Meantime I counsel thee, thyself to think
By what means likeliest thou shalt expel
These from thy doors. Now mark me: close attend.
To-morrow, summoning the Grecian Chiefs
To council, speak to them, and call the Gods
To witness that solemnity. Bid go
The suitors hence, each to his own abode.
Thy mother—if her purpose be resolved
On marriage, let her to the house return
Of her own potent father, who, himself,
Shall furnish forth her matrimonial rites,
And ample dow’r, such as it well becomes
A darling daughter to receive, bestow.
But hear me now; thyself I thus advise.
The prime of all thy ships preparing, mann’d
With twenty rowers, voyage hence to seek
Intelligence of thy long-absent Sire.
Some mortal may inform thee, or a word,
Perchance, by Jove directed (safest source
Of notice to mankind) may reach thine ear.
First voyaging to Pylus, there enquire
Of noble Nestor; thence to Sparta tend,
To question Menelaus amber-hair’d,
Latest arrived of all the host of Greece.
There should’st thou learn that still thy father lives,
And hope of his return, although
Distress’d, thou wilt be patient yet a year.
But should’st thou there hear tidings that he breathes
No longer, to thy native isle return’d,
First heap his tomb; then with such pomp perform
His funeral rites as his great name demands,
And make thy mother’s spousals, next, thy care.
These duties satisfied, delib’rate last
Whether thou shalt these troublers of thy house
By stratagem, or by assault, destroy.
For thou art now no child, nor longer may’st
Sport like one. Hast thou not the proud report
Heard, how Orestes hath renown acquired
With all mankind, his father’s murtherer
Ægisthus slaying, the deceiver base
Who slaughter’d Agamemnon? Oh my friend!
(For with delight thy vig’rous growth I view,
And just proportion) be thou also bold,
And merit praise from ages yet to come.
But I will to my vessel now repair,
And to my mariners, whom, absent long,
I may perchance have troubled. Weigh thou well
My counsel; let not my advice be lost.
Stranger! thy words bespeak thee much my friend,
Who, as a father teaches his own son,
Hast taught me, and I never will forget.
But, though in haste thy voyage to pursue,
Yet stay, that in the bath refreshing first
Thy limbs now weary, thou may’st sprightlier seek
Thy gallant bark, charged with some noble gift
Of finish’d workmanship, which thou shalt keep
As my memorial ever; such a boon
As men confer on guests whom much they love.
Retard me not, for go I must; the gift
Which liberal thou desirest to bestow,
Give me at my return, that I may bear
The treasure home; and, in exchange, thyself
Expect some gift equivalent from me.
Vanish’d incontinent, but him inspired
With daring fortitude, and on his heart
Dearer remembrance of his Sire impress’d
Than ever. Conscious of the wond’rous change,
Amazed he stood, and, in his secret thought
Revolving all, believed his guest a God.
The youthful Hero to the suitors then
Repair’d; they silent, listen’d to the song
Of the illustrious Bard: he the return
Deplorable of the Achaian host
From Ilium by command of Pallas, sang.
Penelope, Icarius’ daughter, mark’d
Meantime the song celestial, where she sat
In the superior palace; down she came,
By all the num’rous steps of her abode;
Not sole, for two fair handmaids follow’d her.
She then, divinest of her sex, arrived
In presence of that lawless throng, beneath
The portal of her stately mansion stood,
Between her maidens, with her lucid veil
Her lovely features mantling. There, profuse
She wept, and thus the sacred bard bespake.
Thou know’st beside, such as exploits record
Of Gods and men, the poet’s frequent theme;
Give them of those a song, and let themselves
Their wine drink noiseless; but this mournful strain
Break off, unfriendly to my bosom’s peace,
And which of all hearts nearest touches mine,
With such regret my dearest Lord I mourn,
Rememb’ring still an husband praised from side
To side, and in the very heart of Greece.
My mother! wherefore should it give thee pain
If the delightful bard that theme pursue
To which he feels his mind impell’d? the bard
Blame not, but rather Jove, who, as he wills,
Materials for poetic art supplies.
No fault is his, if the disastrous fate
He sing of the Achaians, for the song
Wins ever from the hearers most applause
That has been least in use. Of all who fought
At Troy, Ulysses hath not lost, alone,
His day of glad return; but many a Chief
Hath perish’d also. Seek thou then again
Thy own apartment, spindle ply and loom,
And task thy maidens; management belongs
To men of joys convivial, and of men
Especially to me, chief ruler here.
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