The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature) (71 page)

Certain ancient Greek epigrams translated

All stars are drunk up by the fiery sun,

And in so much a flame lies shrunk the moon.

Homer’s all-liv’d name all names leaves in death,

Whose splendour only Muses’ bosoms breathe.

Another

Heaven’s fires shall first fall darken’d from his sphere,

Grave Night the light weed of the Day shall wear,

Fresh streams shall chase the sea, tough ploughs shall tear

Her fishy bottoms, men in long date dead

Shall rise and live, before Oblivion shed

Those still-green leaves that crown great Homer’s head.

Another

The great Maeonides doth only write,

And to him dictates the great God of Light.

Another

Seven kingdoms strove in which should swell the womb

That bore great Homer, whom Fame freed from tomb;

Argos, Chios, Pylos, Smyrna, Colophone,

The learn’d Athenian, and Ulyssean throne.

Another

Art thou of Chios? No. Of Salamine?

As little. Was the Smyrnean country thine?

Nor so. Which then? Was Cuma’s? Colophone?

Nor one nor other. Art thou, then, of none

That Fame proclaims thee? None. Thy reason call.

If I confess of one I anger all.

Book 1

The Argument

The gods in council sit, to call

Ulysses from Calypso’s thrall,

And order their high pleasures thus:

Grey Pallas to Telemachus

(In Ithaca) her way addrest;

And did her heavenly limbs invest

In Mentas’ likeness, that did reign

King of the Taphians, in the main

Whose rough waves near Leucadia run,

Advising wise Ulysses’ son

To seek his father, and address

His course to young Tantalides

That govern’d Sparta. Thus much said,

She shew’d she was heaven’s martial Maid,

And vanish’d from him. Next to this,

The banquet of the wooeris.

Another Argument

Alpha

The deities sit;

The Man retired;

The Ulyssean wit

By Pallas fired.

Book 1

The Man, O Muse, inform, that many a way

Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;

That wandered wondrous far, when he the town

Of sacred Troy had sack’d and shivered down;

The cities of a world of nations,

With all their manners, minds, and fashions,

He saw and knew; at sea felt many woes,

Much care sustained, to save from overthrows

Himself and friends in their retreat for home;

But so their fates he could not overcome,

Though much he thirsted it. O men unwise,

They perish’d by their own impieties,

That in their hunger’s rapine would not shun

The oxen of the lofty-going Sun,

Who therefore from their eyes the day bereft

Of safe return. These acts, in some part left,

Tell us, as others, deified seed of Jove.

Now all the rest that austere death outstrove

At Troy’s long siege at home safe anchor’d are,

Free from the malice both of sea and war;

Only Ulysses is denied access

To wife and home. The grace of goddesses,

The reverend nymph Calypso, did detain

Him in her caves past all the race of men

Enflam’d to make him her lov’d lord and spouse.

And when the gods had destin’d that his house,

Which Ithaca on her rough bosom bears,

(The point of time wrought out by ambient years)

Should be his haven, Contention still extends

Her envy to him, even amongst his friends.

All gods took pity on him; only he,

That girds earth in the cincture of the sea,

Divine Ulysses ever did envy,

And made the fix’d port of his birth to fly.

But he himself solemnized a retreat

To th’ Aethiops, far dissunder’d in their seat,

(In two parts parted, at the sun’s descent,

And underneath his golden orient,

The first and last of men) t’ enjoy their feast

Of bulls and lambs, in hecatombs address’d;

At which he sat, given over to delight.

The other gods in heav’n’s supremest height

Were all in council met; to whom began

The mighty father both of god and man

Discourse, inducing matter that inclined

To wise Ulysses, calling to his mind

Faultful Aegisthus, who to death was done

By young Orestes, Agamemnon’s son.

His memory to the immortals then

Mov’d Jove thus deeply: ‘O how falsely men

Accuse us gods as authors of their ill,

When by the bane their own bad lives instil

They suffer all the miseries of their states,

Past our inflictions, and beyond their fates.

As now Aegisthus, past his fate, did wed

The wife of Agamemnon, and (in dread

To suffer death himsel
f
) to shun his ill,

Incurred it by the loose bent of his will,

In slaughtering Atrides in retreat.

Which we foretold him would so hardly set

To his murderous purpose, sending Mercury

That slaughter’d Argus, our considerate spy,

To give him this charge: “Do not wed his wife,

Nor murder him; for thou shalt buy his life

With ransom of thine own, imposed on thee

By his Orestes, when in him shall be

Atrides’ self renew’d, and but the prime

Of youth’s spring put abroad, in thirst to climb

His haughty father’s throne by his high acts.”

These words of Hermes wrought not into facts

Aegisthus’ powers; good counsel he despised,

And to that good his ill is sacrificed.’

Pallas, whose eyes did sparkle like the skies,

Answer’d: ‘O sire! Supreme of deities,

Aegisthus pass’d his fate and had desert

To warrant our infliction; and convert

May all the pains such impious men inflict

On innocent sufferers to revenge as strict,

Their own hearts eating. But that Ithacus,

Thus never meriting, should suffer thus,

I deeply suffer. His more pious mind

Divides him from these fortunes, though unkind

Is piety to him, giving him a fate

More suffering than the most unfortunate,

So long kept friendless in a sea-girt soil,

Where the sea’s navel is a sylvan isle,

In which the goddess dwells that doth derive

Her birth from Atlas, who of all alive

The motion and the fashion doth command

With his wise mind, whose forces understand

The inmost deeps and gulfs of all the seas,

Who (for his skill of things superior) stays

The two steep columns that prop earth and heav’n.

His daughter ’tis, who holds this homeless-driv’n

Still mourning with her, evermore profuse

Of soft and winning speeches, that abuse

And make so languishingly, and possest

With so remiss a mind her loved guest,

Manage the action of his way for home.

Where he, though in affection overcome,

In judgment yet more longs to show his hopes,

His country’s smoke leap from her chimney tops,

And death asks in her arms. Yet never shall

Thy lov’d heart be converted on his thrall,

Austere Olympius. Did not ever he,

In ample Troy, thy altars gratify,

And Grecians’ fleet make in thy offerings swim?

O Jove, why still then burns thy wrath to him?’

The Cloud-assembler answer’d: ‘What words fly,

Bold daughter, from thy pale of ivory?

As if I ever could cast from my care

Divine Ulysses, who exceeds so far

All men in wisdom, and so oft hath given

To all th’ immortals throned in ample heaven

So great and sacred gifts? But his decrees,

That holds the earth in with his nimble knees,

Stand to Ulysses’ longings so extreme,

For taking from the god-foe Polypheme

His only eye – a Cyclop, that excell’d

All other Cyclops, with whose burden swell’d

The nymph Thoosa, the divine increase

Of Phorcys’ seed, a great god of the seas.

She mix’d with Neptune in his hollow caves,

And bore this Cyclop to that god of waves.

For whose lost eye, th’ Earth-shaker did not kill

Erring Ulysses, but reserves him still

In life for more death. But use we our pow’rs,

And round about us cast these cares of ours,

All to discover how we may prefer

His wish’d retreat, and Neptune make forbear

His stern eye to him, since no one god can,

In spite of all, prevail, but ’gainst a man.’

To this, this answer made the grey-eyed Maid:

‘Supreme of rulers, since so well apaid

The blessed gods are all then, now, in thee,

To limit wise Ulysses’ misery,

And that you speak as you referred to me

Prescription for the means, in this sort be

Their sacred order: let us now address

With utmost speed our swift Argicides,

To tell the nymph that bears the golden tress

In th’ isle Ogygia, that ’tis our will

She should not stay our loved Ulysses still,

But suffer his return; and then will I

To Ithaca, to make his son apply

His sire’s inquest the more, infusing force

Into his soul, to summon the concourse

Of curl’d-head Greeks to council, and deter

Each wooer, that hath been the slaughterer

Of his fat sheep and crooked-headed beeves,

From more wrong to his mother; and their leaves

Take in such terms, as fit deserts so great.

To Sparta then, and Pylos, where doth beat

Bright Amathus, the flood and epithet

To all that kingdom, my advice shall send

The spirit-advanc’d prince, to the pious end

Of seeking his lost father, if he may

Receive report from Fame where rests his stay,

And make, besides, his own successive worth

Known to the world, and set in action forth.’

This said, her wing’d shoes to her feet she tied,

Formed all of gold, and all eternified,

That on the round earth or the sea sustain’d

Her ravish’d substance swift as gusts of wind.

Then took she her strong lance with steel made keen,

Great, massy, active, that whole hosts of men,

Though all heroës, conquers, if her ire

Their wrongs inflame, back’d by so great a sire.

Down from Olympus’ tops she headlong div’d,

And swift as thought in Ithaca arriv’d,

Close at Ulysses’ gates; in whose first court

She made her stand, and, for her breast’s support,

Leaned on her iron lance, her form impress’d

With Mentas’ likeness, come as being a guest.

There found she those proud wooers, that were then

Set on those ox-hides that themselves had slain,

Before the gates, and all at dice were playing.

To them the heralds, and the rest obeying,

Fill’d wine and water – some still as they play’d,

And some for solemn supper’s state purvey’d,

With porous sponges, cleansing tables, serv’d

With much rich feast; of which to all they carv’d.

God-like Telemachus amongst them sat,

Griev’d much in mind; and in his heart begat

All representment of his absent sire,

How, come from far-off parts, his spirits would fire

With those proud wooers’ sight, with slaughter parting

Their bold concourse, and to himself converting

The honours they usurp’d, his own commanding.

In this discourse, he first saw Pallas standing,

Unbidden entry; up rose, and address’d

His pace right to her, angry that a guest

Should stand so long at gate; and, coming near,

Her right hand took, took in his own her spear,

And thus saluted: ‘Grace to your repair,

Fair guest, your welcome shall be likewise fair.

Enter, and, cheer’d with feast, disclose th’ intent

That caused your coming.’ This said, first he went,

And Pallas follow’d. To a room they came,

Steep, and of state; the javelin of the dame

He set against a pillar vast and high,

Amidst a large and bright-kept armory,

Which was, besides, with woods of lances grac’d

Of his grave father’s. In a throne he plac’d

The man-turn’d goddess, under which was spread

A carpet, rich and of deviceful thread,

A footstool staying her feet; and by her chair

Another seat (all garnish’d wondrous fair,

To rest or sleep on in the day) he set,

Far from the prease of wooers, lest at meat

The noise they still made might offend his guest,

Disturbing him at banquet or at rest,

Even to his combat with that pride of theirs,

That kept no noble form in their affairs.

And these he set far from them, much the rather

To question freely of his absent father.

A table fairly-polish’d then was spread,

On which a reverend officer set bread,

And other servitors all sorts of meat

(Salads, and flesh, such as their haste could get)

Serv’d with observance in. And then the sewer

Pour’d water from a great and golden ewer,

That from their hands t’ a silver cauldron ran.

Both wash’d, and seated close, the voiceful man

Fetch’d cups of gold, and set by them, and round

Those cups with wine with all endeavour crown’d.

Then rush’d in the rude wooers, themselves plac’d;

The heralds water gave; the maids in haste

Serv’d bread from baskets. When, of all prepar’d

And set before them, the bold wooers shar’d,

Their pages plying their cups past the rest.

But lusty wooers must do more than feast;

For now, their hungers and their thirsts allay’d,

They call’d for songs and dances; those, they said,

Were th’ ornaments of feast. The herald straight

A harp, carv’d full of artificial sleight,

Thrust into Phemius’, a learn’d singer’s, hand,

Who, till he much was urg’d, on terms did stand,

But after, play’d and sung with all his art.

Telemachus to Pallas then (apart,

His ear inclining close, that none might hear)

In this sort said: ‘My guest, exceeding dear,

Will you not sit incens’d with what I say?

These are the cares these men take: feast and play.

Which eas’ly they may use, because they eat,

Free and unpunish’d, of another’s meat –

And of a man’s, whose white bones wasting lie

In some far region, with th’ incessancy

Of show’rs pour’d down upon them, lying ashore,

Or in the seas wash’d naked. Who, if he wore

Those bones with flesh and life and industry,

And these might here in Ithaca set eye

On him return’d, they all would wish to be

Either past other in celerity

Of feet and knees, and not contend t’ exceed

In golden garments. But his virtues feed

The fate of ill death; nor is left to me

The least hope of his life’s recovery,

No, not if any of the mortal race

Should tell me his return; the cheerful face

Of his return’d day never will appear.

But tell me, and let truth your witness bear,

Who, and from whence you are? What city’s birth?

What parents? In what vessel set you forth?

And with what mariners arriv’d you here?

I cannot think you a foot passenger.

Recount then to me all, to teach me well

Fit usage for your worth, and if it fell

In chance now first that you thus see us here,

Or that in former passages you were

My father’s guest. For many men have been

Guests to my father. Studious of men

His sociable nature ever was.’

On him again the grey-eyed Maid did pass

This kind reply: ‘I’ll answer passing true

All thou hast ask’d: my birth his honour drew

From wise Anchialus. The name I bear