Book XIX: Ulysses Recognized by Eurycleia

Lyrics

Removal of the weapons from the hall by Ulysses and his son⁠—Interview of Penelope and Ulysses, who tells her that he has seen her husband in Crete, describes his person and dress, and affirms that within a month he will be in Ithaca⁠—The bath administered to Ulysses by Eurycleia, who recognizes him by a scar on his leg⁠—Narrative of the manner in which the scar was caused. Now was the godlike chief Ulysses left In his own palace, planning, with the aid Of Pallas, to destroy the suitor-train, And thus bespake his son with winged words:⁠— "Now is the time, Telemachus, to take The weapons that are here, and store them up In the inner rooms. Then, if the suitors ask The reason, answer them with specious words: Say, 'I have put them where there comes no smoke. Since even now they do not seem the arms Left 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 flushed With wine and in the heat of a dispute, May smite and wound each other, and disgrace The banquet and your wooing; for the sight Of steel doth draw men on to violence.' " He ended, and Telemachus obeyed His father's words, and calling forth his nurse, The aged Eurycleia, said to her:⁠— "Go, nurse, and see the women all shut up In their own place, while in our inner room I 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 exert Thy proper wisdom here, and take in charge Thy house and thy possessions. But who goes With 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 here Who eats my bread, though from a distant land." He spake, nor flew his words in vain. The nurse Closed all the portals of that noble pile. Ulysses and his glorious son in haste Bore off the helmets, and the bossy shields, And the sharp spears, while Pallas held to them A golden lamp, that shed a fair clear light. Then to his father spake Telemachus:⁠— "Father! my eyes behold a marvel. All The 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 those Who make their dwelling in the high broad heaven." Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: "Keep silence; give thy thought no speech, nor ask Concerning aught. Such is the wont of those Who dwell upon Olympus. Now withdraw To rest upon thy couch, while I remain, For I would move thy mother and her maids To 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 rest Where he was wont to lie when gentle sleep Came over him. There lay he down to wait The hallowed morning, while Ulysses, left Within the palace, meditated still Death to the suitors with Minerva's aid. The sage Penelope now left her bower; Like Dian or like golden Venus came The queen. Beside the hearth they placed for her The throne where she was wont to sit, inlaid With ivory and silver, which of yore The artisan Icmalius wrought. They laid Close to the throne a footstool, over which Was spread an ample fleece. On this sat down The sage Penelope. Her white-armed train Of handmaids came with her; they cleared away The 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 light And warmth. And now Melantho once again Bespake Ulysses with unmannerly words:⁠— "Stranger, wilt thou forever be a pest, Ranging the house at night to play the spy Upon the women? Leave the hall, thou wretch! And gorge thyself without, else wilt thou go Suddenly, 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, inhabiting A plenteous home among my fellow-men, And often gave the wanderer alms, whoe'er He might be and in whatsoever need; And I had many servants, and large store Of things by which men lead a life of ease And are called rich. But Jupiter, the son Of Saturn, put an end to this, for so It pleased the god. Now, therefore, woman, think That thou mayst lose the beauty which is now Thy pride among the serving-women here; Thy mistress may be wroth, and make thy life A hard one; or Ulysses may come back⁠— And there is hope of that. Or if it be That 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 halls May think to misbehave, and yet escape His 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 note Of thy behavior; thou hast done a wrong For which thy head should answer. Well thou know'st, For thou hast heard me say, that I would ask The stranger in these halls if aught he knows Of my Ulysses, for whose sake I grieve." Then to the matron of the household turned The queen, and thus bespake Eurynomè:⁠— "Bring now a seat, Eurynomè, and spread A fleece upon it, where the stranger guest May 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 speed A 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 earth Can speak of thee with blame. Thy fame has reached To the great heavens. It is like the renown Of some most excellent king, of godlike sway O'er many men and mighty, who upholds Justice in all his realm. The dark-soiled earth Brings wheat and barley forth; the trees are bowed With fruit; the meadows swarm with noble herds, The sea with fish, and under his wise reign The people prosper. Therefore ask, I pray, Of other things, while I am underneath Thy palace-roof, but of my race and home Inquire not, lest thou waken in my mind Unhappy memories. I am a man Of sorrow, and it would become me ill To sit lamenting in another's house And shedding tears. Besides, a grief indulged Doth grow in violence. Thy maids would blame, And thou perhaps, and ye would call my tears The maudlin tears of one o'ercome with wine." Then spake the sage Penelope again: "Stranger, such grace of feature and of form As once I had the immortals took away, What time the Argive warriors sailed for Troy, And my Ulysses with them. Could he now Return to rule my household as of yore, The wider and the brighter were my fame. But now I lead a wretched life, so great And many are the evils which some god Heaps on me. For the chieftains who bear sway Over the isles⁠—Dulichium, and the fields Of Samos, and Zacynthus dark with woods, And those who rule in sunny Ithaca⁠— Woo me against my will, and waste away My substance. Therefore have I small regard For strangers and for suppliants, and the tribe Of heralds, servants of the public weal, But, pining for Ulysses, wear away My life. The suitors urge the marriage rite, And I with art delay it. Once some god Prompted me to begin an ample web, Wide and of subtle texture, in my rooms. And then I said: 'Youths, who are pressing me To 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 fate And death's long sleep at last shall overtake The hero; else among the multitude Of Grecian women I shall bear the blame, If one whose ample wealth so well was known Should lie in death without a funeral robe.' I spake, and easily their minds were swayed By what I said, and I began to weave The ample web, but ravelled it again By torchlight every evening. For three years I 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 end My task, and cannot longer now escape The marriage, nor is any refuge left. My parents both exhort me earnestly To choose a husband, and my son with grief Beholds the suitors wasting his estate, And he already is a man and well Can rule his household; Jupiter bestows so. Such honor on him. Now, I pray, declare Thy lineage, for thou surely art not sprung From 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 then Disclose it, but thou wakest in my heart New sorrows. So it ever is with one Who 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 midst Of 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 tongues Are spoken by the dwellers of the isle. In part they are Achaians, and in part Are Cretans of the soil, a gallant stock; There dwell Cydonians, Dorians of three tribes, And proud Pelasgians. Their great capital Is Knossos, where the monarch Minos dwelt, He who at every nine years' end conferred With Jove almighty; and to him was born Deucalion, my brave father, who begat Me and Idomeneus, the King of Crete. To Ilium in his beaked galleys sailed Idomeneus with Atreus' sons. My name⁠— A name well known⁠—is Aethon. 'Twas at Crete I saw Ulysses, who received from me The welcome due a guest. A violent wind Had driven him from Maleia and the course That led to Ilium, and had carried him To Crete, and lodged him in the dangerous port Amnisus, close to Ilithyia's cave, Where scarce his fleet escaped the hurricane. Thence came he to the city, and inquired For King Idomeneus, who was, he said, His dear and honored guest; but he had sailed Ten days before, perhaps eleven, for Troy, In his beaked galleys. To the palace there I led Ulysses, and with liberal cheer Welcomed the chief, for plentifully stored The royal dwelling was. I also gave Meal from the public magazines to him And those who followed him, and dark red wine Brought from the country round, and beeves to slay In sacrifice, that so their hearts might feel No lack of aught. Twelve days the noble Greeks Remained with us. A violent north-wind, Which scarcely suffered them to stand upright On shore, withstood them. Some unfriendly power Had bid it blow; but on the thirteenth day Its fury ceased, and the fleet put to sea." Thus went he on, inventing tales that seemed Like truth. She listened, melting into tears That 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 streams Are filled; so did Penelope's fair cheeks Seem to dissolve in tears⁠—tears shed for him Who sat beside her even then. He saw His weeping wife, and pitied her at heart; Yet were his eyes like iron or like horn, And moved not in their lids; for artfully He kept his tears from falling. When the queen Had ceased to weep, she answered him and said:⁠— "Now, stranger, let me prove thee, if in truth Thou didst receive, as thou hast just declared, In thine abode, my husband and his train Of 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 there And left the isle, but, as my memory bids, So will I speak. A fleecy purple cloak Ulysses wore, a double web; the clasp Was golden, with two fastenings, and in front It showed a work of rare design⁠—a hound That held in his forepaws a spotted fawn, Struggling before his open mouth. Although The figures were of gold, we all admired The hound intent to break his victim's neck, The fawn that, writhing, plied her nimble feet To free herself. Around the hero's chest And waist I saw a lustrous tunic worn, Soft, like the thin film of the onion dried, And bright as sunshine; many ladies looked With wonder on it. Yet consider this; I know not whether thus attired he left His home, or whether, in the voyage thence, Some comrade gave the garments, or perhaps Some friendly host, for he was very dear To 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 way In his good ship. There came and went with him A herald somewhat older than himself; Let me portray him⁠—hunchbacked, swarthy skinned, And curly haired, Eurybates his name. Ulysses honored him above the rest Of his companions, for they thought alike." He ceased; the queen was moved to deeper grief, For she remembered all the tokens well Of which he spake; and when that passionate gust Of weeping ceased, she spake again and said:⁠— "Stranger, till now thy presence in these halls Has only moved my pity; thou henceforth Art dear and honored. It was I who gave The garments thou hast told me of; these hands Folded them in my chamber. I put on The glittering clasp to be his ornament, And now I never shall behold him more Returning to his own dear land and home; So cruel was the fate that took him hence To Ilium, in his roomy ship, a town Of 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 lost Wither thy beauty longer, and consume Thy heart. And yet I blame thee not at all; For any wife in losing him to whom She gave herself while yet a maid, and bore Children, will mourn him, though he be in worth Below Ulysses, who, as fame declares, Is like the gods. But cease to grieve, and hear What 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 realm Of the Thesprotians, whence he brings with him Much and rare treasure, gathered there among The people. His beloved friends he lost, And his good ship; the black deep swallowed them In coming from Trinacria, for his crew Had slaughtered there the oxen of the Sun. The Sun and Jove were angry; therefore all His comrades perished in the billowy sea; But him upon his galley's keel the wind Drove 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 sent The 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 down Into the water, and already manned With rowers, who should take Ulysses home. But me he first dismissed, for at the time A barque of the Thesprotians left the port, Bound for Dulichium's cornfields. Ere I went He showed the treasures of Ulysses stored In the king's palace⁠—treasures that might serve To feed the household of another chief To the tenth generation. He who owned That wealth was at Dodona, so the king Declared, inquiring, at the lofty oak Of Jupiter, the counsel of the god How to return to his dear native land, So long a wanderer⁠—whether openly Or else by stealth. So he is safe, and soon Will he be nearer to us; for not long Can he remain away from all his friends And fatherland. To this I plight my oath; Let Jove, the greatest and the best of gods, Be witness, and this hearth of the good prince Ulysses, where I sit, that every word Which 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 thanks And bounty at my hands that everyone Who meets thee should rejoice with thee. And yet The thought abides with me, and so indeed It must be, that Ulysses will no more Return, 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 lie Warm till the Morning, in her golden car, Draw near; then with the early morn again Bathe and anoint him, that he may sit down Beside Telemachus prepared to take His morning meal. Ill shall he fare who dares Molest the stranger; he shall have no place Or office here, however he may rage. And how, O stranger, wouldst thou learn that I In mind and thoughtful wisdom am above All other women, if I let thee sit Squalid and meanly clad at banquets here? Short is the life of man, and whoso bears A cruel heart, devising cruel things, On him men call down evil from the gods While living, and pursue him, when he dies, With scoffs. But whoso is of generous heart And harbors generous aims, his guests proclaim His 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 behind The 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 Morn Upon her car of gold. I do not like This washing of the feet. No maiden here That ministers to thee may touch my foot; But if among them be some aged dame And faithful, who has suffered in her life As I have suffered, she may touch my feet." And thus the sage Penelope rejoined: "Dear guest⁠—for never to these halls has come A stranger so discreet or better liked By me, so wisely thou dost speak, and well⁠— I have an aged prudent dame, whose care Reared my unfortunate husband. She received The nursling when his mother brought him forth, And she, though small her strength, will wash thy feet. Rise, prudent Eurycleia, thou shalt wash The feet of one whose years must be the same As thy own master's; such is doubtless now Ulysses, with such wrinkled feet and hands. For quickly doth misfortune make men old." She spake; the aged handmaid hid her face With both her hands, and, shedding bitter tears, Thus sorrowfully to the queen replied:⁠— "My heart is sad for thee, my son; and yet I can do nothing. Can it be that Jove Hates thee beyond all other? though thyself So reverent to the gods? No man on earth Has burned so many thighs of fatling beasts And chosen hecatombs as thou to Jove The Thunderer, with prayer that thou mayst reach A calm old age, and rear thy glorious son To manhood; yet the god hath cut thee off From thy return forever. Even now Perchance the women of some princely house Which he has entered in some distant land Scoff at him as these wretched creatures scoff At thee, O stranger, who, to shun their taunts And insults, wilt not suffer them to wash Thy feet. The sage Penelope commands, And I am not unwilling. I will wash Thy 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 distress Come many hither, yet have I beheld No 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 said By all who have beheld both him and me. They all declare that we are very like Each other; thou in this hast spoken well." He spake; she took a shining vase designed For washing feet, and poured cold water in In large abundance, and warm water next. Ulysses, who had sat before the hearth, Moved to a darker spot, for in his mind The thought arose that she might find a scar Upon his limbs in handling them, and thus His secret would be known. She came and bathed His feet, and found the scar. 'Twas where a boar With his white tooth had gashed the limb, as once He journeyed to Parnassus, where he paid A visit to Autolycus and his sons, His mother's noble father, who excelled All men in craft and oaths, such was the gift Conferred on him by Hermes; for to him Autolycus made grateful offerings, The thighs of lambs and kids, and evermore The god was with him. Once Autolycus Came to the opulent realm of Ithaca, And found his daughter with a son new born; There Eurycleia placed upon his knees The 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 name That I shall give. In coming to his isle I bear the hate of many⁠—both of men And women⁠—scattered o'er the nourishing earth; Name him Ulysses therefore, and when, grown To man's estate, he visits the proud halls Reared at Parnassus, where his mother dwelt And my possessions lie, I will bestow A share on him, and send him home rejoiced." And therefore went Ulysses to receive The promised princely gifts. Autolycus And 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 Autolycus Called 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 each His part. So all the day till set of sun They 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 mount Parnassus, clothed with woods, they climbed, and soon Were on its airy heights. The sun, new risen From the deep ocean's gently flowing stream, Now smote the fields. The hunters reached a dell; The hounds before them tracked the game; behind Followed the children of Autolycus. The generous youth Ulysses, brandishing A spear of mighty length, came pressing on Close to the hounds. There lay a huge wild boar Within a thicket, where moist-blowing winds Came not, nor in his brightness could the sun Pierce with his beams the covert, nor the rain Pelt through, so closely grew the shrubs. The ground Was heaped with sheddings of the withered leaves. Around him came the noise of dogs and men Approaching swiftly. From his lair he sprang And faced them, with the bristles on his neck Upright, and flashing eyes. Ulysses rushed Before the others, with the ponderous spear Raised high in his strong hand intent to smite. The boar was first to strike; he dealt a blow Sidelong, and gashed his foe above the knee, And tore the flesh, but left untouched the bone. Ulysses, striking with his burnished spear The boar's right shoulder, drove the weapon through. He fell with piercing cries amid the dust, And the life left him. Then around their guest The kindly children of Autolycus Came and bound up with care the wound, and stanched With spells the dark blood of the blameless youth, And hastened with him to their father's home. And when Autolycus and they his sons Had seen him wholly healed, they loaded him With presents, and, rejoicing for his sake, Sent him rejoicing back to Ithaca. His father and his gracious mother there Rejoiced in turn, and asked him of the scar, And how it came, and he related all⁠— How by the white tusk of a savage boar The wound was given on the Parnassian heights, As he was hunting with her father's sons. The aged woman, as she took the foot Into 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 rush Of 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 turned Her eyes, about to tell her that her lord Was 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 throat Laid his right hand, and with the other drew The aged woman nearer him, and said:⁠— "Nurse, wouldst thou ruin me, who drew long since Milk from thy bosom, and who now return, After much suffering borne for twenty years, To mine own land? Now then, since thou hast learned The truth⁠—by prompting of some god, no doubt⁠— Keep silence, lest some others in the house Should learn it also. Else⁠—I tell thee this, And will perform my word⁠—if God permit That 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 well Thou 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, keep My words in mind. If, by the aid of God, Thou overcome the arrogant suitor-crew, Then will I name the handmaids that disgrace Thy household, and point out the innocent." Ulysses, the sagacious, thus rejoined: "Why name them, nurse? It needs not. I myself Shall watch them, and shall know them all. Hold thou Thy peace, and leave the issue with the gods." He spake; the aged woman left the place To bring a second bath, for on the floor The first was spilled. When she had bathed his feet And made them smooth with oil, Ulysses drew Close to the hearth his seat again, to take The warmth, and with his tatters hid the scar. And thus the sage Penelope began:⁠— "Stranger, but little longer will I yet Inquire; the hour of grateful rest is near For those who, though unhappy, can receive The balm of slumber. Yet for me some god Appoints immeasurable grief. All day In sorrows and in sighs, my solace is To oversee my maidens at their tasks Here in the palace; but when evening comes, And all betake themselves to rest, I lie Upon my couch, and sorrows thick and sharp Awake new misery in my heart. As when, In the fresh spring, the swarthy Nightingale, Daughter of Pandarus, among thick leaves Sings sweetly to the woods, and, changing oft The strain, pours forth her voice of many notes, Lamenting the beloved Itylus, Her son by royal Zethos, whom she smote Unwittingly, and slew; with such quick change My mind is tossed from thought to thought. I muse Whether to keep my place beside my son, And hold what here is mine, my dower, my maids And high-roofed halls, as one who still reveres Her husband's bed, and heeds the public voice, Or follow one of the Achaian chiefs, The noblest of the wooers, and the one Who 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 desires That I should leave the palace, for his wrath Is great against the men who waste his wealth. Hear, and interpret now a dream of mine: Within these courts are twenty geese that eat Corn from the water, and I look on them Pleased and amused. From off a mountain came A hook-beaked eagle, broke their necks, and left Their 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 prey Had 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 not A dream, but a true vision, and will be Fulfilled. 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 still Were at their trough, and feeding as before." And thus Ulysses, the sagacious, said: "Lady, the dream that visited thy sleep Cannot be wrested to another sense. Ulysses has himself revealed to thee The way of its fulfillment. Death is near The suitors, and not one escapes his doom." Then spake the sage Penelope again: "Of dreams, O stranger, some are meaningless And idle, and can never be fulfilled. Two portals are there for their shadowy shapes, Of ivory one, and one of horn. The dreams That come through the carved ivory deceive With 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 dream Came through them, though my son and I would both Rejoice if it were so. This let me say, And heed me well. Tomorrow brings to us The hateful morn which takes me from my home, The palace of Ulysses. I shall now Propose a contest. In the palace court Ulysses in a row set up twelve stakes, Like props that hold a galley up; each stake Had its own ring; he stood afar, and sent An arrow through them all. I shall propose This contest to the suitors. He who bends The bow with easy mastery, and sends Through the twelve rings an arrow, I will take To follow from the palace where I passed My youthful married life⁠—a beautiful home, And stored with wealth; a home which I shall long Remember, even in my nightly dreams." Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus: "O gracious consort of Laertes' son! Let not this contest be delayed; the man Of ready wiles, Ulysses, will be here Ere, 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 yet Sleepless the race of mortals cannot be, So have the gods ordained, who measure out His lot to man upon the nourishing earth. I to the upper rooms withdraw, to take My place upon the couch which has become To me a place of sorrow and of tears Since my Ulysses went away to Troy, That fatal town which should be named no more. And I will lay me down; but thou remain Within these walls, and make the floor thy bed, Or let these maidens spread a couch for thee." Penelope, thus having spoken, went Up to her royal bower, but not alone; Her maids went with her. When they were within She wept for her dear husband, till at length The blue-eyed Pallas graciously distilled Upon her closing lids the balm of sleep.