VIII. The Last Appearance of Penelope.
[_]
FROM THE ODYSSEY—Book XXIII. 289–343.
I
A bed of texture soft and fine
The nurse and the handmaiden spread;
The couch was decked by torchlight shine,
And homeward then the old woman sped.
While Eurynome, as a chamber-groom,
With lamp in hand, to the nuptial room
The new-met partners led.
II
Thither she led them, and withdrew,
And left them, as in days of old,
Their former dalliance to renew
In joyous passion uncontrolled.
And the herd of swine, and the herd of kine,
With the heir of Ithaca's royal line,
Bade the house its peace to hold.
III
The dance was checked as they desired,
The sound of woman's voice repressed;
In silence then they all retired
Within the darkening halls to rest.
And when was done love's dearest rite,
Husband and wife with calm delight
Their mutual thoughts expressed.
IV
She told him of the scorn and wrong
She long had suffered in her house,
From the detested suitor throng,
Each wooing her to be his spouse.
How, for their feasts, her sheep and kine
Were slaughtered, while they quaffed her wine
In plentiful carouse.
V
And he, the noble wanderer, spoke
Of many a deed of peril sore—
Of men who fell beneath his stroke—
Of all the sorrowing tasks he bore.
She listened, with delighted ear—
Sleep never came her eyelids near,
Till all the tale was o'er.
VI
First told he how the Cicones
He had subdued with valiant hand,
And how he reached across the seas,
The Lotus-eaters' lovely land;
The crimes by Polyphemus done,
And of the well-earned vengeance won,
For slaughter of his band.
VII
Vengeance for gallant comrades slain,
And by the Cyclops made a prey;
And how it was his lot to gain
The isle where Æolus holds sway;
And how the Monarch of the wind
Received him with a welcome kind,
And would have sent away,
VIII
Home to his native isle to sail;
But vainly against fate he strove,
By whom unroused a desperate gale
Over the fishy ocean drove,
And sent him wandering once again,
The toils and dangers of the main
With many a groan to prove.
IX
And how he wandered to the coast
Where dwells the distant Læstrygon;
How there his ships and friends he lost,
Escaping in his bark alone;
He spoke of Circe's magic guile,
And told the art and deep-skilled wile
By the enchantress shown.
X
Then how to Hades' grisly hall
He went to seek the Theban seer,
In his swift ship; how there with all
The partners of his long career
He met; and how his mother mild,
Who bore, and reared him from a child,
He saw while wandering there.
XI
And how the dangerous strain he heard,
Sung by the Sirens' thrilling tongue;
And how with dexterous skill he steered
His course the justling rocks among;
How he—what none had done before—
Unscathed through dread Charybdis bore,
And Scylla sailed along.
XII
And how the oxen of the sun
With impious hand his comrades slew;
How their devoted bark upon
High thundering Jove his lightning threw;
How by the bolt of life bereft,
Perished his friends, he only left
Remaining of the crew.
XIII
And how, in the Ogygian isle,
He visited Calypso fair;
And how she sought, with many a wile,
To keep him still sojourning there:
With fond desire 'twas hers to crave,
That he, within her hollow cave,
Her nuptial bed should share.
XIV
Each hospitable art she tried,
His heart to win—his hopes to soothe;
She promised him, were she his bride
Immortal life, and ceaseless youth.
But all her promise, all her art,
Changed not the temper of his heart,
Nor shook his steadfast truth.
XV
How, after many a year of toil,
When on Phæacian land he trod,
The king and people of the isle
Hailed him with honors of a god;
And sent him full of presents fair,
Of gold, and brass, and garments rare,
Back to his own abode.
XVI
So closed the tale. Then balmy sleep,
The healer of all human woes,
Did their relaxing members steep
In soft oblivion of repose.
[OMITTED]
