The benefit of some kind word or deed.
For, destitute of other aid, he much
His father’s tedious absence mourns at home.
So fares Telemachus; his father strays
Remote, and, in his stead, no friend hath he
Who might avert the mischiefs that he feels.
Ye Gods! the offspring of indeed a friend
Hath reach’d my house, of one who hath endured
Arduous conflicts num’rous for my sake;
And much I purpos’d, had Olympian Jove
Vouchsaf’d us prosp’rous passage o’er the Deep,
To have receiv’d him with such friendship here
As none beside. In Argos I had then
Founded a city for him, and had rais’d
A palace for himself; I would have brought
The Hero hither, and his son, with all
His people, and with all his wealth, some town
Evacuating for his sake, of those
Ruled by myself, and neighb’ring close my own.
Thus situate, we had often interchanged
Sweet converse, nor had other cause at last
Our friendship terminated or our joys,
Than death’s black cloud o’ershadowing him or me.
But such delights could only envy move
Ev’n in the Gods, who have, of all the Greeks,
Amerc’d him only of his wish’d return.
In ev’ry bosom. Argive Helen wept
Abundant, Jove’s own daughter; wept as fast
Telemachus and Menelaus both;
Nor Nestor’s son with tearless eyes remain’d,
Calling to mind Antilochus by the son
Illustrious of the bright Aurora slain,
Rememb’ring whom, in accents wing’d he said.
Conversing with him, we remember’d thee,
Pronounced thee wise beyond all human-kind.
Now therefore, let not even my advice
Displease thee. It affords me no delight
To intermingle tears with my repast,
And soon, Aurora, daughter of the dawn,
Will tinge the orient. Not that I account
Due lamentation of a friend deceased
Blameworthy, since, to sheer the locks and weep,
Is all we can for the unhappy dead.
I also have my grief, call’d to lament
One, not the meanest of Achaia’s sons,
My brother; him I cannot but suppose
To thee well-known, although unknown to me
Who saw him never; but report proclaims
Antilochus superior to the most,
In speed superior, and in feats of arms.
O friend belov’d! since nought which thou hast said
Or recommended now, would have disgraced
A man of years maturer far than thine,
(For wise thy father is, and such art thou,
And easy is it to discern the son
Of such a father, whom Saturnian Jove
In marriage both and at his birth ordain’d
To great felicity; for he hath giv’n
To Nestor gradually to sink at home
Into old age, and, while he lives, to see
His sons past others wise, and skill’d in arms)
The sorrow into which we sudden fell
Shall pause. Come—now remember we the feast;
Pour water on our hands, for we shall find,
(Telemachus and I) no dearth of themes
For mutual converse when the day shall dawn.
Servant of glorious Menelaus, poured
Pure water on their hands, and they the feast
Before them with keen appetite assail’d.
But Jove-born Helen otherwise, meantime,
Employ’d, into the wine of which they drank
A drug infused, antidote to the pains
Of grief and anger, a most potent charm
For ills of ev’ry name. Whoe’er his wine
So medicated drinks, he shall not pour
All day the tears down his wan cheek, although
His father and his mother both were dead,
Nor even though his brother or his son
Had fall’n in battle, and before his eyes.
Such drugs Jove’s daughter own’d, with skill prepar’d,
And of prime virtue, by the wife of Thone,
Ægyptian Polydamna, giv’n her.
For Ægypt teems with drugs, yielding no few
Which, mingled with the drink, are good, and many
Of baneful juice, and enemies to life.
There ev’ry man in skill medicinal
Excels, for they are sons of Pæon all.
That drug infused, she bade her servant pour
The bev’rage forth, and thus her speech resumed.
These also are the sons of Chiefs renown’d,
(For Jove, as pleases him, to each assigns
Or good or evil, whom all things obey)
Now therefore, feasting at your ease reclin’d,
Listen with pleasure, for myself, the while,
Will matter seasonable interpose.
I cannot all rehearse, nor even name,
(Omitting none) the conflicts and exploits
Of brave Ulysses; but with what address
Successful, one atchievement he perform’d
At Ilium, where Achaia’s sons endured
Such hardship, will I speak. Inflicting wounds
Dishonourable on himself, he took
A tatter’d garb, and like a serving-man
Enter’d the spacious city of your foes.
So veil’d, some mendicant he seem’d, although
No Greecian less deserved that name than he.
In such disguise he enter’d; all alike
Misdeem’d him; me alone he not deceived
Who challeng’d him, but, shrewd, he turn’d away.
At length, however, when I had myself
Bathed him, anointed, cloath’d
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