With fingers nice inserting, and above,
With such facility Ulysses bent
His own huge bow, and with his right hand play’d
The nerve, which in its quick vibration sang
Clear as the swallow’s voice. Keen anguish seized
The suitors, wan grew ev’ry cheek, and Jove
Gave him his rolling thunder for a sign.
That omen, granted to him by the son
Of wily Saturn, with delight he heard.
He took a shaft that at the table-side
Lay ready drawn; but in his quiver’s womb
The rest yet slept, by those Achaians proud
To be, ere long, experienced. True he lodg’d
The arrow on the centre of the bow,
And, occupying still his seat, drew home
Nerve and notch’d arrow-head; with stedfast sight
He aimed and sent it; right through all the rings
From first to last the steel-charged weapon flew
Issuing beyond, and to his son he spake.
A guest like me; neither my arrow swerved
Nor labour’d I long time to draw the bow;
My strength is unimpair’d, not such as these
In scorn affirm it. But the waning day
Calls us to supper, after which succeeds
Jocund variety, the song, the harp,
With all that heightens and adorns the feast.
At once the son of the illustrious Chief
Slung his keen faulchion grasp’d his spear, and stood
Arm’d bright for battle at his father’s side.
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter |