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BOOK XXIV

ARGUMENT

The souls of the suitors are conducted by Mercury to the infernal shades. Ulysses in the country goes to the retirement of his father Laërtes; he finds him busied in his garden all alone: the manner of his discovery to him is beautifully described. They return together to his lodge, and the king is acknowledged by Dolius and the servants. The Ithacensians, led by Eupithes, the father of Antinoüs, rise against Ulysses, who gives them battle, in which Eupithes is killed by Laërtes: and the goddess Pallas makes a lasting peace between Ulysses and his subjects, which concludes the Odyssey.

- Cyllenius now to Pluto’s dreary reign
- Conveys the dead, a lamentable train!
- The golden wand, that causes sleep to fly,
- Or in soft slumber seals the wakeful eye,
- That drives the ghosts to realms of night or day,
- Points out the long uncomfortable way.
- Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive vent
- Thin hollow screams, along the deep descent.
- As in the cavern of some rifted den,
- Where flock nocturual bats, and birds obscene;10
- Cluster’d they hang, till, at some sudden shock,
- They move, and murmurs run thro’ all the rock!
- So cow’ring fled the sable heaps of ghosts,
- And such a scream fill’d all the dismal coasts.
- And now they reach’d the earth’s remotest ends,
- And now the gates where ev’ning Sol descends,
- And Leucas’ rock, and Ocean’s utmost streams,
- And now pervade the dusky land of dreams,
- And rest at last, where souls unbodied dwell
- In ever-flow’ring meads of asphodel.20
- The empty forms of men inhabit there,
- Impassive semblance, images of air!
- Not else are all that shined on earth before:
- Ajax and great Achilles are no more!
- Yet still a master-ghost, the rest he aw’d,
- The rest ador’d him, tow’ring as he trod;
- Still at his side is Nestor’s son survey’d,
- And loved Patroclus still attends his shade.
- New as they were to that infernal shore,
- The suitors stopp’d, and gazed the hero o’er.30
- When, moving slow, the regal form they view’d
- Of great Atrides: him in pomp pursued
- And solemn sadness thro’ the gloom of Hell,
- The train of those who by Ægisthus fell:
- ‘O mighty Chief!’ (Pelides thus began)
- ‘Honour’d by Jove above the lot of man!
- King of a hundred Kings! to whom resign’d
- The strongest, bravest, greatest of mankind,
- Com’st thou the first, to view this dreary state?
- And was the noblest the first mark of Fate,40
- Condemn’d to pay the great arrear so soon
- The lot, which all lament, and none can shun!
- Oh! better had’st thou sunk in Trojan ground,
- With all thy full-blown honours cover’d round;
- Then grateful Greece with streaming eyes might raise
- Historic marbles to record thy praise:
- Thy praise eternal on the faithful stone
- Had with transmissive glories graced thy son.
- But heavier fates were destin’d to attend:
- What man is happy, till he knows the end?’50
- ‘O son of Peleus! greater than mankind!’
- (Thus Agamemnon’s kingly shade rejoin’d)
- ‘Thrice happy thou, to press the martial plain
- ’Midst heaps of heroes in thy quarrel slain:
- In clouds of smoke rais’d by the noble fray, }
- Great and terrific ev’n in death you lay, }
- And deluges of blood flow’d round you ev’ry way. }
- Nor ceas’d the strife till Jove himself opposed,
- And all in tempests the dire ev’ning closed.
- Then to the fleet we bore thy honour’d load,60
- And decent on the funeral bed bestow’d:
- Then unguents sweet, and tepid streams we shed; }
- Tears flow’d from ev’ry eye, and o’er the dead }
- Each clipp’d the curling honour of his head. }
- Struck at the news, thy azure mother came;
- The sea-green sisters waited on the dame:
- A voice of loud lament thro’ all the main
- Was heard; and terror seiz’d the Grecian train:
- Back to their ships the frighted host had fied;69
- But Nestor spoke, they listen’d and obey’d
- (From old experience Nestor’s counsel springs,
- And long vicissitudes of human things).
- ‘ “Forbear your flight: fair Thetis from the main
- To mourn Achilles leads her azure train.”
- Around thee stand the daughters of the deep,
- Robe thee in heav’nly vests, and round thee weep:
- Round thee, the Muses, with alternate strain,
- In ever-consecrating verse, complain.
- Each warlike Greek the moving music hears,
- And iron-hearted heroes melt in tears.80
- Till sev’nteen nights and sev’nteen days return’d,
- All that was mortal or immortal mourn’d,
- To flames we gave thee, the succeeding day,
- And fatted sheep and sable oxen slay;
- With oils and honey blaze th’ augmented fires,
- And, like a God adorn’d, thy earthly part expires.
- Unnumber’d warriors round the burning pile
- Urge the fleet courser’s or the racer’s toil;
- Thick clouds of dust o’er all the circle rise,
- And the mix’d clamour thunders in the skies.90
- Soon as absorb’d in all-embracing flame
- Sunk what was mortal of thy mighty name,
- We then collect thy snowy bones, and place
- With wines and unguents in a golden vase
- (The vase to Thetis Bacchus gave of old,
- And Vulcan’s art enrich’d the sculptured gold);
- There we thy relics, great Achilles! blend
- With dear Patroclus, thy departed friend:
- In the same urn a sep’rate space contains
- Thy next belov’d, Antilochus’ remains.100
- Now all the sons of warlike Greece surround
- Thy destin’d tomb, and cast a mighty mound:
- High on the shore the growing hill we raise,
- That wide th’ extended Hellespont surveys:
- Where all, from age to age, who pass the coast
- May point Achilles’ tomb, and hail the mighty ghost.
- Thetis herself to all our Peers proclaims
- Heroic prizes and exequial games;
- The Gods assented; and around thee lay
- Rich spoils and gifts that blazed against the day.110
- Oft have I seen with solemn funeral games
- Heroes and Kings committed to the flames;
- But strength of youth, or valour of the brave,
- With nobler contest ne’er renown’d a grave.
- Such were the games by azure Thetis giv’n,
- And such the honours, O Belov’d of Heav’n!
- Dear to mankind thy fame survives, nor fades
- Its bloom eternal in the Stygian shades.
- But what to me avail my honours gone,119
- Successful toils, and battles bravely won?
- Doom’d by stern Jove at home to end my life,
- By curs’d Ægisthus, and a faithless wife!’
- Thus they: while Hermes o’er the dreary plain
- Led the sad numbers by Ulysses slain.
- On each majestic form they cast a view,
- And tim’rous pass’d, and awfully withdrew.
- But Agamemnon, thro’ the gloomy shade,
- His ancient host Amphimedon survey’d:
- ‘Son of Melanthius!’ (he began) ‘O say! }
- What cause compell’d so many, and so gay,130 }
- To tread the downward melancholy way? }
- Say, could one city yield a troop so fair?
- Were all these partners of one native air?
- Or did the rage of stormy Neptune sweep
- Your lives at once, and whelm beneath the deep?
- Did nightly thieves, or pirates’ cruel bands,
- Drench with your blood your pillaged country’s sands?
- Or, well-defending some beleaguer’d wall,
- Say, for the public did ye greatly fall?
- Inform thy guest: for such I was of yore140
- When our triumphant navies touch’d your shore;
- Forc’d a long month the wintry seas to bear,
- To move the great Ulysses to the war.’
- ‘O King of Men! I faithful shall relate’
- (Replied Amphimedon) ‘our hapless fate.
- Ulysses absent, our ambitious aim
- With rival loves pursued his royal dame;
- Her coy reserve, and prudence mix’d with pride,
- Our common suit nor granted, nor denied:
- But close with inward hate our deaths design’d;150
- Vers’d in all arts of wily womankind,
- Her hand, laborious, in delusion spread
- A spacious loom, and mix’d the various thread.
- ‘ “Ye Peers” (she cried), “who press to gain my heart,
- Where dead Ulysses claims no more a part,
- Yet a short space your rival suit suspend,
- Till this funereal web my labours end:
- Cease, till to good Laertes I bequeath
- A task of grief, his ornaments of death:
- Lest, when the Fates his royal ashes claim,
- The Grecian matrons taint my spotless fame;161
- Should he, long honour’d with supreme command,
- Want the last duties of a daughter’s hand.”
- ‘The fiction pleas’d: our gen’rous train complies,
- Nor fraud distrusts in virtue’s fair disguise.
- The work she plied, but, studious of delay,
- Each foll’wing night revers’d the toils of day.
- Unheard, unseen, three years her arts prevail;
- The fourth, her maid reveal’d th’ amazing tale,
- And show’d, as unperceiv’d we took our stand,170
- The backward labours of her faithless hand.
- Forc’d, she completes it; and before us lay }
- The mingled web, whose gold and silver ray }
- Display’d the radiance of the night and day. }
- ‘Just as she finish’d her illustrious toil
- Ill fortune led Ulysses to our isle.
- Far in a lonely nook, beside the sea,
- At an old swineherd’s rural lodge he lay:
- Thither his son from sandy Pyle repairs,
- And speedy lands, and secretly confers.180
- They plan our future ruin, and resort
- Confed’rate to the city and the court.
- First came the son: the father next succeeds,
- Clad like a beggar, whom Eumæus leads;
- Propp’d on a staff, deform’d with age and care,
- And hung with rags that flutter’d in the air.
- Who could Ulysses in that form behold?
- Scorn’d by the young, forgotten by the old,
- Ill-used by all! to ev’ry wrong resign’d,
- Patient he suffer’d with a constant mind.190
- But when, arising in his wrath t’ obey
- The will of Jove, he gave the vengeance way:
- The scatter’d arms that hung around the dome
- Careful he treasured in a private room;
- Then to her suitors bade his Queen propose
- The archer’s strife, the source of future woes,
- And omen of our death! In vain we drew
- The twanging string, and tried the stubborn yew:
- To none it yields but great Ulysses’ hands;
- In vain we threat; Telemachus commands:
- The bow he snatch’d, and in an instant bent;201
- Thro’ ev’ry ring the victor arrow went.
- Fierce on the threshold then in arms he stood; }
- Pour’d forth the darts that thirsted for our blood, }
- And frown’d before us, dreadful as a God; }
- First bleeds Antinoüs: thick the shafts resound;
- And heaps on heaps the wretches strew the ground:
- This way and that we turn, we fly, we fall;
- Some God assisted, and unmann’d us all:
- Ignoble cries precede the dying groans;210
- And batter’d brains and blood besmear the stones.
- ‘Thus, great Atrides! thus Ulysses drove
- The shades thou seest from yon fair realms above;
- Our mangled bodies now, deform’d with gore,
- Cold and neglected, spread the marble floor.
- No friend to bathe our wounds, or tears to shed
- O’er the pale corse the honours of the dead.’
- ‘Oh bless’d Ulysses!’ (thus the King express’d
- His sudden rapture) ‘in thy consort bless’d!
- Not more thy wisdom than her virtue shined;220
- Not more thy patience than her constant mind.
- Icarius’ daughter, glory of the past,
- And model to the future age, shall last:
- The Gods, to honour her fair fame, shall raise
- (Their great reward) a Poet in her praise.
- Not such, O Tyndarus! thy daughter’s deed,
- By whose dire hand her King and Husband bled;
- Her shall the Muse to infamy prolong,
- Example dread, and theme of tragic song!
- The gen’ral sex shall suffer in her shame,
- And ev’n the best that bears a woman’s name.’231
- Thus in the regions of eternal shade
- Conferr’d the mournful phantoms of the dead;
- While from the town Ulysses and his band
- Pass’d to Laërtes’ cultivated land.
- The ground himself had purchas’d with his pain,
- And labour made the rugged soil a plain.
- There stood his mansion of the rural sort,
- With useful buildings round the lowly court;
- Where the few servants that divide his care,240
- Took their laborious rest, and homely fare:
- And one Sicilian matron, old and sage,
- With constant duty tends his drooping age.
- Here now arriving, to his rustic band,
- And martial son, Ulysses gave command.
- ‘Enter the house, and of the bristly swine
- Select the largest to the Powers divine.
- Alone, and unattended, let me try
- If yet I share the old man’s memory:
- If those dim eyes can yet Ulysses know250 }
- (Their light and dearest object long ago), }
- Now changed with time, with absence, and with woe.’ }
- Then to his train he gives his spear and shield;
- The house they enter: and he seeks the field
- Thro’ rows of shade, with various fruitage crown’d,
- And labour’d scenes of richest verdure round.
- Nor aged Dolius, nor his sons were there,
- Nor servants, absent on another care;
- To search the woods for sets of flow’ry thorn,
- Their orchard bounds to strengthen and adorn.260
- But all alone the boary King he found;
- His habit coarse, but warmly wrapp’d around;
- His head, that bow’d with many a pensive care,
- Fenc’d with a double cap of goatskin hair:
- His buskins old, in former service torn,
- But well repair’d; and gloves against the thorn.
- In this array the kingly gard’ner stood,
- And clear’d a plant, encumber’d with its wood.
- Beneath a neighb’ring tree, the Chief divine
- Gazed o’er his sire, retracing ev’ry line,270
- The ruins of himself! now worn away
- With age, yet still majestic in decay!
- Sudden his eyes releas’d their wat’ry store;
- The much-enduring man could bear no more.
- Doubtful he stood, if instant to embrace
- His aged limbs, to kiss his rev’rend face,
- With eager transport to disclose the whole,
- And pour at once the torrent of his soul.—
- Not so: his judgement takes the winding way
- Of question distant, and of soft essay;280
- More gentle methods on weak age employs;
- And moves the sorrows, to enhance the joys.
- Then, to his sire with beating heart he moves
- And with a tender pleasantry reproves;
- Who, digging round the plant, still hangs his head,
- Nor aught remits the work, while thus he said:
- ‘Great is thy skill, O Father! great thy toil,
- Thy careful hand is stamp’d on all the soil;
- Thy squadron’d vineyards well thy art declare, }
- The olive green, blue fig, and pendent pear;290 }
- And not one empty spot escapes thy care. }
- On ev’ry plant and tree thy cares are shown,
- Nothing neglected, but thyself alone.
- Forgive me, Father, if this fault I blame;
- Age so advanc’d may some indulgence claim.
- Not for thy sloth, I deem thy lord unkind:
- Nor speaks thy form a mean or servile mind;
- I read a Monarch in that princely air,
- The same thy aspect, if the same thy care;
- Soft sleep, fair garments, and the joys of wine,300
- These are the rights of age, and should be thine.
- Who then thy master, say? and whose the land
- So dress’d and managed by thy skilful hand?
- But chief, oh tell me! (what I question most)
- Is this the far-famed Ithacensian coast?
- For so reported the first man I view’d
- (Some surly islander, of manners rude),
- Nor farther conference vouchasfed to stay;
- Heedless he whistled, and pursued his way.
- But thou, whom years have taught to understand,310
- Humanely hear, and answer my demand:
- A friend I seek, a wise one and a brave:
- Say, lives he yet, or moulders in the grave?
- Time was (my fortunes then were at the best),
- When at my house I lodg’d this foreign guest;
- He said, from Ithaca’s fair isle he came,
- And old Laërtes was his father’s name.
- To him, whatever to a guest is owed
- I paid, and hospitable gifts bestow’d:
- To him sev’n talents of pure ore I told,320
- Twelve cloaks, twelve vests, twelve tunics stiff with gold;
- A bowl, that rich with polish’d silver flames,
- And, skill’d in female works, four lovely dames.’
- At this the father, with a father’s fears
- (His venerable eyes bedimm’d with tears):
- ‘This is the land; but ah! thy gifts are lost,
- For godless men, and rude, possess the coast:
- Sunk is the glory of this once-famed shore!
- Thy ancient friend, O Stranger, is no more!329
- Full recompense thy bounty else had borne;
- For ev’ry good man yields a just return:
- So civil rights demand; and who begins
- The track of friendship, not pursuing, sins.
- But tell me, stranger, be the truth confess’d,
- What years have circled since thou saw’st that guest?
- That hapless guest, alas! for ever gone!
- Wretch that he was! and that I am! my son!
- If ever man to misery was born,
- ’T was his to suffer and ’t is mine to mourn!
- Far from his friends, and from his native reign,340
- He lies a prey to monsters of the main;
- Or savage beasts his mangled relics tear,
- Or screaming vultures scatter thro’ the air:
- Nor could his mother funeral unguents shed;
- Nor wail’d his father o’er th’ untimely dead:
- Nor his sad consort, on the mournful bier,
- Seal’d his cold eyes, or dropp’d a tender tear!
- ‘But, tell me who thou art? and what thy race?
- Thy town, thy parents, and thy native place?
- Or, if a merchant in pursuit of gain,350 }
- What port receiv’d thy vessel from the main? }
- Or com’st thou single, or attend thy train?’ }
- Then thus the son: ‘From Alybas I came,
- My palace there; Eperitus my name.
- Not vulgar born; from Aphidas, the King
- Of Polypemon’s royal line, I spring.
- Some adverse demon from Sicania bore
- Our wand’ring course, and drove us on your shore;
- Far from the town, an unfrequented bay
- Reliev’d our wearied vessel from the sea.
- Five years have circled since these eyes pursued361
- Ulysses parting thro’ the sable flood;
- Prosp’rous he sail’d, with dexter auguries,
- And all the wing’d good omens of the skies.
- Well hoped we then to meet on this fair shore,
- Whom Heav’n, alas! decreed to meet no more.’
- Quick thro’ the father’s heart these accents ran;
- Grief seiz’d at once, and wrapp’d up all the man:
- Deep from his soul he sigh’d, and sorr’wing spread
- A cloud of ashes on his hoary head.370
- Trembling with agonies of strong delight
- Stood the great son, heart-wounded with the sight:
- He ran, he seiz’d him with a strict embrace,
- With thousand kisses wander’d o’er his face:
- ‘I, I am he; O Father, rise! behold
- Thy son, with twenty winters now grown old;
- Thy son, so long desired, so long detain’d,
- Restor’d, and breathing in his native land:
- These floods of sorrow, O my Sire, restrain! }
- The vengeance is complete; the suitor train,380
- Stretch’d in our palace, by these hands lie slain.’ }
- Amazed, Laërtes: ‘Give some certain sign’
- (If such thou art) ‘to manifest thee mine.’
- ‘Lo here the wound’ (he cries) ‘receiv’d of yore,
- The scar indented by the tusky boar,
- When, by thyself, and by Anticlea sent,
- To old Autolycus’s realms I went.
- Yet by another sign thy offspring know;
- The sev’ral trees you gave me long ago,
- While, yet a child, these fields I lov’d to trace,390
- And trod thy footsteps with unequal pace;
- To ev’ry plant in order as we came,
- Well-pleas’d, you told its nature and its name,
- Whate’er my childish fancy ask’d, bestow’d:
- Twelve pear-trees, bowing with their pendent load,
- And ten, that red with blushing apples glow’d;
- Full fifty purple figs; and many a row
- Of various vines that then began to blow,
- A future vintage! when the Hours produce
- Their latent buds, and Sol exalts the juice.’400
- Smit with the signs which all his doubts explain,
- His heart within him melts; his knees sustain
- Their feeble weight no more: his arms alone
- Support him, round the lov’d Ulysses thrown;
- He faints, he sinks, with mighty joys oppress’d:
- Ulysses clasps him to his eager breast.
- Soon as returning life regains its seat,
- And his breath lengthens, and his pulses beat;
- ‘Yes, I believe’ (he cries) ‘almighty Jove!
- Heav’n rules us yet, and Gods there are above.410
- ’T is so—the suitors for their wrongs have paid—
- But what shall guard us, if the town invade?
- If, while the news thro’ ev’ry city flies,
- All Ithaca and Cephalenia rise?’
- To this Ulysses: ‘As the Gods shall please
- Be all the rest; and set thy soul at ease.
- Haste to the cottage by this orchard’s side,
- And take the banquet which our cares provide:
- There wait thy faithful band of rural friends,419
- And there the young Telemachus attends.’
- Thus having said, they traced the garden o’er,
- And stooping enter’d at the lowly door.
- The swains and young Telemachus they found,
- The victim portion’d, and the goblet crown’d.
- The hoary King his old Sicilian maid
- Perfumed and wash’d, and gorgeously array’d.
- Pallas attending gives his frame to shine
- With awful port, and majesty divine;
- His gazing son admires the godlike grace,
- And air celestial dawning o’er his face.430
- ‘What God’ (he cried) ‘my father’s form improves?
- How high he treads, and how enlarged he moves!’
- ‘Oh! would to all the deathless Powers on high,
- Pallas and Jove, and him who gilds the sky!
- (Replied the King, elated with his praise)
- My strength were still as once in better days:
- When the bold Cephaleus the leaguer form’d,
- And proud Nericus trembled as I storm’d.
- Such were I now, not absent from your deed439
- When the last sun beheld the suitors bleed,
- This arm had aided yours, this hand bestrown }
- Our shores with death, and push’d the slaughter on; }
- Nor had the sire been sep’rate from the son.’ }
- They communed thus; while homeward bent their way
- The swains, fatigued with labours of the day:
- Dolius the first, the venerable man;
- And next his sons, a long succeeding train.
- For due refection to the bower they came,
- Call’d by the careful old Sicilian dame,
- Who nurs’d the children, and now tends the sire;450
- They see their lord, they gaze, and they admire.
- On chairs and beds in order seated round,
- They share the gladsome board; the roofs resound.
- While thus Ulysses to his ancient friend:
- ‘Forbear your wonder, and the feast attend:
- The rites have waited long.’ The Chief commands
- Their loves in vain; old Dolius spreads his hands,
- Springs to his master with a warm embrace,
- And fastens kisses on his hands and face;
- Then thus broke out: ‘O long, O daily mourn’d!460
- Beyond our hopes, and to our wish return’d!
- Conducted sure by Heav’n! for Heav’n alone }
- Could work this wonder: welcome to thy own! }
- And joys and happiness attend thy throne! }
- Who knows thy bless’d, thy wish’d return? oh say, }
- To the chaste Queen shall we the news convey? }
- Or hears she, and with blessings loads the day?’ }
- ‘Dismiss that care, for to the royal bride
- Already is it known,’ the King replied,
- And straight resumed his seat; while round him bows470
- Each faithful youth, and breathes out ardent vows:
- Then all beneath their father take their place,
- Rank’d by their ages, and the banquet grace.
- Now flying Fame the swift report had spread
- Thro’ all the city, of the suitors dead.
- In throngs they rise, and to the palace crowd;
- Their sighs were many, and the tumult loud.
- Weeping they bear the mangled heaps of slain, }
- Inhume the natives in their native plain; }
- The rest in ships are wafted o’er the main.480 }
- Then sad in council all the seniors sate,
- Frequent and full, assembled to debate:
- Amid the circle first Eupithes rose,
- Big was his eye with tears, his heart with woes:
- The bold Antinoüs was his age’s pride,
- The first who by Ulysses’ arrow died:
- Down his wan cheek the trickling torrent ran,
- As, mixing words with sighs, he thus began:
- ‘Great deeds, O Friends! this wondrous man has wrought,
- And mighty blessings to his country brought!490
- With ships he parted, and a numerous train;
- Those, and their ships, he buried in the main.
- Now he returns, and first essays his hand
- In the best blood of all his native land.
- Haste then, and ere to neighb’ring Pyle he flies, }
- Or sacred Elis, to procure supplies; }
- Arise (or ye for ever fall), arise! }
- Shame to this age, and all that shall succeed!
- If unrevenged your sons and brothers bleed.
- Prove that we live, by vengeance on his head,500
- Or sink at once forgotten with the dead.’
- Here ceas’d he, but indignant tears let fall
- Spoke when he ceas’d: dumb sorrow touch’d them all.
- When from the palace to the wond’ring throng
- Sage Medon came, and Phemius came along
- (Restless and early sleep’s soft bands they broke);
- And Medon first th’ assembled Chiefs bespoke:
- ‘Hear me, ye Peers and Elders of the land,
- Who deem this act the work of mortal hand;509
- As o’er the heaps of death Ulysses strode,
- These eyes, these eyes beheld a present God,
- Who now before him, now beside him stood,
- Fought as he fought, and mark’d his way with blood:
- In vain old Mentor’s form the God belied;
- ’T was Heav’n that struck, and Heav’n was on his side.’
- A sudden horror all th’ assembly shook,
- When, slowly rising, Halitherses spoke
- (Rev’rend and wise, whose comprehensive view
- At once the present and the future knew);
- ‘Me too, ye Fathers, hear! from you proceed520
- The ills ye mourn; your own the guilty deed.
- Ye gave your sons, your lawless sons, the rein
- (Oft warn’d by Mentor and myself in vain);
- An absent hero’s bed they sought to soil,
- An absent hero’s wealth they made their spoil;
- Immod’rate riot, and intemp’rate lust!
- Th’ offence was great, the punishment was just.
- Weigh then my counsels in an equal scale,
- Nor rush to ruin. Justice will prevail.’
- His mod’rate words some better minds persuade:530
- They part, and join him; but the number stay’d.
- They storm, they shout, with hasty frenzy fired,
- And second all Eupithes’ rage inspired.
- They case their limbs in brass; to arms they run;
- The broad effulgence blazes in the sun.
- Before the city, and in ample plain,
- They meet: Eupithes heads the frantic train.
- Fierce for his son, he breathes his threats in air;
- Fate hears them not, and Death attends him there.
- This pass’d on earth, while in the realms above540
- Minerva thus to cloud-compelling Jove:
- ‘May I presume to search thy secret soul?
- O Power Supreme, O Ruler of the Whole!
- Say, hast thou doom’d to this divided state }
- Or peaceful amity, or stern debate? }
- Declare thy purpose, for thy will is Fate.’ }
- ‘Is not thy thought my own?’ (the God replies
- Who rolls the thunder o’er the vaulted skies)
- ‘Hath not long since thy knowing soul decreed }
- The Chief’s return should make the guilty bleed?550 }
- ’T is done, and at thy will the Fates succeed. }
- Yet hear the issue; since Ulysses’ hand
- Has slain the suitors, Heav’n shall bless the land.
- None now the kindred of th’ unjust shall own;
- Forgot the slaughter’d brother and the son:
- Each future day increase of wealth shall bring,
- And o’er the past Oblivion stretch her wing.
- Long shall Ulysses in his empire rest,
- His people blessing, by his people bless’d.
- Let all be peace.’—He said, and gave the nod560
- That binds the Fates; the sanction of the God:
- And, prompt to execute th’ eternal will,
- Descended Pallas from th’ Olympian hill.
- Now sat Ulysses at the rural feast,
- The rage of hunger and of thirst repress’d:
- To watch the foe a trusty spy he sent:
- A son of Dolius on the message went,
- Stood in the way, and at a glance beheld
- The foe approach, embattled on the field.
- With backward step he hastens to the bower,570
- And tells the news. They arm with all their power.
- Four friends alone Ulysses’ cause embrace,
- And six were all the sons of Dolius’ race:
- Old Dolius too his rusted arms put on;
- And, still more old, in arms Laërtes shone.
- Trembling with warmth, the hoary heroes stand,
- And brazen panoply invests the band.
- The opening gates at once their war display:
- Fierce they rush forth: Ulysses leads the way.579
- That moment joins them with celestial aid,
- In Mentor’s form, the Jove-descended Maid:
- The suff’ring Hero felt his patient breast
- Swell with new joy, and thus his son address’d:
- ‘Behold, Telemachus! (nor fear the sight)
- The brave embattled, the grim front of fight!
- The valiant with the valiant must contend:
- Shame not the line whence glorious you descend;
- Wide o’er the world their martial fame was spread:
- Regard thyself, the living, and the dead.’
- ‘Thy eyes, great Father! on this battle cast,590
- Shall learn from me Penelope was chaste.’
- So spoke Telemachus: the gallant boy
- Good old Laërtes heard with panting joy;
- And ‘Bless’d! thrice bless’d this happy day!’ (he cries)
- ‘The day that shows me, ere I close my eyes,
- A son and grandson of th’ Arcesian name
- Strive for fair virtue, and contest for fame!’
- Then thus Minerva in Laërtes’ ear:
- ‘Son of Arcesius, rev’rend warrior, hear!
- Jove and Jove’s Daughter first implore in prayer,600
- Then, whirling high, discharge thy lance in air.’
- She said, infusing courage with the word.
- Jove and Jove’s Daughter then the Chief implor’d,
- And, whirling high, dismiss’d the lance in air.
- Full at Eupithes drove the deathful spear:
- The brass-cheek’d helmet opens to the wound;
- He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound.
- Before the father and the conquering son
- Heaps rush on heaps; they fight, they drop, they run.609
- Now by the sword, and now the jav’lin fall
- The rebel race, and death had swallow’d all;
- But from on high the blue-eyed Virgin cried
- (Her awful voice detain’d the headlong tide):
- ‘Forbear, ye Nations, your mad hands forbear
- From mutual slaughter; Peace descends to spare.’
- Fear shook the Nations: at the voice divine
- They drop their jav’lins, and their rage resign.
- All scatter’d round their glitt’ring weapons lie;
- Some fall to earth, and some confusedly fly.619
- With dreadful shouts Ulysses pour’d along,
- Swift as an eagle, as an eagle strong.
- But Jove’s red arm the burning thunder aims;
- Before Minerva shot the livid flames;
- Blazing they fell, and at her feet expired;
- Then stopped the Goddess, trembled, and retired.
- ‘Descended from the Gods! Ulysses, cease;
- Offend not Jove: obey, and give the peace.’
- So Pallas spoke: the mandate from above
- The King obey’d. The Virgin-seed of Jove,
- In Mentor’s form, confirm’d the full accord,630
- And willing Nations knew their lawful lord.

POSTSCRIPT BY POPE

I cannot dismiss this work without a few observations on the true character and style of it. Whoever reads the Odyssey with an eye to the Iliad, expecting to find it of the same character, or of the same sort of spirit, will be grievously deceived, and err against the first principle of criticism, which is to consider the nature of the piece, and the intent of its author. The Odyssey is a moral and political work, instructive to all degrees of men and filled with images, examples, and precepts, of civil and domestic life. Homer is here a person

Qui didicit, patriæ quid debeat, et quid amicis,
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes:
Qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,
Plenius et melius Chrysippo et Crantore dicit.

The Odyssey is the reverse of the Iliad, in moral, subject, manner, and style; to which it has no sort of relation, but as the story happens to follow in order of time, and as some of the same persons are actors in it. Yet from this incidental connexion many have been misled to regard it as a continuation or second part, and thence to expect a parity of character inconsistent with its nature.

It is no wonder that the common reader should fall into this mistake, when so great a critic as Longinus seems not wholly free from it; although what he has said has been generally understood to import a severer censure of the Odyssey than it really does, if we consider the occasion on which it is introduced, and the circumstances to which it is confined.

‘The Odyssey,’ says he, ‘is an instance, how natural it is to a great genius, when it begins to grow old and decline, to delight itself in Narrations and Fables. For, that Homer composed the Odyssey after the Iliad, many proofs may be given, etc. From hence in my judgment it proceeds, that as the Iliad was written while his spirit was in its greatest vigour, the whole structure of that work is dramatic and full of action; whereas the greater part of the Odyssey is employed in narration, which is the taste of old age: so that in this latter piece we may compare him to the setting sun, which has still the same greatness, but not the same ardour or force. He speaks not in the same strain: we see no more that Sublime of the Iliad which marches on with a constant pace, without ever being stopped, or retarded: there appears no more that hurry and that strong tide of motions and passions, pouring one after another: there is no more the same fury, or the same volubility of diction, so suitable to action, and all along drawing in such innumerable images of Nature. But Homer, like the ocean, is always great, even when he ebbs and retires; even when he is lowest, and loses himself most in narrations and incredible fictions: as instances of this, we cannot forget the descriptions of tempests, the adventures of Ulysses with the Cyclops, and many others. But though all this be age, it is the age of Homer.—And it may be said for the credit of these fictions that they are beautiful dreams, or, if you will, the dreams of Jupiter himself. I spoke of the Odyssey only to show, that the greatest poets, when their genius wants strength and warmth for the pathetic, for the most part employ themselves in painting the manners. This Homer has done, in characterizing the suitors, and describing their way of life; which is properly a branch of comedy, whose peculiar business it is to represent the manners of men.’

We must first observe, it is the Sublime of which Longinus is writing: that, and not the nature of Homer’s poem, is his subject. After having highly extolled the sublimity and fire of the Iliad, he justly observes the Odyssey to have less of those qualities, and to turn more on the side of moral, and reflections on human life. Nor is it his business here to determine, whether the elevated spirit of the one, or the just moral of the other, be the greater excellence in itself.

Secondly, that fire and fury of which he is speaking, cannot well be meant of the general spirit and inspiration which is to run through a whole epic poem, but of that particular warmth and impetuosity necessary in some parts, to image or represent actions or passions, of haste, tumult, and violence. It is on occasion of citing some such particular passages in Homer, that Longinus breaks into this reflection; which seems to determine his meaning chiefly to that sense.

Upon the whole, he affirms the Odyssey to have less sublimity and fire than the Iliad, but he does not say it wants the Sublime or wants fire. He affirms it to be narrative, but not that the narration is defective. He affirms it to abound in fictions, not that those fictions are ill invented, or ill executed. He affirms it to be nice and particular in painting the manners, but not that those manners are ill painted. If Homer has fully in these points accomplished his own design, and done all that the nature of his poem demanded or allowed, it still remains perfect in its kind, and as much a master-piece as the Iliad.

The amount of the passage is this; that in his own particular taste, and with respect to the Sublime, Longinus preferred the Iliad: and because the Odyssey was less active and lofty, he judged it the work of the old age of Homer.

If this opinion be true, it will only prove, that Homer’s age might determine him in the choice of his subject, not that it affected him in the execution of it: and that which would be a very wrong instance to prove the decay of his imagination, is a very good one to evince the strength of his judgment. For had he, as Madam Dacier observes, composed the Odyssey in his youth, and the Iliad in his age, both must in reason have been exactly the same as they now stand. To blame Homer for his choice of such a subject, as did not admit the same incidents and the same pomp of style as his former, is to take offence at too much variety, and to imagine, that when a man has written one good thing, he must ever after only copy himself.

The Battle of Constantine, and the School of Athens, are both pieces of Raphael: shall we censure the School of Athens as faulty, because it has not the fury and fire of the other? or shall we say, that Raphael was grown grave and old, because he chose to represent the manners of old men and philosophers? There is all the silence, tranquility, and composure in the one, and all the warmth, hurry, and tumult in the other, which the subject of either required: both of them had been imperfect, if they had not been as they are. And let the painter or poet be young or old, who designs and performs in this manner, it proves him to have made the piece at a time of life when he was master not only of his art, but of his discretion.

Aristotle makes no such distinction between the two poems: he constantly cites them with equal praise, and draws the rules and examples of epic writing equally from both. But it is rather to the Odyssey that Horace gives the preference, in the Epistle to Lollius, and in the Art of Poetry. It is remarkable how opposite his opinion is to that of Longinus; and that the particulars he chooses to extol, are those very fictions and pictures of the manners, which the other seems least to approve. Those fables and manners are of the very essence of the work: but even without that regard, the fables themselves have both more invention and more instruction, and the manners more moral and example, than those of the Iliad.

In some points (and those the most essential to the epic poem) the Odyssey is confessed to excel the Iliad; and principally in the great end of it, the Moral. The conduct, turn, and disposition of the Fable is also what the critics allow to be the better model for epic writers to follow: accordingly we find much more of the cast of this poem than of the other in the Æneid, and (what next to that is perhaps the greatest example) in the Telemachus. In the Manners, it is no way inferior: Longinus is so far from finding any defect in these, that he rather taxes Homer with painting them too minutely. As to the Narrations, although they are more numerous as the occasions are more frequent, yet they carry no more the marks of old age, and are neither more prolix nor more circumstantial, than the conversations and dialogues of the Iliad. Not to mention the length of those of Phœnix in the ninth book, and of Nestor in the eleventh (which may be thought in compliance to their characters), those of Glaucus in the sixth, of Æneas in the twentieth, and some others, must be allowed to exceed any in the whole Odyssey. And that the propriety of style, and the numbers, in the narrations of each are equal, will appear to any who compare them.

To form a right judgment, whether the genius of Homer had suffered any decay, we must consider, in both his poems, such parts as are of a similar nature, and will bear comparison. And it is certain we shall find in each the same vivacity and fecundity of invention, the same life and strength of imaging and colouring, the particular descriptions as highly painted, the figures as bold, the metaphors as animated, and the numbers as harmonious and as various.

The Odyssey is a perpetual source of poetry: the stream is not the less full for being gentle; though it is true (when we speak only with regard to the Sublime) that a river, foaming and thundering in cataracts from rocks and precipices, is what more strikes, amazes, and fills the mind, than the same body of water, flowing afterwards through peaceful vales and agreeable scenes of pasturage.

The Odyssey (as I have before said) ought to be considered according to its own nature and design, not with an eye to the Iliad. To censure Homer because it is unlike what it was never meant to resemble, is, as if a gardener who had purposely cultivated two beautiful trees of contrary natures, as a specimen of his skill in the several kinds, should be blamed for not bringing them into pairs; when in root, stem, leaf, and flower, each was so entirely different, that one must have been spoiled in the endeavour to match the other.

Longinus, who saw this poem was “partly of the nature of comedy,” ought not, for that very reason, to have considered it with a view to the Iliad. How little any such resemblance was the intention of Homer, may appear from hence, that although the character of Ulysses there was already drawn, yet here he purposely turns to another side of it, and shows him not in that full light of glory, but in the shade of common life, with a mixture of such qualities as are requisite to all the lowest accidents of it, struggling with misfortunes, and on a level with the meanest of mankind. As for the other persons, none of them are above what we call the higher comedy: Calypso, though a Goddess, is a character of intrigue; the suitors yet more approaching to it; the Phæacians are of the same cast; the Cyclops, Melanthius, and Irus, descend even to droll characters; and the scenes that appear throughout, are generally of the comic kind; banquets, revels, sports, loves, and the pursuit of a woman.

From the nature of the poem, we shall form an idea of the Style. The diction is to follow the images, and to take its colour from the complexion of the thoughts. Accordingly the Odyssey is not always clothed in the majesty of verse proper to tragedy, but sometimes descends into the plainer narrative, and sometimes even to that familiar dialogue essential to comedy. However, where it cannot support a sublimity, it always preserves a dignity, or at least a propriety. There is a real beauty in an easy, pure, perspicuous description even of a low action. There are numerous instances of this both in Homer and Virgil; and perhaps those natural passages are not the least pleasing of their works. It is often the same in history, where the representations of common, or even domestic things, in clear, plain, and natural words, are frequently found to make the liveliest impression on the reader.

The question is, how far a poet, in pursuing the description or image of an action, can attach himself to little circumstances, without vulgarity or trifling? what particulars are proper, and enliven the image; or what are impertinent, and clog it? In this matter painting is to be consulted, and the whole regard had to those circumstances which contribute to form a full, and yet not a confused, idea of a thing. Epithets are of vast service to this effect, and the right use of these is often the only expedient to render the narration poetical. The great point of judgment is to distinguish when to speak simply, and when figuratively: but whenever the poet is obliged by the nature of his subject to descend to the lower manner of writing, an elevated style would be affected, and therefore ridiculous; and the more he was forced upon figures and metaphors to avoid that lowness, the more the image would be broken, and consequently obscure. One may add, that the use of the grand style on little subjects, is not only ludicrous, but a sort of transgression against the rules of proportion and mechanics: it is using a vast force to lift a feather.

I believe, now I am upon this head, it will be found a just observation, that the low actions of life cannot be put into a figurative style without being ridiculous, but things natural can. Metaphors raise the latter into dignity, as we see in the Georgics; but throw the former into ridicule, as in the Lutrin. I think this may very well be accounted for: laughter implies censure; inanimate and irrational beings are not objects of censure: therefore these may be elevated as much as you please, and no ridicule follows: but when rational beings are represented above their real character, it becomes ridiculous in art, because it is vicious in morality. The bees in Virgil, were they rational beings, would be ridiculous by having their actions and manners represented on a level with creatures so superior as men; since it would imply folly or pride, which are the proper objects of ridicule.

The use of pompous expression for low actions or thoughts is the true Sublime of Don Quixote. How far unfit it is for epic poetry, appears in its being the perfection of the mock epic. It is so far from being the sublime of tragedy, that it is the cause of all bombast; when poets, instead of being, as they imagine, constantly lofty, only preserve throughout a painful equality of fustian; that continued swell of language, which runs indiscriminately even through their lowest characters, and rattles like some mightiness of meaning in the most indifferent subjects, is of a piece with that perpetual elevation of tone which the players have learned from it; and which is not speaking, but vociferating.

There is still more reason for a variation of Style in epic poetry than in tragic, to distinguish between that language of the Gods proper to the Muse who sings, and is inspired; and that of men who are introduced speaking only according to nature. Father, there ought to be a difference of style observed in the speeches of human persons, and those of deities; and again, in those which may be called set harangues, or orations, and those which are only conversation or dialogue. Homer has more of the latter than any other poet: what Virgil does by two or three words of narration, Homer still performs by speeches: not only replies, but even rejoinders are frequent in him, a practice almost unknown to Virgil. This renders his poems more animated, but less grave and majestic; and consequently necessitates the frequent use of a lower style. The writers of tragedy lie under the same necessity, if they would copy nature: whereas that painted and poetical diction which they perpetually use, would be improper even in orations designed to move with all the arts of rhetoric; this is plain from the practice of Demosthenes and Cicero; and Virgil in those of Drances and Turnus gives an eminent example, how far removed the style of them ought to be from such an excess of figures and ornaments: which indeed fits only that language of the Gods we have been speaking of, or that of a muse under inspiration.

To read through a whole work in this strain, is like travelling all along on the ridge of a hill; which is not half so agreeable as sometimes gradually to rise, and sometimes gently to descend, as the way leads, and as the end of the journey directs. Indeed the true reason that so few poets have imitated Homer in these lower parts, has been the extreme difficulty of preserving that mixture of ease and dignity essential to them. For it is as hard for an epic poem to stoop to the narrative with success, as for a Prince to descend to be familiar, without diminution to his greatness.

The sublime style is more easily counterfeited than the natural; something that passes for it, or sounds like it, is common to all false writers: but nature, purity, perspicuity, and simplicity, never walk in the clouds; they are obvious to all capacities; and where they are not evident, they do not exist. The most plain narration not only admits of these, and of harmony (which are all the qualities of style) but it requires every one of them to render it pleasing. On the contrary, whatever pretends to a share of the sublime, may pass, notwithstanding any defects in the rest; nay sometimes without any of them, and gain the admiration of all ordinary readers.

Homer, in his lowest narrations or speeches, is ever easy, flowing, copious, clear, and harmonious. He shows not less Invention, in assembling the humbler, than the greater, thoughts and images; nor less Judgment, in proportioning the style and the versification to these, than to the other. Let it be remembered, that the same genius that soared the highest, and from whom the greatest models of the Sublime are derived, was also he who stooped the lowest, and gave to the simple Narrative its utmost perfection. Which of these was the harder task to Homer himself, I cannot pretend to determine; but to his translator I can affirm (however unequal all his imitations must be) that of the latter has been much more difficult.

Whoever expects here the same pomp of verse, and the same ornaments of diction, as in the Iliad, he will, and he ought to be, disappointed. Were the original otherwise, it had been an offence against Nature; and were the translation so, it were an offence against Homer, which is the same thing.

It must be allowed that there is a majesty and harmony in the Greek language which greatly contribute to elevate and support the narration. But I must also observe that this is an advantage grown upon the language since Homer’s time; for things are removed from vulgarity by being out of use: and if the words we could find in any present language were equally sonorous or musical in themselves, they would still appear less poetical and uncommon than those of a dead one, from this only circumstance, of being in every man’s mouth. I may add to this another disadvantage to a translator, from a different cause: Homer seems to have taken upon him the character of an historian, antiquary, divine, and professor of arts and sciences, as well as a poet. In one or other of these characters he descends into many particulars, which as a poet only perhaps he would have avoided. All these ought to be preserved by a faithful translator, who in some measure takes the place of Homer; and all that can be expected from him is to make them as poetical as the subject will bear. Many arts, therefore, are requisite to supply these disadvantages, in order to dignify and solemnize these plainer parts, which hardly admit of any poetical ornaments.

Some use has been made to this end of the style of Milton. A just and moderate mixture of old words may have an effect like the working old abbey stones into a building, which I have sometimes seen to give a kind of venerable air, and yet not destroy the neatness, elegance, and equality requisite to a new work: I mean without rendering it too unfamiliar, or remote from the present purity of writing, or from that ease and smoothness which ought always to accompany narration or dialogue. In reading a style judiciously antiquated, one finds a pleasure not unlike that of travelling on an old Roman way: but then the road must be as good, as the way is ancient; the style must be such in which we may evenly proceed, without being put to short stops by sudden abruptness, or puzzled by frequent turnings and transpositions. No man delights in furrows and stumbling-blocks: and let our love to antiquity be ever so great, a fine ruin is one thing, and a heap of rubbish another. The imitators of Milton, like most other imitators, are not copies but caricatures of their original; they are a hundred times more obsolete and cramp than he, and equally so in all places: whereas it should have been observed of Milton, that he is not lavish of his exotic words and phrases every where alike, but employs them much more where the subject is marvellous, vast, and strange, as in the scenes of Heaven, Hell, Chaos, &c., than where it is turned to the natural or agreeable, as in the pictures of paradise, the loves of our first parents, the entertainments of angels, and the like. In general, this unusual style better serves to awaken our ideas in the descriptions and in the imaging and picturesque parts, than it agrees with the lower sort of narrations, the character of which is simplicity and purity. Milton has several of the latter, where we find not an antiquated, affected, or uncouth word, for some hundred lines together; as in his fifth book, the latter part of the eighth, the former of the tenth and eleventh books, and in the narration of Michael in the twelfth. I wonder indeed that he, who ventured (contrary to the practice of all other Epic Poets) to imitate Homer’s lownesses in the narrative, should not also have copied his plainness and perspicuity in the dramatic parts: since in his speeches (where clearness above all is necessary) there is frequently such transposition and forced construction, that the very sense is not to be discovered without a second or third reading: and in this certainly he ought to be no example.

To preserve the true character of Homer’s style in the present translation, great pains have been taken to be easy and natural. The chief merit I can pretend to, is, not to have been carried into a more plausible and figurative manner of writing, which would better have pleased all readers, but the judicious ones. My errors had been fewer, had each of those gentlemen who joined with me shown as much of the severity of a friend to me, as I did to them, in a strict animadversion and correction. What assistance I received from them, was made known in general to the public in the original proposals for this work, and the particulars are specified at the conclusion of it; to which I must add (to be punctually just) some part of the tenth and fifteenth books. The reader will now be too good a judge, how much the greater part of it, and consequently of its faults, is chargeable upon me alone. But this I can with integrity affirm, that I have bestowed as much time and pains upon the whole, as were consistent with the indispensable duties and cares of life, and with that wretched state of health which God has been pleased to make my portion. At the least, it is a pleasure to me to reflect, that I have introduced into our language this other work of the greatest and most ancient of poets, with some dignity; and I hope, with as little disadvantage as the Iliad. And if, after the unmerited success of that translation, any one will wonder why I would enterprise the Odyssey; I think it sufficient to say, that Homer himself did the same, or the world would never have seen it.

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BOOK XXIV

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POSTSCRIPT BY POPE

APPENDIX