The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose Now First Collected with a Prefatory Memoir by his Nephews W. E. and Sir Bartle Frere |
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TRANSLATION FROM THE ODYSSEY. |
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 | The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose |  |
TRANSLATION FROM THE ODYSSEY.
Τηλεμαχ': ου σ' ο ζεινος, κ.τ.λ.
“On men like me, nor has your guest disgrac'd
“Your friendly roof. I did not labour long
“To bend the bow, nor have I aim'd it wrong.
“I feel my practice and my force the same.
“Henceforth the noble suitors will not blame
“The vigour of my arm and truth of aim.
“But now the hour invites you to repair
“To some slight banquet in the open air,
“Anon to feast within with dance and song,
“For joys like these to festive hours belong.”
He knit his brow, his son the signal knew,
And the light sword across his shoulders threw,
And grasp'd his spear, and stood with youthful pride
Array'd for battle at his father's side;
Ulysses cast his tatters to the ground,
Sprung forth and seiz'd the threshold at a bound,
Then showering down the glittering shafts around
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“Another trial, Lords, I mean to make—
“Unlike the last, for further proof I take
“A point untouch'd by any marksman's skill,
“If my force fail me not—and Phœbus will.”
Then at Antinous his aim he took,
That stood, with careless air and easy look,
Fearless of fraud or force, secure of soul,
Just heaving from the board a mighty bowl;
He pois'd it in his hand, the cup was gold
With double handles of a massy mould;
Wafting it round, or ere he quaffed the wine,
Of death or danger what could he divine,
Or how imagine that a hand unknown,
Bold tho' he were, a stranger and alone,
Amidst his feasting friends should strike him dead?
Ulysses loos'd the string, the shaft was sped,
It struck him thro' the throat, the grisly point
Peer'd out behind beside the spinal joint;
He sinks aside, his limbs their force forego,
From his loose grasp the goblet falls below,
With streams of spouting gore his nostrils flow,
The table is spurn'd down, a mingled flood,
Pollutes the floor with meat, and wine, and blood.
The suitors rise in uproar round the hall,
And angry voices on Ulysses call.
“Stranger, this was a shrewd and evil shot,
“The archer's prize no more shall be thy lot,
“The vultures of this isle shall gnaw thy head,
“The noblest chief of Ithaca lies dead.”
They spoke unconscious of his dire intent,
As of a murder casual and unmeant;
But the stern chief abandoning disguise,
And fiercely looking round them thus replies.
“Traitors and dogs, you never dreamt before
“To see me here return'd from Ilion's shore,
“That, weak and helpless, in her husband's life,
“With boisterous courtship have besieg'd my wife;
“Grinding my household, and defiling all,
“Careless whatever vengeance may befall
“From righteous men or the just Gods on high—
“But know, your doom is fixed this day to die.”
| The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose | |