Book XIX: Ulysses Recognized by Eurycleia

Now was the godlike chief Ulysses leftIn his own palace, planning, with the aidOf Pallas, to destroy the suitor-train,And thus bespake his son with winged words:—

“Now is the time, Telemachus, to takeThe weapons that are here, and store them upIn the inner rooms. Then, if the suitors askThe reason, answer them with specious words:Say, ‘I have put them where there comes no smoke.Since even now they do not seem the armsLeft by Ulysses when he sailed for Troy,So tarnished are they by the breath of fire;And yet another reason sways my mind,The prompting of some god, that ye, when flushedWith wine and in the heat of a dispute,May smite and wound each other, and disgraceThe banquet and your wooing; for the sightOf steel doth draw men on to violence.’ ”

He ended, and Telemachus obeyedHis father’s words, and calling forth his nurse,The aged Eurycleia, said to her:—

“Go, nurse, and see the women all shut upIn their own place, while in our inner roomI lay away my father’s beautiful arms,Neglected long, and sullied by the smoke,While he was absent. I was then a child,But now would keep them from the breath of fire.”

And thus the nurse, Dame Eurycleia, said:“Would that at length, my child, thou didst exertThy proper wisdom here, and take in chargeThy house and thy possessions. But who goesWith thee to bear a torch, since none of these,Thy handmaids, are allowed to light thy way?”

And thus discreet Telemachus replied:“This stranger. No man may be idle hereWho eats my bread, though from a distant land.”

He spake, nor flew his words in vain. The nurseClosed all the portals of that noble pile.Ulysses and his glorious son in hasteBore off the helmets, and the bossy shields,And the sharp spears, while Pallas held to themA golden lamp, that shed a fair clear light.Then to his father spake Telemachus:—

“Father! my eyes behold a marvel. AllThe palace walls, each beautiful recess,The fir-tree beams, the aspiring columns, shine,Before my eyes, as with a blaze of fire.Some god is surely here, someone of thoseWho make their dwelling in the high broad heaven.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“Keep silence; give thy thought no speech, nor askConcerning aught. Such is the wont of thoseWho dwell upon Olympus. Now withdrawTo rest upon thy couch, while I remain,For I would move thy mother and her maidsTo ask of what concerns me. She, I deem,Full sadly will inquire of many things.”

He spake; Telemachus departed thence,By torchlight, to his chamber, there to restWhere he was wont to lie when gentle sleepCame over him. There lay he down to waitThe hallowed morning, while Ulysses, leftWithin the palace, meditated stillDeath to the suitors with Minerva’s aid.

The sage Penelope now left her bower;Like Dian or like golden Venus cameThe queen. Beside the hearth they placed for herThe throne where she was wont to sit, inlaidWith ivory and silver, which of yoreThe artisan Icmalius wrought. They laidClose to the throne a footstool, over whichWas spread an ample fleece. On this sat downThe sage Penelope. Her white-armed trainOf handmaids came with her; they cleared awayThe abundant feast, and bore the tables off,And cups from which those insolent men had drunk;They laid upon the ground the lighted brands,And heaped fresh fuel round them, both for lightAnd warmth. And now Melantho once againBespake Ulysses with unmannerly words:—

“Stranger, wilt thou forever be a pest,Ranging the house at night to play the spyUpon the women? Leave the hall, thou wretch!And gorge thyself without, else wilt thou goSuddenly, driven by blows and flaming brands.”

The sage Ulysses frowned on her, and said:“Pert creature! why so fiercely rail at me?Is it that I am squalid and ill-clad,And forced by want to beg from hand to hand?Such is the fate of poor and wandering men.I too was opulent once, inhabitingA plenteous home among my fellow-men,And often gave the wanderer alms, whoe’erHe might be and in whatsoever need;And I had many servants, and large storeOf things by which men lead a life of easeAnd are called rich. But Jupiter, the sonOf Saturn, put an end to this, for soIt pleased the god. Now, therefore, woman, thinkThat thou mayst lose the beauty which is nowThy pride among the serving-women here;Thy mistress may be wroth, and make thy lifeA hard one; or Ulysses may come back—And there is hope of that. Or if it beThat he has perished, and returns no more,There still remains his son Telemachus,Who by Apollo’s grace is now a man,And no one of the women in these hallsMay think to misbehave, and yet escapeHis eye, for he no longer is a boy.”

He spake; Penelope, the prudent, heard,And, calling to her maid, rebuked her thus:—

“O bold and shameless! I have taken noteOf thy behavior; thou hast done a wrongFor which thy head should answer. Well thou know’st,For thou hast heard me say, that I would askThe stranger in these halls if aught he knowsOf my Ulysses, for whose sake I grieve.”

Then to the matron of the household turnedThe queen, and thus bespake Eurynomè:—

“Bring now a seat, Eurynomè, and spreadA fleece upon it, where the stranger guestMay sit at ease, and hear what I shall say,And answer me, for I have much to ask.”

She spake; the ancient handmaid brought with speedA polished seat, and o’er it spread a fleece.Ulysses, much-enduring chief, sat down,And thus the sage Penelope began:—

“First will I ask thee who thou art, and whence,Where is thy birthplace, and thy parents who?”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“O lady, none in all the boundless earthCan speak of thee with blame. Thy fame has reachedTo the great heavens. It is like the renownOf some most excellent king, of godlike swayO’er many men and mighty, who upholdsJustice in all his realm. The dark-soiled earthBrings wheat and barley forth; the trees are bowedWith fruit; the meadows swarm with noble herds,The sea with fish, and under his wise reignThe people prosper. Therefore ask, I pray,Of other things, while I am underneathThy palace-roof, but of my race and homeInquire not, lest thou waken in my mindUnhappy memories. I am a manOf sorrow, and it would become me illTo sit lamenting in another’s houseAnd shedding tears. Besides, a grief indulgedDoth grow in violence. Thy maids would blame,And thou perhaps, and ye would call my tearsThe maudlin tears of one o’ercome with wine.”

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Stranger, such grace of feature and of formAs once I had the immortals took away,What time the Argive warriors sailed for Troy,And my Ulysses with them. Could he nowReturn to rule my household as of yore,The wider and the brighter were my fame.But now I lead a wretched life, so greatAnd many are the evils which some godHeaps on me. For the chieftains who bear swayOver the isles—Dulichium, and the fieldsOf Samos, and Zacynthus dark with woods,And those who rule in sunny Ithaca—Woo me against my will, and waste awayMy substance. Therefore have I small regardFor strangers and for suppliants, and the tribeOf heralds, servants of the public weal,But, pining for Ulysses, wear awayMy life. The suitors urge the marriage rite,And I with art delay it. Once some godPrompted me to begin an ample web,Wide and of subtle texture, in my rooms.And then I said: ‘Youths, who are pressing meTo marriage, since Ulysses is no more,Urge me no further till I shall complete—That so the threads may not be spun in vain—This shroud for old Laertes, when grim fateAnd death’s long sleep at last shall overtakeThe hero; else among the multitudeOf Grecian women I shall bear the blame,If one whose ample wealth so well was knownShould lie in death without a funeral robe.’I spake, and easily their minds were swayedBy what I said, and I began to weaveThe ample web, but ravelled it againBy torchlight every evening. For three yearsI foiled them thus; but when the fourth year came,And brought its train of hours and changing moons,And many days had passed, they came on me,And through my maidens’ fault, a careless crew,They caught me at my fraud, and chid me sore.So, though unwilling, I was forced to endMy task, and cannot longer now escapeThe marriage, nor is any refuge left.My parents both exhort me earnestlyTo choose a husband, and my son with griefBeholds the suitors wasting his estate,And he already is a man and wellCan rule his household; Jupiter bestows so.Such honor on him. Now, I pray, declareThy lineage, for thou surely art not sprungFrom the old fabulous oak, nor from a rock.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her:“O royal consort of Laertes’ son!Wilt thou still ask my lineage? I will thenDisclose it, but thou wakest in my heartNew sorrows. So it ever is with oneWho long, like me, is far away from home,Wandering in many realms, and suffering much;But since thou dost require it, thou shalt hear.

“Crete is a region lying in the midstOf the black deep, a fair and fruitful land,Girt by the waters. Many are the men,Nay, numberless, who make it their abode,And ninety are its cities. Different tonguesAre spoken by the dwellers of the isle.In part they are Achaians, and in partAre Cretans of the soil, a gallant stock;There dwell Cydonians, Dorians of three tribes,And proud Pelasgians. Their great capitalIs Knossos, where the monarch Minos dwelt,He who at every nine years’ end conferredWith Jove almighty; and to him was bornDeucalion, my brave father, who begatMe and Idomeneus, the King of Crete.To Ilium in his beaked galleys sailedIdomeneus with Atreus’ sons. My name—A name well known—is Aethon. ’Twas at CreteI saw Ulysses, who received from meThe welcome due a guest. A violent windHad driven him from Maleia and the courseThat led to Ilium, and had carried himTo Crete, and lodged him in the dangerous portAmnisus, close to Ilithyia’s cave,Where scarce his fleet escaped the hurricane.Thence came he to the city, and inquiredFor King Idomeneus, who was, he said,His dear and honored guest; but he had sailedTen days before, perhaps eleven, for Troy,In his beaked galleys. To the palace thereI led Ulysses, and with liberal cheerWelcomed the chief, for plentifully storedThe royal dwelling was. I also gaveMeal from the public magazines to himAnd those who followed him, and dark red wineBrought from the country round, and beeves to slayIn sacrifice, that so their hearts might feelNo lack of aught. Twelve days the noble GreeksRemained with us. A violent north-wind,Which scarcely suffered them to stand uprightOn shore, withstood them. Some unfriendly powerHad bid it blow; but on the thirteenth dayIts fury ceased, and the fleet put to sea.”

Thus went he on, inventing tales that seemedLike truth. She listened, melting into tearsThat flowed as when on mountain height the snow,Shed by the west-wind, feels the east-wind’s breath,And flows in water, and the hurrying streamsAre filled; so did Penelope’s fair cheeksSeem to dissolve in tears—tears shed for himWho sat beside her even then. He sawHis weeping wife, and pitied her at heart;Yet were his eyes like iron or like horn,And moved not in their lids; for artfullyHe kept his tears from falling. When the queenHad ceased to weep, she answered him and said:—

“Now, stranger, let me prove thee, if in truthThou didst receive, as thou hast just declared,In thine abode, my husband and his trainOf noble friends. Describe the garb he wore;How looked he, and the friends he brought with him?”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her:“O lady, hard it is to answer thee,So long have I been far away from home.’Tis now the twentieth year since he was thereAnd left the isle, but, as my memory bids,So will I speak. A fleecy purple cloakUlysses wore, a double web; the claspWas golden, with two fastenings, and in frontIt showed a work of rare design—a houndThat held in his forepaws a spotted fawn,Struggling before his open mouth. AlthoughThe figures were of gold, we all admiredThe hound intent to break his victim’s neck,The fawn that, writhing, plied her nimble feetTo free herself. Around the hero’s chestAnd waist I saw a lustrous tunic worn,Soft, like the thin film of the onion dried,And bright as sunshine; many ladies lookedWith wonder on it. Yet consider this;I know not whether thus attired he leftHis home, or whether, in the voyage thence,Some comrade gave the garments, or perhapsSome friendly host, for he was very dearTo many; among the Greeks were few like him.I gave him, from myself, a brazen sword,And a fair purple cloak, a double web,Besides a tunic reaching to his feet,And with due honors sent him on his wayIn his good ship. There came and went with himA herald somewhat older than himself;Let me portray him—hunchbacked, swarthy skinned,And curly haired, Eurybates his name.Ulysses honored him above the restOf his companions, for they thought alike.”

He ceased; the queen was moved to deeper grief,For she remembered all the tokens wellOf which he spake; and when that passionate gustOf weeping ceased, she spake again and said:—

“Stranger, till now thy presence in these hallsHas only moved my pity; thou henceforthArt dear and honored. It was I who gaveThe garments thou hast told me of; these handsFolded them in my chamber. I put onThe glittering clasp to be his ornament,And now I never shall behold him moreReturning to his own dear land and home;So cruel was the fate that took him henceTo Ilium, in his roomy ship, a townOf evil omen never to be named.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“O gracious consort of Laertes’ son!Let not thy grief for him whom thou hast lostWither thy beauty longer, and consumeThy heart. And yet I blame thee not at all;For any wife in losing him to whomShe gave herself while yet a maid, and boreChildren, will mourn him, though he be in worthBelow Ulysses, who, as fame declares,Is like the gods. But cease to grieve, and hearWhat I shall say, and I shall speak the truth,Nor will I hide from thee that I have heard,But lately from Ulysses, yet alive,And journeying homeward, in the opulent realmOf the Thesprotians, whence he brings with himMuch and rare treasure, gathered there amongThe people. His beloved friends he lost,And his good ship; the black deep swallowed themIn coming from Trinacria, for his crewHad slaughtered there the oxen of the Sun.The Sun and Jove were angry; therefore allHis comrades perished in the billowy sea;But him upon his galley’s keel the windDrove to the coast where the Phaeacians dwell,The kinsmen of the gods. They welcomed him,And honored him as if he were a god,And gave him many things, and would have sentThe hero safely to his native isle;And here Ulysses would have been long since,But that he deemed it wise to travel far,And gather wealth—for well Ulysses knew,Beyond all other men, the arts of gain,And none in these could think to rival him;So Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians said,Who also, in his palace, swore to me—As to the gods of heaven he poured the wine—That even then a galley was drawn downInto the water, and already mannedWith rowers, who should take Ulysses home.But me he first dismissed, for at the timeA barque of the Thesprotians left the port,Bound for Dulichium’s cornfields. Ere I wentHe showed the treasures of Ulysses storedIn the king’s palace—treasures that might serveTo feed the household of another chiefTo the tenth generation. He who ownedThat wealth was at Dodona, so the kingDeclared, inquiring, at the lofty oakOf Jupiter, the counsel of the godHow to return to his dear native land,So long a wanderer—whether openlyOr else by stealth. So he is safe, and soonWill he be nearer to us; for not longCan he remain away from all his friendsAnd fatherland. To this I plight my oath;Let Jove, the greatest and the best of gods,Be witness, and this hearth of the good princeUlysses, where I sit, that every wordWhich I have said to thee will be fulfilled.Within the year Ulysses will return,As this month passes and the next comes in.”

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Would that it might be thus, O stranger guest,As thou hast said; then shouldst thou have such thanksAnd bounty at my hands that everyoneWho meets thee should rejoice with thee. And yetThe thought abides with me, and so indeedIt must be, that Ulysses will no moreReturn, nor wilt thou find an escort hence;For now no master like Ulysses rules—And what a man was he!—within these walls,To welcome or dismiss the honored guest.But now, ye maidens, let the stranger bathe,And spread his couch with blankets, fleecy cloaks,And showy tapestries, that he may lieWarm till the Morning, in her golden car,Draw near; then with the early morn againBathe and anoint him, that he may sit downBeside Telemachus prepared to takeHis morning meal. Ill shall he fare who daresMolest the stranger; he shall have no placeOr office here, however he may rage.And how, O stranger, wouldst thou learn that IIn mind and thoughtful wisdom am aboveAll other women, if I let thee sitSqualid and meanly clad at banquets here?Short is the life of man, and whoso bearsA cruel heart, devising cruel things,On him men call down evil from the godsWhile living, and pursue him, when he dies,With scoffs. But whoso is of generous heartAnd harbors generous aims, his guests proclaimHis praises far and wide to all mankind,And numberless are they who call him good.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“O gracious consort of Laertes’ son!Such cloaks and splendid coverings please me not,Since in my long-oared barque I left behindThe snowy peaks of Crete. I still will lie,As I am wont through many a sleepless night,On a mean couch to wait the holy MornUpon her car of gold. I do not likeThis washing of the feet. No maiden hereThat ministers to thee may touch my foot;But if among them be some aged dameAnd faithful, who has suffered in her lifeAs I have suffered, she may touch my feet.”

And thus the sage Penelope rejoined:“Dear guest—for never to these halls has comeA stranger so discreet or better likedBy me, so wisely thou dost speak, and well—I have an aged prudent dame, whose careReared my unfortunate husband. She receivedThe nursling when his mother brought him forth,And she, though small her strength, will wash thy feet.Rise, prudent Eurycleia, thou shalt washThe feet of one whose years must be the sameAs thy own master’s; such is doubtless nowUlysses, with such wrinkled feet and hands.For quickly doth misfortune make men old.”

She spake; the aged handmaid hid her faceWith both her hands, and, shedding bitter tears,Thus sorrowfully to the queen replied:—

“My heart is sad for thee, my son; and yetI can do nothing. Can it be that JoveHates thee beyond all other? though thyselfSo reverent to the gods? No man on earthHas burned so many thighs of fatling beastsAnd chosen hecatombs as thou to JoveThe Thunderer, with prayer that thou mayst reachA calm old age, and rear thy glorious sonTo manhood; yet the god hath cut thee offFrom thy return forever. Even nowPerchance the women of some princely houseWhich he has entered in some distant landScoff at him as these wretched creatures scoffAt thee, O stranger, who, to shun their tauntsAnd insults, wilt not suffer them to washThy feet. The sage Penelope commands,And I am not unwilling. I will washThy feet, both for her sake and for thy own;For deeply am I moved at sight of thee.Hear what I say: of strangers in distressCome many hither, yet have I beheldNo one who bears, in shape and voice and feet,Such likeness to our absent lord as thou.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, thus replied:“O aged woman, so has it been saidBy all who have beheld both him and me.They all declare that we are very likeEach other; thou in this hast spoken well.”

He spake; she took a shining vase designedFor washing feet, and poured cold water inIn large abundance, and warm water next.Ulysses, who had sat before the hearth,Moved to a darker spot, for in his mindThe thought arose that she might find a scarUpon his limbs in handling them, and thusHis secret would be known. She came and bathedHis feet, and found the scar. ’Twas where a boarWith his white tooth had gashed the limb, as onceHe journeyed to Parnassus, where he paidA visit to Autolycus and his sons,His mother’s noble father, who excelledAll men in craft and oaths, such was the giftConferred on him by Hermes; for to himAutolycus made grateful offerings,The thighs of lambs and kids, and evermoreThe god was with him. Once AutolycusCame to the opulent realm of Ithaca,And found his daughter with a son new born;There Eurycleia placed upon his kneesThe infant, just as he had supped, and said:—

“Give this dear babe, Autolycus, a name—Thy daughter’s son, vouchsafed to many prayers.”

And thus Autolycus in answer spake:“Daughter and son-in-law, be his the nameThat I shall give. In coming to his isleI bear the hate of many—both of menAnd women—scattered o’er the nourishing earth;Name him Ulysses therefore, and when, grownTo man’s estate, he visits the proud hallsReared at Parnassus, where his mother dweltAnd my possessions lie, I will bestowA share on him, and send him home rejoiced.”

And therefore went Ulysses to receiveThe promised princely gifts. AutolycusAnd all his sons received him with kind words,And friendly grasp of hands. Amphithea there—His mother’s mother—took him in her arms,And kissed his brow and both his beautiful eyes.Then to his noble sons AutolycusCalled to prepare a feast, and they obeyed.They brought and slew a steer of five years old,And flayed and dressed it, hewed the joints apart,And sliced the flesh, and fixed it upon spits,Roasted it carefully, and gave to eachHis part. So all the day till set of sunThey feasted, to the full content of all.And when the sun had set, and earth grew dark,They laid them down, and took the gift of sleep.But when the rosy-fingered Morn appeared,Born of the Dawn, forth issued the young men,The children of Autolycus, with hounds,To hunt, attended by their noble guest,Ulysses. Up the steeps of that high mountParnassus, clothed with woods, they climbed, and soonWere on its airy heights. The sun, new risenFrom the deep ocean’s gently flowing stream,Now smote the fields. The hunters reached a dell;The hounds before them tracked the game; behindFollowed the children of Autolycus.The generous youth Ulysses, brandishingA spear of mighty length, came pressing onClose to the hounds. There lay a huge wild boarWithin a thicket, where moist-blowing windsCame not, nor in his brightness could the sunPierce with his beams the covert, nor the rainPelt through, so closely grew the shrubs. The groundWas heaped with sheddings of the withered leaves.Around him came the noise of dogs and menApproaching swiftly. From his lair he sprangAnd faced them, with the bristles on his neckUpright, and flashing eyes. Ulysses rushedBefore the others, with the ponderous spearRaised high in his strong hand intent to smite.The boar was first to strike; he dealt a blowSidelong, and gashed his foe above the knee,And tore the flesh, but left untouched the bone.Ulysses, striking with his burnished spearThe boar’s right shoulder, drove the weapon through.He fell with piercing cries amid the dust,And the life left him. Then around their guestThe kindly children of AutolycusCame and bound up with care the wound, and stanchedWith spells the dark blood of the blameless youth,And hastened with him to their father’s home.And when Autolycus and they his sonsHad seen him wholly healed, they loaded himWith presents, and, rejoicing for his sake,Sent him rejoicing back to Ithaca.His father and his gracious mother thereRejoiced in turn, and asked him of the scar,And how it came, and he related all—How by the white tusk of a savage boarThe wound was given on the Parnassian heights,As he was hunting with her father’s sons.

The aged woman, as she took the footInto her hands, perceived by touch the scar,And, letting fall the limb, it struck the vase.Loud rang the brass, the vase was overturned,And poured the water forth. At once a rushOf gladness and of grief came o’er her heart.Tears filled her eyes, and her clear voice was choked.She touched Ulysses on the chin, and said:—

“Dear child! thou art Ulysses, of a truth.I knew thee not till I had touched the scar.”

So speaking, toward Penelope she turnedHer eyes, about to tell her that her lordWas in the palace; but the queen saw not,And all that passed was unperceived by her,For Pallas turned her thoughts another way.Meantime, Ulysses on the nurse’s throatLaid his right hand, and with the other drewThe aged woman nearer him, and said:—

“Nurse, wouldst thou ruin me, who drew long sinceMilk from thy bosom, and who now return,After much suffering borne for twenty years,To mine own land? Now then, since thou hast learnedThe truth—by prompting of some god, no doubt—Keep silence, lest some others in the houseShould learn it also. Else—I tell thee this,And will perform my word—if God permitThat I o’ercome the arrogant suitor-crew,Nurse as thou art, I spare not even thee,When in these halls the other maidens die.”

Then thus the prudent Eurycleia said:“What words, my son, have passed thy lips? for wellThou knowest my firm mind; it never yields.Like solid rock or steel I keep my trust.This let me tell thee, and, I pray thee, keepMy words in mind. If, by the aid of God,Thou overcome the arrogant suitor-crew,Then will I name the handmaids that disgraceThy household, and point out the innocent.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, thus rejoined:“Why name them, nurse? It needs not. I myselfShall watch them, and shall know them all. Hold thouThy peace, and leave the issue with the gods.”

He spake; the aged woman left the placeTo bring a second bath, for on the floorThe first was spilled. When she had bathed his feetAnd made them smooth with oil, Ulysses drewClose to the hearth his seat again, to takeThe warmth, and with his tatters hid the scar.And thus the sage Penelope began:—

“Stranger, but little longer will I yetInquire; the hour of grateful rest is nearFor those who, though unhappy, can receiveThe balm of slumber. Yet for me some godAppoints immeasurable grief. All dayIn sorrows and in sighs, my solace isTo oversee my maidens at their tasksHere in the palace; but when evening comes,And all betake themselves to rest, I lieUpon my couch, and sorrows thick and sharpAwake new misery in my heart. As when,In the fresh spring, the swarthy Nightingale,Daughter of Pandarus, among thick leavesSings sweetly to the woods, and, changing oftThe strain, pours forth her voice of many notes,Lamenting the beloved Itylus,Her son by royal Zethos, whom she smoteUnwittingly, and slew; with such quick changeMy mind is tossed from thought to thought. I museWhether to keep my place beside my son,And hold what here is mine, my dower, my maidsAnd high-roofed halls, as one who still reveresHer husband’s bed, and heeds the public voice,Or follow one of the Achaian chiefs,The noblest of the wooers, and the oneWho offers marriage presents without stint.My son’s green years, while he was yet a boy,Unripe in mind, allowed me not to wed,And leave his father’s home; but he is grown,And on the verge of manhood. He desiresThat I should leave the palace, for his wrathIs great against the men who waste his wealth.Hear, and interpret now a dream of mine:Within these courts are twenty geese that eatCorn from the water, and I look on themPleased and amused. From off a mountain cameA hook-beaked eagle, broke their necks, and leftTheir bodies strewn about the palace dead,And soared again into the air of heaven.I wept and moaned, although it was a dream;And round me came the fair-haired Grecian maids,Lamenting wildly that the bird of preyHad slain my geese. Then came the eagle back,And took his perch upon the jutting roof,And thus bespake me in a human voice:—

“ ‘O daughter of Icarius, the renowned!Let not thy heart be troubled; this is notA dream, but a true vision, and will beFulfilled. The geese denote the suitor-train,And I, who was an eagle once, am come,Thy husband, now to end them utterly.’

“He spake; my slumbers left me, and I looked,And saw the geese that in the palace stillWere at their trough, and feeding as before.”

And thus Ulysses, the sagacious, said:“Lady, the dream that visited thy sleepCannot be wrested to another sense.Ulysses has himself revealed to theeThe way of its fulfillment. Death is nearThe suitors, and not one escapes his doom.”

Then spake the sage Penelope again:“Of dreams, O stranger, some are meaninglessAnd idle, and can never be fulfilled.Two portals are there for their shadowy shapes,Of ivory one, and one of horn. The dreamsThat come through the carved ivory deceiveWith promises that never are made good;But those which pass the doors of polished horn,And are beheld of men, are ever true.And yet I cannot hope that my strange dreamCame through them, though my son and I would bothRejoice if it were so. This let me say,And heed me well. Tomorrow brings to usThe hateful morn which takes me from my home,The palace of Ulysses. I shall nowPropose a contest. In the palace courtUlysses in a row set up twelve stakes,Like props that hold a galley up; each stakeHad its own ring; he stood afar, and sentAn arrow through them all. I shall proposeThis contest to the suitors. He who bendsThe bow with easy mastery, and sendsThrough the twelve rings an arrow, I will takeTo follow from the palace where I passedMy youthful married life—a beautiful home,And stored with wealth; a home which I shall longRemember, even in my nightly dreams.”

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:“O gracious consort of Laertes’ son!Let not this contest be delayed; the manOf ready wiles, Ulysses, will be hereEre, tampering with the hero’s polished bow,The suitors shall prevail to stretch the cord,And send an arrow through the rings of steel.”

And thus the sage Penelope rejoined:“Stranger, if, sitting in the palace here,Thou still wouldst entertain me as thou dost,Sleep would not fall upon my lids; and yetSleepless the race of mortals cannot be,So have the gods ordained, who measure outHis lot to man upon the nourishing earth.I to the upper rooms withdraw, to takeMy place upon the couch which has becomeTo me a place of sorrow and of tearsSince my Ulysses went away to Troy,That fatal town which should be named no more.And I will lay me down; but thou remainWithin these walls, and make the floor thy bed,Or let these maidens spread a couch for thee.”

Penelope, thus having spoken, wentUp to her royal bower, but not alone;Her maids went with her. When they were withinShe wept for her dear husband, till at lengthThe blue-eyed Pallas graciously distilledUpon her closing lids the balm of sleep.