdrewTo her own place, but in her heart laid upHer son’s wise sayings. When she now had reached,With her attendant maids, the upper rooms,She mourned Ulysses, her beloved spouse,And wept, till blue-eyed Pallas closed her lidsIn gentle slumbers. Noisily, meanwhile,The suitors revelled in the shadowy halls;And thus Telemachus, the prudent, spake:—

“Ye suitors of my mother, insolentAnd overbearing; cheerful be our feast,Not riotous. It would become us wellTo listen to the lay of such a bard,So like the gods in voice. I bid you allMeet in full council with the morrow morn,That I may give you warning to departFrom out my palace, and to seek your feastsElsewhere at your own charge—haply to holdYour daily banquets at each other’s homes.But if it seem to you the better wayTo plunder one man’s goods, go on to wasteMy substance; I will call the immortal godsTo aid me, and if Jupiter allowFit retribution for your deeds, ye die,Within this very palace, unavenged.”

He spake; the suitors bit their close-pressed lips,Astonished at the youth’s courageous words.And thus Antinoüs, Eupeithes’ son,Made answer: “Most assuredly the gods,Telemachus, have taught thee how to frameGrand sentences and gallantly harangue.Ne’er may the son of Saturn make thee kingOver the seagirt Ithaca, whose isleIs thy inheritance by claim of birth.”

Telemachus, the prudent, thus rejoined:—“Wilt thou be angry at the word I speak,Antinoüs? I would willingly acceptThe kingly station if conferred by Jove.Dost thou indeed regard it as the worstOf all conditions of mankind? Not soFor him who reigns; his house grows opulent,And he the more is honored. Many kingsWithin the bounds of seagirt IthacaThere are, both young and old, let anyoneBear rule, since great Ulysses is no more;But I will be the lord of mine own house,And o’er my servants whom the godlike chief,Ulysses, brought from war, his share of spoil.”

Eurymachus, the son of Polybus,Addressed the youth in turn: “Assuredly,What man hereafter, of the Achaian race,Shall bear the rule o’er seagirt IthacaRests with the gods. But thou shalt keep thy wealth,And may no son of violence come to makeA spoil of thy possessions while men dwellIn Ithaca. And now, my friend, I askWho was thy guest; whence came he, of what landClaims he to be, where do his kindred dwell,And where his patrimonial acres lie?With tidings of thy father’s near returnCame he, or to receive a debt? How swiftWas his departure, waiting not for usTo know him! yet in aspect and in airHe seemed to be no man of vulgar note.”

Telemachus, the prudent, answered thus:—“My father’s coming, O Eurymachus,Is to be hoped no more; nor can I trustTidings from whatsoever part they come,Nor pay regard to oracles, althoughMy mother send to bring a soothsayerWithin the palace, and inquire of him.But this man was my father’s guest; he comesFrom Taphos; Mentes is his name, a sonOf the brave chief Anchialus; he reignsOver the Taphians, men who love the sea.”

He spake, but in his secret heart he knewThe immortal goddess. Then the suitors turned,Delighted, to the dance and cheerful song,And waited for the evening. On their sportsThe evening with its shadowy blackness came;Then each to his own home withdrew to sleep,While to his lofty chamber, in full view,Built high in that magnificent palace home,Telemachus went up, and sought his couch,Intent on many thoughts. The chaste and sageDame Eurycleia by his side went upWith lighted torches—she a child of Ops,Pisenor’s son. Her, in her early bloom,Laertes purchased for a hundred beeves,And in his palace honored equallyWith his chaste wife; yet never sought her bed.He would not wrong his queen. ’Twas she who boreThe torches with Telemachus. She lovedHer young lord more than all the other maids,And she had nursed him in his tender years.He opened now the chamber door and satUpon the couch, put his soft tunic offAnd placed it in the prudent matron’s hands.She folded it and smoothed it, hung it nearTo that fair bed, and, going quickly forth,Pulled at the silver ring to close the door,And drew the thong that moved the fastening bolt.He, lapped in the soft fleeces, all night long.Thought of the voyage Pallas had ordained.