Book IV: Conference of Telemachus and Menelaus

They came to Lacedaemon’s valley, seamedWith dells, and to the palace of its king,The glorious Menelaus, whom they foundWithin, and at a wedding banquet, madeBoth for his blameless daughter and his son,And many guests. Her he must send away,Bride of the son of that invincible chief,Achilles. He betrothed her while in Troy,And gave his kingly word, and now the godsFulfilled it by the marriage. He was nowSending her forth, with steeds and cars, to reachThe noble city of the Myrmidons,Where ruled her consort. From the Spartan coastHe brought Alector’s daughter for his son,The gallant Megapenthes, borne to himBy a handmaiden in his later years.For not to Helen had the gods vouchsafedYet other offspring, after she had broughtA lovely daughter forth, Hermione,Like golden Venus both in face and form.

So banqueting the neighbors and the friendsOf glorious Menelaus sat beneathThe lofty ceiling of those spacious halls,Delighted with the feast. A sacred bardAmidst them touched the harp and sang to themWhile, as the song began, two dancers sprangInto the midst and trod the measure there

But they—the hero-youth TelemachusAnd Nestor’s eminent son—were at the gate,And standing in the entrance with their steeds.The worthy Eteoneus, coming forth—The trusty servant of the glorious sonOf Atreus—saw, and hastening thence to tellThe shepherd of the people, through the hallHe came to him, and spake these winged words:—

“O Menelaus, foster-child of Jove,Two strangers have arrived, two men who seemDescended from almighty Jupiter.Shall we then loose the harness from their steeds,Or bid them elsewhere seek a friendly host?”

The fair-haired king indignantly replied:—“Nay, Eteoneus, thou hast not been wont.Son of Boëthus, thus to play the fool.Thou pratest idly, like a child. OurselvesHave sat, as guests, at generous banquets givenBy other men, when journeying hitherwardIn hope that Jove might grant a respite hereFrom our disasters. Hasten, then, to looseThe steeds, and bring the strangers to the feast.”

He spake; the attendant hastened forth and calledThe other trusty servitors, with chargeTo follow. They unyoked the sweaty steeds,And bound them to the stalls, and gave them oats,With which they mingled the white barley-grains,And close against the shining wall they placedThe car, and then they led the guests withinThe sumptuous palace. Entering, these admiredThe palace of the foster-child of Jove,For like the splendor of the sun and moonIts glory was. They with delighted eyesGazed, and, descending to the polished baths,They bathed. The attendant maids who at the bathHad ministered, anointing them with oil,Arrayed the stranger guests in fleecy cloaksAnd tunics. Each sat down upon a throneNear to Atrides. Now a handmaid broughtA beautiful ewer of gold, and laver wroughtOf silver, and poured water for their hands,And spread a polished table near their seat;The reverend matron of the household cameWith bread, and set before them many a dishGathered from all the feast. The carver nextBrought chargers lifted high, and in them meatsOf every flavor, and before them placedBeakers of gold. The fair-haired monarch gaveHis hand to each, and then bespake them thus:—

“Now taste our banquet and rejoice, and whenYe are refreshed with food we will inquireWho ye may be; for ye are not of thoseWhose race degenerates, ye are surely bornOf sceptred kings, the favorites of Jove.Ignoble men have never sons like you.”

Thus having said, and taking in his handsA fatling bullock’s chine, which menials broughtRoasted, and placed beside the king in signOf honor, this he laid before his guests.And they put forth their hands and banqueted;And when the calls of hunger and of thirstAt length were stilled, Telemachus inclinedHis head toward Nestor’s son, that no one elseMight listen to his words, and thus he said:—

“See, son of Nestor, my beloved friend,In all these echoing rooms the sheen of brass,Of gold, of amber, and of ivory;Such is the palace of Olympian JoveWithin its walls. How many things are hereOf priceless worth! I wonder as I gaze.”

The fair-haired Menelaus heard him speak,And thus accosted both with winged words:—

“Dear sons, no mortal man may vie with Jove,Whose palace and possessions never knowDecay, but other men may vie or notIn wealth with me. ’Twas after sufferingAnd wandering long that in my fleet I broughtMy wealth with me, and landed on this coastIn the eighth year. For I had roamed afarTo Cyprus and to Phoenicè, and whereThe Egyptians dwell, and Ethiopia’s sons,And the Sidonians, and the Erembian race,And to the coast of Lybia, where the lambsAre yeaned with budding horns. There do the ewesThrice in the circle of the year bring forthTheir young. There both the master of the herdAnd herdsman know no lack of cheese, or flesh,Or of sweet milk; for there the herds yield milkThe whole year round. While I was roaming thus,And gathering store of wealth, another slewMy brother, unforewarned, and through the fraudOf his own guilty consort. Therefore smallIs the content I find in bearing ruleO’er these possessions. Ye have doubtless heardThis from your parents, be they who they may;For much have I endured, and I have lostA palace, a most noble dwelling-place,Full of things rare and precious. Even nowWould I possessed within my palace hereBut the third part of these; and would that theyWere yet alive who perished on the plainOf Troy afar from Argos and its steeds!Yet while I grieve and while I mourn them all,Here, sitting in my palace, I by turnsIndulge my heart in weeping, and by turnsI pause, for with continual sorrow comesA weariness of spirit. Yet, in truth,For none of all those warriors, though their fateAfflicts me sorely, do I so much grieveAs for one hero. When I think of him,The feast and couch are joyless, since, of allThe Achaian chiefs, none brought so much to passAs did Ulysses, both in what he wroughtAnd what he suffered. Great calamitiesFell to his lot in life, and to my ownGrief for his sake that cannot be consoled.Long has he been divided from his friends,And whether he be living now or deadWe know not. Old Laertes, the sage queenPenelope, and young Telemachus,Whom, when he went to war he left newbornAt home, are sorrowing somewhere for his sake.”

He spake, and woke anew the young man’s griefFor his lost father. From his eyelids fellTears at the hearing of his father’s name,And with both hands he held before his eyesThe purple mantle. Menelaus sawHis tears, and pondered, doubting which were best—To let the stranger of his own accordSpeak of his father, or to question himAt first, and then to tell him all he knew.

As thus he pondered, Helen, like in formTo Dian of the golden distaff, leftHer high-roofed chamber, where the air was sweetWith perfumes, and approached. Adrasta placedA seat for her of costly workmanship;Alcippè brought a mat of soft light wool,And Phylo with a silver basket came,Given by Alcandra, wife of Polybus,Who dwelt at Thebes, in Egypt, and whose houseWas rich in things of price. Two silver bathsHe gave to Menelaus, tripods two,And talents ten of gold. His wife bestowedBeautiful gifts on Helen—one of gold,A distaff; one a silver basket edgedWith gold and round in form. This Phylo broughtHeaped with spun yarn and placed before the queen;Upon it lay the distaff, wrapped in woolOf color like the violet. Helen thereSat down, a footstool at her feet, and straightQuestioned with earnest words her husband thus:—

“Say, Menelaus, foster-child of Jove,Is it yet known what lineage these men claim—These visitants? And what I now shall say,Will it be false or true? Yet must I speak.Woman or man I think I never sawSo like another as this youth, on whomI look with deep astonishment, is likeTelemachus, the son whom our great chiefUlysses left at home a tender babeWhen ye Achaians for my guilty sakeWent forth to wage the bloody war with Troy.”

And fair-haired Menelaus answered her:—“Yea, wife, so deem I as it seems to thee.Such are his feet, his hands, the cast of the eye,His head, the hair upon his brow. Just now,In speaking of Ulysses, as I toldHow he had toiled and suffered for my sake,The stranger held the purple cloak beforeHis eyes, and from the lids dropped bitter tears.”

Peisistratus, the son of Nestor, spakeIn answer: “Menelaus, foster-childOf Jove and son of Atreus! sovereign king!He is, as thou hast said, that hero’s son;But he is modest, and he deems that illIt would become him, on arriving here,If he should venture in discourse while thouArt present, in whose voice we take delightAs if it were the utterance of a god.The knight Gerenian Nestor sent me forthTo guide him hither—for he earnestlyDesired to see thee, that thou mightest giveCounsel in what he yet should say or do.For bitterly a son, who finds at homeNo others to befriend him, must lamentThe absence of a father. So it isWith young Telemachus; for far awayHis father is, and in the land are noneWho have the power to shelter him from wrong.”

The fair-haired Menelaus answered thus:—“O wonder! Then the son of one most dear,Who for my sake so oft has braved and borneThe conflicts of the battlefield, hath comeBeneath my roof. I thought that I should greetHis father with a warmer welcome hereThan any other of the Argive race,When Jove the Olympian Thunderer should grantA safe return to us across the deepIn our good ships. I would have founded hereFor him a city in Argos, and have builtDwellings, and would have brought from IthacaHim and his son, and all his wealth and allHis people. To this end I would have causedSome neighboring district where my sway is ownedTo be dispeopled. Dwelling here we oftShould then have met each other, and no causeWould e’er have parted us, two faithful friendsDelighting in each other, till at lastCame Death’s black cloud to wrap us in its shade.A god, no doubt, hath seen in this a goodToo great for us, and thus to him alone,Unhappy man! denied a safe return.”

He spake; his words awoke in every heartGrief for the absent hero’s sake. Then weptThe Argive Helen, child of Jove; then weptTelemachus; nor tearless were the eyesOf Nestor’s son, for to his mind aroseThe memory of the good Antilochus,Slain by the bright Aurora’s eminent son;Of him he thought, and spake these winged words:—

“O son of Atreus! aged Nestor saith,When in his palace we discourse of theeAnd ask each other’s thought, that thou art wiseBeyond all other men. Now, if thou mayst,Indulge me, for not willingly I weepThus at the evening feast, and soon will Morn,Child of the Dawn, appear. I do not blameThis sorrow for whoever meets his fateAnd dies; the only honors we can payTo those unhappy mortals is to shredOur locks away, and wet our cheeks with tears.I lost a brother, not the least in worthAmong the Argives, whom thou must have seen.I knew him not: I never saw his face;Yet is it said Antilochus excelledThe others; swift of foot, and brave in war.”

The fair-haired Menelaus answered him:—“Since thou my friend hast spoken thus, as oneDiscreet in word and deed, of riper yearsThan thou, might speak and act—for thou art bornOf such a father, and thy words are wise—And easy is it to discern the sonOf one on whom Saturnius has bestowedBoth at the birth-hour and in wedded lifeHis blessing; as he gives to Nestor nowA calm old age that lapses pleasantly,Within his palace-halls, from day to day,And sons wise-minded, mighty with the spear—Then let us lay aside this sudden griefThat has o’ertaken us, and only thinkOf banqueting. Let water now be pouredUpon our hands; there will be time enoughTomorrow for discourse; TelemachusAnd I will then engage in mutual talk.”

He spake, Asphalion, who with diligent heedServed the great Menelaus, on their handsPoured water, and they shared the meats that layUpon the board. But Helen, Jove-born dame,Had other thoughts, and with the wine they drankMingled a drug, an antidote to griefAnd anger, bringing quick forgetfulnessOf all life’s evils. Whoso drinks, when onceIt is infused and in the cup, that dayShall never wet his cheeks with tears, althoughHis father and his mother lie in death,Nor though his brother or beloved sonFall butchered by the sword before his eyes.Such sovereign drugs she had, that child of Jove,Given her by Polydamna, wife of Thon,A dame of Egypt, where the bounteous soilBrings forth abundantly its potent herbs,Of healing some and some of bane, and whereDwell the physicians who excel in skillAll other men, for they are of the raceOf Paeon. Now when Helen in the cupsHad placed the drug, and bidden them to pourThe wine upon it, thus she spake again:—

“Atrides Menelaus, reared by Jove,And ye the sons of heroes!—JupiterThe sovereign, gives, at pleasure, good and illTo one or to another, for his powerIs infinite—now sitting in these halls,Feast and enjoy free converse. I will speakWhat suits the occasion. I could not relate,I could not even name, the many toilsBorne by Ulysses, stout of heart. I speakOnly of what that valiant warrior didAnd suffered once in Troy, where ye of GreeceEndured such hardships. He had given himselfUnseemly stripes, and o’er his shoulders flungVile garments like a slave’s, and entered thusThe enemy’s town, and walked its spacious streets.Another man he seemed in that disguise—A beggar, though when at the Achaian fleetSo different was the semblance that he wore.He entered Ilium thus transformed, and noneKnew who it was that passed, but I perceived,And questioned him; he turned my quest asideWith crafty answers. After I had seenThe bath administered, anointed himAnd clothed him, and had sworn a solemn oathNot to reveal his visit to the menOf Ilium till he reached again the tentsAnd galleys, then he opened to me allThe plans of the Achaians. Leaving me,On his return he slew with his long spearFull many a Trojan, and in safety reachedThe Argive camp with tidings for the host.Then wept aloud the Trojan dames, but IWas glad at heart, for I already longedFor my old home, and deeply I deploredThe evil fate that Venus brought on me,Who led me thither from my own dear land,And from my daughter and my marriage-bower,And from my lawful spouse, in whom I missedNo noble gift of person or of mind.”

Then fair-haired Menelaus said to her:—“All thou hast spoken, woman, is most true.Of many a valiant warrior I have knownThe counsels and the purposes, and farHave roamed in many lands, but never yetMy eyes have looked on such another manAs was Ulysses, of a heart so boldAnd such endurance. Witness what he didAnd bore, the heroic man, what time we sat,The bravest of the Argives, pent withinThe wooden horse, about to bring to TroySlaughter and death. Thou earnest to the place,Moved, as it seemed, by some divinityWho thought to give the glory of the dayTo Troy. Deiphobus, the godlike chief,Was with thee. Thrice about the hollow frameThat held the ambush thou didst walk and touchIts sides, and call the Achaian chiefs by name,And imitate the voices of the wivesOf all the Argives. Diomed and ISat with the great Ulysses in the midst,And with him heard thy call, and rose at onceTo sally forth or answer from within;But he forbade, impatient as we were,And so restrained us. All the Achaian chiefsKept silence save Anticlus, who aloneBegan to speak, when, with his powerful hands,Ulysses pressed together instantlyThe opening lips, and saved us all, and thusHeld them till Pallas lured thee from the spot.”

Then spake discreet Telemachus again:—“Atrides Menelaus, reared by Jove,Ruler of tribes! the harder was his lot,Since even thus he could not shun the strokeOf death, not though a heart of steel were his.But now dismiss us to our beds, that there,Couched softly, we may welcome balmy sleep.”

He spake, and Argive Helen called her maidsTo make up couches in the portico,And throw fair purple blankets over them,And tapestry above, and cover allWith shaggy cloaks. Forth from the palace hallsThey went with torches, and made ready soonThe couches; thither heralds led the guests.There in the vestibule Telemachus,The hero, and with him the eminent sonOf Nestor, took their rest. Meanwhile the sonOf Atreus lay within an inner roomOf that magnificent pile, and near to himThe glorious lady, long-robed Helen, slept.But when at length the daughter of the Dawn,The rosy-fingered Morning, brought her light,Then Menelaus, great in battle, rose,Put on his garments, took his trenchant sword,And, having hung it on his shoulder, lacedThe shapely sandals to his shining feet,And issued from his chamber like a godIn aspect. Near Telemachus he tookHis seat, and calling him by name he spake:—

“What urgent cause, my brave Telemachus,Brings thee to sacred Lacedaemon o’erThe breast of the great ocean? Frankly say,Is it a private or a public need?”

And thus discreet Telemachus replied:—“Atrides Menelaus, reared by Jove,Ruler of nations! I am come to askNews of my father, if thou knowest aught.My heritage is wasting; my rich fieldsAre made a desolation. EnemiesSwarm in my palace, and from day to daySlaughter my flocks and slow-paced horned herds;My mother’s suitors they, and measurelessTheir insolence. And therefore am I comeTo clasp thy knees, and pray thee to relateThe manner of my father’s sorrowful deathAs thou hast seen it with thine eyes, or heardIts story from some wandering man—for sureHis mother brought him forth to wretchednessBeyond the common lot. I ask thee notTo soften aught in the sad historyThrough tenderness to me, or kind regard,But tell me plainly all that thou dost know;And I beseech thee, if at any timeMy father, good Ulysses, brought to passAught that he undertook for thee in wordOr act while ye were in the realm of Troy,Where the Greeks suffered sorely, bear it nowIn mind, and let me have the naked truth.”

Then Menelaus of the amber locksDrew a deep sigh, and thus in answer said:—“Heavens! they would climb into a brave man’s bed,These craven weaklings. But as when a hartHas hid her newborn suckling fawns withinThe lair of some fierce lion, and gone forthHerself to range the mountainsides and feedAmong the grassy lawns, the lion comesBack to the place and brings them sudden death,So will Ulysses bring a bloody fateUpon the suitor crew. O father Jove,And Pallas, and Apollo! I could wishThat now, with prowess such as once was hisWhen he, of yore, in Lesbos nobly built,Rising to strive with Philomela’s son,In wrestling threw him heavily, and allThe Greeks rejoiced, Ulysses might engageThe suitors. Short were then their term of life,And bitter would the nuptial banquet be.Now for the questions thou hast put, and cravedFrom me a true reply, I will not seekTo pass them by with talk of other things,Nor yet deceive thee, but of all that onceWas told me by the Ancient of the Deep,Whose words are truth, I shall keep nothing back.

“In Egypt still, though longing to come home,The gods detained me; for I had not paidThe sacrifice of chosen hecatombs,And ever do the gods require of usRemembrance of their laws. There is an isleWithin the billowy sea before you reachThe coast of Egypt—Pharos is its name—At such a distance as a ship could passIn one whole day with a shrill breeze astern.A sheltered haven lies within that isle,Whence the good ships go forth with fresh suppliesOf water. There the gods constrained my stayFor twenty days, and never in that timeBlew favoring winds across the waters, suchAs bear the galley over the great deep.Now would our stores of food have been consumed,Now would the courage of my men have died,Had not a goddess pitied me, and comeTo my relief, by name Eidothea, bornTo the great Proteus, Ancient of the Deep.For she was moved by my distress, and cameTo me while I was wandering alone,Apart from all the rest. They through the isleRoamed everywhere from place to place, and, pinchedWith hunger, threw the hook for fish. She came,And, standing near, accosted me and said:—

“ ‘Stranger, thou art an idiot, or at leastOf careless mood, or else art willinglyNeglectful, and art pleased with suffering,That thou dost linger in this isle so longAnd find no means to leave it, while the heartsOf thy companions faint with the delay.’

“She spake, and I replied: ‘Whoe’er thou art,goddess, let me say, not willinglyI linger here. I surely must have sinnedAgainst the immortal dwellers of high heaven;But tell me—for the gods know all things—whoOf all the immortals holds me windbound here,Hindering my voyage; tell me also howTo reach my home across the fishy deep.’

“I ended, and the glorious goddess saidIn answer: ‘Stranger, I will truly speak;The deathless Ancient of the Deep, whose wordsAre ever true, Egyptian Proteus, oftHere makes his haunt. To him are fully known—For he is Neptune’s subject—all the depthsOf the great ocean. It is said I oweTo him my birth. If him thou canst insnareAnd seize, he will disclose to thee thy wayAnd all its distances, and tell thee howTo reach thy home across the fishy deep;And further will reveal, if so he choose,O foster-child of Jove, whate’er of goodOr ill has in thy palace come to pass,While thou wert wandering long and wearily.’

“So said the goddess, and I spake again:—‘Explain by what device to snare and holdThe aged deity, lest he foreknowOr else suspect our purpose and escape.’Twere hard for mortals to constrain a god.’

“I ended, and the glorious goddess thusMade answer: ‘When the climbing sun has reachedThe middle heaven, the Ancient of the Deep,Who ne’er deceives, emerges from the waves,And, covered with the dark scum of the sea,Walks forth, and in a cavern vault lies down.Thither fair Halosydna’s progeny,The sea-calves from the hoary ocean, throng,Rank with the bitter odor of the brine,And slumber near him. With the break of dayI will conduct thee thither and appointThy place, but thou shalt choose to go with theeThree of the bravest men in thy good ships.And let me now relate the stratagemsOf the old prophet. He at first will countThe sea-calves, going o’er them all by fives;And when he has beheld and numbered all,Amidst them all will he lie down, as liesA shepherd midst his flock. And then, as soonAs ye behold him stretched at length, exertYour utmost strength to hold him there, althoughHe strive and struggle to escape your hands;For he will try all stratagems, and takeThe form of every reptile on the earth,And turn to water and to raging flame—Yet hold him firmly still, and all the moreMake fast the bands. When he again shall takeThe form in which thou sawest him asleep,Desist from force, and loose the bands that heldThe ancient prophet. Ask of him what godAfflicts thee thus, and by what means to crossThe fishy deep and find thy home again.’“Thus having said, the goddess straightway sprangInto the billowy ocean, while I soughtThe galleys, where they rested on the sand,With an uneasy spirit. When I reachedThe ship and shore we made our evening meal.The hallowed night came down; we lay and sleptUpon the sea-beach. When the Morning came,The rosy-fingered daughter of the Dawn,Forth on the border of the mighty mainI went, and prayed the immortals fervently.I led three comrades, whom I trusted mostIn all adventures. Entering the depthsOf the great sea, the goddess brought us thenceFour skins of sea-calves newly flayed, that thusWe might deceive her father. Then she scoopedBeds for us in the sea-sand, and sat downTo wait his coming. We were near to her,And there she laid us duly down, and threwA skin o’er each. Now did our ambush seemBeyond endurance, for the noisome smellOf those sea-nourished creatures sickened us;And who could bear to sleep beside a whale?But she bethought her of an antidote,A sovereign one, and so relieved us all.To each she brought ambrosia, placing itBeneath his nostrils, and the sweets it breathedO’ercame the animal odor. All the mornWe waited patiently. The sea-calves cameFrom ocean in a throng, and laid themselvesIn rows along the margin of the sea.At noon emerged the aged seer, and foundHis well-fed sea-calves. Going o’er them allHe counted them, ourselves among the rest,With no misgiving of the fraud, and thenHe laid him down to rest. We rushed with shoutsUpon him suddenly, and in our armsCaught him; nor did the aged seer forgetHis stratagems; and first he took the shapeOf a maned lion, of a serpent next,Then of a panther, then of a huge boar,Then turned to flowing water, then becameA tall tree full of leaves. With resolute heartsWe held him fast, until the aged seerWas wearied out, in spite of all his wiles.And questioned me in speech at last and said:—

“ ‘O son of Atreus! who of all the godsHath taught thee how to take me in this snare,Unwilling as I am? What wouldst thou have?’

“He spake; I answered: ‘Aged prophet, wellThou knowest. Why deceitfully inquire?It is that I am held a prisoner longWithin this isle, and vainly seek the meansOf my escape, and grief consumes my heart.Now—since the gods know all things—tell me this,What deity it is, that, hindering thusMy voyage, keeps me here, and tell me howTo cross the fishy deep and reach my home.’

“Such were my words, and he in answer said:—‘But thou to Jove and to the other godsShouldst first have paid acceptable sacrifice,And shouldst have then embarked to reach with speedThy native land across the dark-blue deep.Now it is not thy fate to see againThy friends, thy stately palace, and the landThat saw thy birth, until thou stand once moreBeside the river that through Egypt flowsFrom Jove, and offer sacred hecatombsTo the ever-living gods inhabitingThe boundless heaven, and they will speed thee forthUpon the voyage thou dost long to make.’

“He spake. My heart was broken as I heardHis bidding to recross the shadowy seaTo Egypt, for the way was difficultAnd long; and yet I answered him and said:—

“ ‘Duly will I perform, O aged seer,What thou commandest. But I pray thee tell,And truly, whether all the sons of GreeceWhom Nestor and myself, in setting sail,Left on the Trojan coast, have since returnedSafe with their galleys, or have any diedUntimely in their ships or in the armsOf their companions since the war was closed?’

“I spake; again he answered me and said:—‘Why dost thou ask, Atrides, since to knowThou needest not, nor is it well to exploreThe secrets of my mind? Thou canst not, sure,Refrain from tears when thou shalt know the whole.Many are dead, and many left in Troy.Two leaders only of the well-armed GreeksWere slain returning; in that combat thouDidst bear a part; one, living yet, is kept,Far in the mighty main, from his return.

“ ‘Amid his well-oared galleys Ajax died.For Neptune first had driven him on the rocksOf Gyrae, yet had saved him from the sea;And he, though Pallas hated him, had yetBeen rescued, but for uttering boastful words,Which drew his fate upon him. He had saidThat he, in spite of all the gods, would comeSafe from those mountain waves. When Neptune heardThe boaster’s challenge, instantly he laidHis strong hand on the trident, smote the rockAnd cleft it to the base. Part stood erect,Part fell into the deep. There Ajax sat,And felt the shock, and with the falling massWas carried headlong to the billowy depthsBelow, and drank the brine and perished there.Thy brother in his roomy ships escapedThe danger, for imperial Juno’s aidPreserved him. But when near Meleia’s heightsAbout to land, a tempest seized and sweptThe hero thence across the fishy deep,Lamenting his hard lot, to that far capeWhere once abode Thyestes, and where nowHis son Aegisthus dwelt. But when the godsSent other winds, and safe at last appearedThe voyage, they returned, and reached their home.With joy he stepped upon his native soil,And kissed the earth that bore him, while his tearsAt that most welcome sight flowed fast and warm.Him from a lofty perch a spy beheld,Whom treacherous Aegisthus planted there,Bribed by two golden talents. He had watchedThe whole year through, lest, coming unobserved,The king might make his prowess felt. The spyFlew to the royal palace with the news,And instantly Aegisthus planned a snare.He chose among the people twenty men,The bravest, whom he stationed out of sight,And gave command that others should prepareA banquet. Then with chariots and with steeds,And with a deadly purpose in his heart,He went, and, meeting Agamemnon, badeThe shepherd of the people to the feast,And slew him at the board as men might slayA bullock at the crib. Of all who wentWith Agamemnon thither, none survived,And of the followers of Aegisthus none,But all were slaughtered in the banquet-hall’

“He spake; my heart was breaking, and I wept,While sitting on the sand, nor in my heartCared I to live, or longer to beholdThe sweet light of the sun. But when there cameRespite from tears and writhing on the ground,The Ancient of the Deep, who ne’er deceives,Spake yet again: ‘Atrides, lose no timeIn tears; they profit nothing. Rather seekThe means by which thou mayst the soonest reachThy native land. There thou perchance mayst findAegisthus yet alive, or haply firstOrestes may have slain him, and thyselfArrive to see the funeral rites performed.’

“He spake, and though afflicted still, my heartWas somewhat comforted; my spirit rose,And thus I answered him with winged words:—

“ ‘These men I know; name now the third, who stillIs kept from his return afar withinThe mighty main—alive, perchance, or dead;For, though I dread to hear, I long to know.’

“I spake, and Proteus answered me again:—‘It is Laertes’ son, whose dwelling standsIn Ithaca. I saw him in an isle,And in the cavern-palace of the nymphCalypso, weeping bitterly, for sheConstrains his stay. He cannot leave the isleFor his own country; ship arrayed with oarsAnd seamen has he none to bear him o’erThe breast of the great ocean. But for thee,’Tis not decreed that thou shalt meet thy fateAnd die, most noble Menelaus, whereThe steeds of Argos in her pastures graze.The gods will send thee to the Elysian plain,And to the end of earth, the dwelling-placeOf fair-haired Rhadamanthus. There do menLead easiest lives. No snow, no bitter cold,No beating rains, are there; the ocean-deepsWith murmuring breezes from the West refreshThe dwellers. Thither shalt thou go; for thouArt Helen’s spouse, and son-in-law of Jove.’

“He spake, and plunged into the billowy deep.I to the fleet returned in companyWith my brave men, revolving, as I went,A thousand projects in my thought. I reachedMy galley by the sea, and we preparedOur evening meal. The hallowed night came down,And there upon the ocean-beach we slept.But when the rosy-fingered Morn appeared,The daughter of the Dawn, we drew our shipsTo the great deep, and raised the masts and spreadThe sails; the crews, all entering, took their seatsUpon the benches, ranged in order due,And beat the foaming water with their oars.Again to Egypt’s coast I brought the fleet,And to the river that descends from Jove,And there I offered chosen hecatombs;And having thus appeased the gods, I rearedA tomb to Agamemnon, that his fameMight never die. When this was done I sailedFor home; the gods bestowed a favoring wind.But now remain thou till the eleventh day,Or till the twelfth, beneath my roof, and thenWill I dismiss thee with munificent gifts—Three steeds, a polished chariot, and a cupOf price, with which to pour, from day to day,Wine to the gods in memory of me.”

Then spake discreet Telemachus again:—“Atrides, seek not to detain me long,Though I could sit contentedly a yearBeside thee, never longing for my home,Nor for my parents, such delight I findIn listening to thy words; but even now,In hallowed Pylos, my companions growWeary, while thou delayest my return.The gifts—whate’er thou choosest to bestow—Let them be such as I can treasure up.The steeds to Ithaca I may not take,I leave them to adorn thy retinue;For thou art ruler o’er a realm of plains,Where grows much lotus, and sweet grasses spring,And wheat and rye, and the luxuriant stalksOf the white barley. But in IthacaAre no broad grounds for coursing, meadows none.Goats graze amid its fields, a fairer landThan those where horses feed. No isle that liesWithin the deep has either roads for steedsOr meadows, least of all has Ithaca.”

He spake; the valiant Menelaus smiled,And kindly touched him with his hand and said:—

“Dear son, thou comest of a generous stock;Thy words declare it. I will change my gifts,As well I may. Of all that in my houseAre treasured up, the choicest I will give,And the most precious. I will give a cupWrought all of silver save its brim of gold.It is the work of Vulcan. PhaedimusThe hero, King of Sidon, gave it me,When I was coming home, and underneathHis roof was sheltered. Now it shall be thine.”

So talked they with each other. Meantime cameThose who prepared the banquet to the hallsOf the great monarch. Bringing sheep they cameAnd strengthening wine. Their wives, who on their browsWore showy fillets, brought the bread, and thusWithin the house of Menelaus allWas bustle, setting forth the evening meal.

But in the well-paved court which lay beforeThe palace of Ulysses, where of lateTheir insolence was shown, the suitor trainAmused themselves with casting quoits and spears,While by themselves Antinoüs, and the youthOf godlike mien, Eurymachus, who bothWere eminent above the others, sat.To them Noëmon, son of Phronius, went,Drew near, bespake Antinoüs and inquired:—

“Is it among us known, or is it not,Antinoüs, when Telemachus returnsFrom sandy Pylos? Thither he is goneAnd in my galley, which I need to crossTo spacious Elis. There I have twelve maresAnd hardy mule-colts with them yet untamed,And some I must subdue to take the yoke.”

He spake, and they were both amazed; for theyHad never thought of him as visitingNeleian Pylos, deeming that the youthWas somewhere in his fields, among the flocks,Or haply with the keeper of the swine.

Then did Antinoüs, Eupeithes’ son,Make answer: “Tell me truly when he sailed,And what young men of Ithaca he choseTo go with him. Were they his slaves, or hiredTo be his followers? Tell, for I would knowThe whole. Took he thy ship against thy will?Or didst thou yield it at his first request?”

Noëmon, son of Phornius, thus replied:—“Most willingly I gave it, for what elseWould anyone have done when such a manDesired it in his need? It would have beenHard to deny it. For the band of youthsWho followed him, they are the bravest hereOf all our people; and I saw embark,As their commander, Mentor, or some godLike Mentor altogether. One thing movesMy wonder. Only yesterday, at dawn,I met with Mentor here, whom I beforeHad seen embarking for the Pylian coast.”

Noëmon spake, and to his father’s houseDeparted. Both were troubled at his words,And all the suitors took at once their seats,And ceased their pastimes. Then Antinoüs spake,Son of Eupeithes, greatly vexed; his heartWas darkened with blind rage; his eyes shot fire.

“Strange doings these! a great and proud exploitPerformed—this voyage of Telemachus,Which we had called impossible! The boy,In spite of us, has had his will and gone,And carried off a ship, and for his crewChosen the bravest of the people here.He yet will prove a pest. May JupiterCrush him ere he can work us further harm!Now give me a swift barque and twenty menThat I may lie in ambush and keep watchFor his return within the straits betweenThis isle and rugged Samos; then, I deem,He will have sought his father to his cost.”

He spake; they praised his words and bade him act,And rose and left their places, enteringThe palace of Ulysses. Brief the timeThat passed before Penelope was warnedOf what the suitors treacherously planned.The herald Medon told her all. He heardIn the outer court their counsels while withinThey plotted, and he hastened through the houseTo bring the tidings to Penelope.Penelope perceived him as he steppedAcross the threshold, and bespake him thus:—

“Why, herald, have the suitor princes sentThee hither? comest thou to bid the maidsOf great Ulysses leave their tasks and makeA banquet ready? Would their wooing hereAnd elsewhere were but ended, and this feastWere their last feast on earth! Ye who in throngsCome hither and so wastefully consumeThe substance of the brave Telemachus,Have ye not from your parents, while ye yetWere children, heard how once Ulysses livedAmong them, never wronging any manIn all the realm by aught he did or said—As mighty princes often do, through hateOf some and love of others? Never manEndured injustice at his hands, but you—Your vile designs and acts are known; ye bearNo grateful memory of a good man’s deeds.”

And then, in turn, experienced Medon spake:—“O queen, I would this evil were the worst!The suitors meditate a greater still,And a more heinous far. May JupiterNever permit the crime! Their purpose isTo meet Telemachus, on his return,And slay him with the sword; for thou must knowThat on a voyage to the Pylian coastAnd noble Lacedaemon he has sailed,To gather tidings of his father’s fate.”

He spake, and her knees failed her and her heartSank as she heard. Long time she could not speak;Her eyes were filled with tears, and her clear voiceWas choked; yet, finding words at length, she said:—

“O herald! wherefore should my son have gone?There was no need that he should trust himselfTo the swift ships, those horses of the sea,With which men traverse its unmeasured waste.Was it that he might leave no name on earth?”

And then again experienced Medon spake:—“I know not whether prompted by some godOr moved by his own heart thy son has sailedFor Pylos, hoping there to hear some newsOf his returning father, or his fate.”

Thus having said, the herald, traversingThe palace of Ulysses, went his way,While a keen anguish overpowered the queen,Nor could she longer bear to keep her placeUpon her seat—and many seats were there—But on the threshold of her gorgeous roomsLay piteously lamenting. Round her cameHer maidens wailing—all, both old and young,Who formed her household. These Penelope,Sobbing in her great sorrow, thus bespake:—

“Hear me, my friends, the heavens have cast on meGriefs heavier than on any others bornAnd reared with me—me, who had lost by deathAlready a most gracious husband, oneWho bore a lion heart and who was gracedWith every virtue, greatly eminentAmong the Greeks, and widely famed abroadThrough Hellas and all Argos. Now my son,He whom I loved, is driven before the stormsFrom home, inglorious, and I was not toldOf his departure. Ye too, worthless crew!Ye took no thought, not one of you, to callMe from my sleep, although ye must have knownFull well when he embarked in his black ship.And if it had been told me that he plannedThis voyage, then, impatient as he wasTo sail, he would have certainly remained,Or else have left me in these halls a corpse.And now let one of my attendants callThe aged Dolius, whom, when first I cameTo this abode, my father gave to meTo be my servant, and who has in chargeMy orchards. Let him haste and take his placeBeside Laertes, and to him declareAll that has happened, that he may deviseSome fitting remedy, or go amongThe people, to deplore the dark designsOf those who now are plotting to destroyThe heir of great Ulysses and his own.”

Then Eurycleia, the beloved nurse,Answered: “Dear lady, slay me with the sword,Or leave me here alive; I will concealNothing that has been done or said. I gaveAll that he asked, both bread and delicate wine,And took a solemn oath, which he required,To tell thee naught of this till twelve days passed,Or till thou shouldst thyself inquire and hearOf his departure, that those lovely cheeksMight not be stained with tears. Now bathe and putFresh garments on, and to the upper roomsAscending, with thy handmaids offer prayerTo Pallas, daughter of the god who bearsThe aegis. She will then protect thy son,Even from death. Grieve not the aged man,Already much afflicted. Sure I amThe lineage of Arcesius has not lostThe favor of the gods, but someone yetSurviving will possess its lofty hallsAnd its rich acres, stretching far away.”

She spake; the queen repressed her grief, and heldHer eyes from tears. She took the bath and putFresh garments on, and, to the upper roomsAscending with her maidens, heaped with cakesA canister, and prayed to Pallas thus:—

“Daughter invincible of JupiterThe Aegis-bearer, hear me. If withinThy courts the wise Ulysses ever burnedFat thighs of beeves or sheep, remember it,And rescue my dear son, and bring to naughtThe wicked plots of the proud suitor-crew.”

She spake, and wept aloud. The goddess heardHer prayer. Meantime the suitors filled with noiseThe shadowy palace-halls, and there were someAmong that throng of arrogant youths who said:—

“Truly the queen, whom we have wooed so long,Prepares for marriage; little does she knowThe bloody death we destine for her son.”

So spake they, unaware of what was doneElsewhere. Antinoüs then stood forth and said:—

“Good friends, I warn you all that ye refrainFrom boasts like these, lest someone should reportYour words within. Now let us silentlyRise up, and all conspire to put in actThe counsel all so heartily approve.”

He spake, and chose a crew of twenty men,The bravest. To the seaside and the shipThey went, and down to the deep water drewThe ship, and put the mast and sails on board,And fitted duly to their leathern ringsThe oars, and spread the white sail overhead.Their nimble-handed servants brought them arms,And there they moored the galley, went on board,And supped and waited for the evening star.

Now in the upper chamber the chaste queen,Penelope, lay fasting; food or wineShe had not tasted, and her thoughts were stillFixed on her blameless son. Would he escapeThe threatened death, or perish by the handsOf the insolent suitors? As a lion’s thoughts,When, midst a crowd of men, he sees with dreadThe hostile circle slowly closing round,Such were her thoughts, when balmy sleep at lengthCame creeping over her as on her couchShe lay reclined, her limbs relaxed in rest.

Now Pallas framed a new device; she calledA phantom up, in aspect like the dameIphthime, whom Eumelus had espousedIn Pherae, daughter of the high-souled chiefIcarius. Her she sent into the hallsOf great Ulysses, that she might beguileThe sorrowful Penelope from tearsAnd lamentations. By the thong that heldThe bolt she slid into the royal bowerAnd standing by her head bespake the queen:—

“Penelope, afflicted as thou art,Art thou asleep? The ever-blessed godsPermit thee not to grieve and weep; thy son,Who has not sinned against them, shall return.”

And then discreet Penelope replied,Still sweetly slumbering at the Gate of Dreams:—

“Why, sister, art thou here, who ne’er beforeHast come to me? The home is far awayIn which thou dwellest. Thou exhortest meTo cease from grieving, and to lay asideThe painful thoughts that crowd into my mind,And torture me who have already lostA noble-minded, lionhearted spouse,One eminent among Achaia’s sonsFor every virtue, and whose fame was spreadThrough Hellas and through Argos. Now my son,My best beloved, goes to sea—a boy,Unused to hardships, and unskilled to dealWith strangers. More I sorrow for his sakeThan for his father’s. I am filled with fear,And tremble lest he suffer wrong from thoseAmong whom he has gone, or on the deep,Where he has enemies who lie in waitTo slay him ere he reach his home again.”

And then the shadowy image spake again:—“Be of good courage; let not fear o’ercomeThy spirit, for there goes with him a guideSuch as all others would desire to haveBeside them ever, trusting in her power—Pallas Athene, and she looks on theeWith pity. From her presence I am sent,Her messenger, declaring this to thee.”

Again discreet Penelope replied:—“If then thou be a goddess and hast heardA goddess speak these words, declare, I pray,Of that ill-fated one, if yet he liveAnd look upon the sun, or else have diedAnd passed to the abodes beneath the earth.”

Once more the shadowy image spake: “Of himWill I say nothing, whether living yetOr dead; no time is this for idle words.”

She said, and from the chamber glided forthBeside the bolt, and mingled with the winds.Then quickly from her couch of sleep aroseThe daughter of Icarius, for her heartWas glad, so plainly had the dream conveyedIts message in the stillness of the night.

Meanwhile the suitors on their ocean-pathWent in their galley, plotting cruellyTo slay Telemachus. A rocky isleFar in the middle sea, between the coastOf Ithaca and craggy Samos, lies,Named Asteris; of narrow bounds, yet thereA sheltered haven is to which two straitsGive entrance. There the Achaians lay in wait.