Hence fprings their confidence, and from our fighs
Their rapine strengthens, and their riots rife :
Conftant as Jove the night and day bestows,
Bleeds a whole hecatomb, a vintage flows.
None match'd this hero's wealth, of all who reign
O'er the fair islands of the neighbouring main.
Nor all the monarchs whofe far-dreaded sway
The wide-extended continents obey:
First, on the main land, of Ulyffes' breed
Twelve herds, twelve flocks, on ocean's margin feed;
As many ftalls for shaggy goats are rear'd;
As many lodgements for the tusky herd;
Those foreign keepers guard: and here are seen
Twelve herds of goats that graze our utmost green ;
To native pastors is their charge affign'd;
And mine the care to feed the bristly kind.:
Each day the fattest bleeds of either herd,
All to the fuitors wasteful board preferr❜d..
Thus he, benevolent: his unknown guest
With hunger keen devours the favoury feast;
While schemes of vengeance ripen in his breast.
Silent and thoughtful while the board he ey'd,
Eumæus pours on high the purple tide;
The king with smiling looks his joy exprefs'd,
And thus the kind inviting host address'd :
Say now, what man is he, the man deplor'd,.
So rich, fo potent, whom you style your lord;
Late with fuch affluence and poffeffions blest,
And now in honour's glorious bedat rest?
Whoever was the warrior, he must be
To Fame no stranger, nor perhaps to me;
Who (fo the Gods, and fo the Fates ordain'd)
Have wander'd many a fea, and many a land.
Small is the faith, the prince and queen afcribe
(Reply'd Eumæus) to the wandering tribe.
For needy ftrangers ftill to flattery fly,
And want too oft' betrays the tongue to lye.
Each vagrant traveller that touches here,
Deludes with fallacies the royal ear,
To dear remembrance makes his image rife,
And calls the springing forrows from her eyes.
Such thou may'ft be. But he whofe name you crave
Moulders in earth, or welters on the wave,
Or food for fish or dogs his reliques lie,
Or torn by birds are fcatter'd through the sky.
So perish'd he and left (for ever loft)
Much woe to all, but fure to me the most.
So mild a master never shall I find;
Lefs dear the parents whom I left behind,
Lefs foft my mother, less my father kind.
Not with fuch transport would my eyes run o'er,
Again to hail them in their native fhore ;
As lov'd Ulyffes once more to embrace,
Reftor'd and breathing in his natal place.
That name for ever dread, yet ever dear,
Ev'n in his abfence I pronounce with fear:
In my refpect, he bears a prince's part;
But lives a very brother in my heart.
Thus spoke the faithful (wain; and thus rejoin'd
The mafter of his grief, the man of patient mind :
Ulyffes, friend! fhall view his old abodes
(Diftruftful as thou art); nor doubt the Gods.
Nor fpeak I rafhly, but with faith averr'd,
And what I fpeak, attesting Heaven has heard.
If fo, a cloke and vefture be my meed;
Till his return, no title fhall I plead,
Though certain be my news, and great my need.
Whom want itself can force untruths to tell,
My foul detefts him as the gates of hell.
Thou first be witness, hofpitable Jove!
And every God inspiring focial love;
And witness every houshold power that waits
Guard of these fires, and angel of these gates!
Ere the next moon increase, or this decay,
His ancient realms Ulyffes shall survey,
In blood and duft each proud oppreffor mourn,
And the loft glories of his houfe return.
Nor fhall that meed be thine, nor ever more
Shall lov'd Ulyffes hail this happy shore
(Replied Eumæus): to the present hour
Now turn thy thought, and joys within our power.
From fad reflection let my foul repose;
The name of him awakes a thousand woes.
But guard him, Gods! and to these arms restore!
Not his true confort can defire him more;
Not old Laertes, broken with despair;
Not young Telemachus, his blooming heir.
Alas, Telemachus! my forrows flow
Afresh for thee, my second cause of woe!
Like fome fair plant fet by a heavenly hand,
He grew, he flourish'd, and he bleft the land;
In all the youth his father's image fhin'd,
Bright in his perfon, brighter in his mind.
What man, or God, deceiv'd his better fenfe,
Far on the fwelling feas to wander hence?
To distant Pylos haplefs is he gone,
To feek his father's fate, and find his own!
For traitors wait his way, with dire design
To end at once the great Arcefian line.
But let us leave him to their wills above;
The fates of men are in the hand of Jove.
And now, my venerable gueft! declare
Your name, your parents, and your native air.
Sincere from whence begun your course relate,
And to what ship I owe the friendly freight?
Thus he and thus (with prompt invention bold) The cautious chief his ready story told :
On dark referve what better can prevail,
Or from the fluent tongue produce the tale,
Than when two friends, alone, in peaceful place
Confer, and wines and cates the table grace;
But most, the kind inviter's chearful face?
Thus might we fit, with focial goblets crown'd,
Till the whole circle of the year goes round;
Not the whole circle of the year would close
My long narration of a life of woes.
But fuch was Heaven's high will! Know then, I came
From facred Crete, and from a fire of fame:
Caftor Hylacides (that name he bore)
Belov'd and honour'd in his native shore;
Bleft in his riches, in his children more.
Sprung of a handmaid, from a bought embrace,
I'd his kindness with his lawful race:
But when that fate, which all must undergo,
From earth remov'd him to the fhades below;
The large domain his greedy sons divide,
And each was portion'd as the lots decide.
Little, alas! was left
my wretched fhare,
Except a house, a covert from the air:
But what by niggard fortune was denied,
A willing widow's copious' wealth supplied.
My valour was my plea, a gallant mind
That, true to honour, never lagg'd behind
(The fex is ever to a foldier kind).
Now wasting years my former ftrength confound,
And added woes have bow'd me to the ground;
Yet by the stubble you may guess the grain,
And mark the ruins of no vulgar man.
Me, Pallas gave to lead the martial storm,
And the fair ranks of battle to deform:
Me, Mars infpir'd to turn the foe to flight,
And tempt the secret ambush of the night.
Let ghaftly death in all his forms appear,
I saw him not, it was not mine to fear.
Before the rest I rais'd my ready steel;
The first I met, he yielded, or he fell.
But works of peace my soul disdain'd to bear,
The rural labour, or domeftic care.
To raise the maft, the miffile dart to wing,
And send swift arrows from the bounding string,
Were arts the Gods made grateful to my mind;
Those Gods, who turn (to various ends defign'd)
The various thoughts and talents of mankind.
|