No More Learning

Slay me, or spare, deal with me as thou wilt,
I will confess the truth. I knew it all.
I gave him all that he required from me. 900
Both wine and bread, and, at his bidding, swore
To tell thee nought in twelve whole days to come,
Or till, enquiry made, thou should'st thyself
Learn his departure, lest thou should'st impair
Thy lovely features with excess of grief.
But lave thyself, and, fresh attired, ascend
To thy own chamber, there, with all thy train,
To worship Pallas, who shall save, thenceforth,
Thy son from death, what ills soe'er he meet.
Add not fresh sorrows to the present woes 910
Of the old King, for I believe not yet
Arcesias' race entirely by the Gods
Renounced, but trust that there shall still be found
Among them, who shall dwell in royal state,
And reap the fruits of fertile fields remote.
So saying, she hush'd her sorrow, and her eyes
No longer stream'd. Then, bathed and fresh attired,
Penelope ascended with her train
The upper palace, and a basket stored
With hallow'd cakes off'ring, to Pallas pray'd. 920
Hear matchless daughter of Jove AEgis-arm'd!
If ever wise Ulysses offer'd here
The thighs of fatted kine or sheep to thee,
Now mindful of his piety, preserve
His darling son, and frustrate with a frown
The cruelty of these imperious guests!
She said, and wept aloud, whose earnest suit
Pallas received. And now the spacious hall
And gloomy passages with tumult rang
And clamour of that throng, when thus, a youth, 930
Insolent as his fellows, dared to speak.
Much woo'd and long, the Queen at length prepares
To chuse another mate,[20] and nought suspects
The bloody death to which her son is doom'd.
So he; but they, meantime, themselves remain'd
Untaught, what course the dread concern elsewhere
Had taken, whom Antinous thus address'd.
Sirs!
one and all, I counsel you, beware
Of such bold boasting unadvised; lest one
O'erhearing you, report your words within. 940
No--rather thus, in silence, let us move
To an exploit so pleasant to us all.
He said, and twenty chose, the bravest there,
With whom he sought the galley on the shore,
Which drawing down into the deep, they placed
The mast and sails on board, and, sitting, next,
Each oar in order to its proper groove,
Unfurl'd and spread their canvas to the gale.
Their bold attendants, then, brought them their arms,
And soon as in deep water they had moor'd 950
The ship, themselves embarking, supp'd on board,
And watch'd impatient for the dusk of eve.
But when Penelope, the palace stairs
Remounting, had her upper chamber reach'd,
There, unrefresh'd with either food or wine,
She lay'd her down, her noble son the theme
Of all her thoughts, whether he should escape
His haughty foes, or perish by their hands.
Num'rous as are the lion's thoughts, who sees,
Not without fear, a multitude with toils 960
Encircling him around, such num'rous thoughts
Her bosom occupied, till sleep at length
Invading her, she sank in soft repose.
Then Pallas, teeming with a new design,
Set forth an airy phantom in the form
Of fair Iphthima, daughter of the brave
Icarius, and Eumelus' wedded wife
In Pherae. Shaped like her the dream she sent
Into the mansion of the godlike Chief
Ulysses, with kind purpose to abate 970
The sighs and tears of sad Penelope.
Ent'ring the chamber-portal, where the bolt
Secured it, at her head the image stood,
And thus, in terms compassionate, began.
Sleep'st thou, distress'd Penelope? The Gods,
Happy in everlasting rest themselves,
Forbid thy sorrows. Thou shalt yet behold
Thy son again, who hath by no offence
Incurr'd at any time the wrath of heav'n.
To whom, sweet-slumb'ring in the shadowy gate 980
By which dreams pass, Penelope replied.
What cause, my sister, brings thee, who art seen
Unfrequent here, for that thou dwell'st remote?
And thou enjoin'st me a cessation too
From sorrows num'rous, and which, fretting, wear
My heart continual; first, my spouse I lost
With courage lion-like endow'd, a prince
All-excellent, whose never-dying praise
Through Hellas and all Argos flew diffused;
And now my only son, new to the toils 990
And hazards of the sea, nor less untaught
The arts of traffic, in a ship is gone
Far hence, for whose dear cause I sorrow more
Than for his Sire himself, and even shake
With terror, lest he perish by their hands
To whom he goes, or in the stormy Deep;
For num'rous are his foes, and all intent
To slay him, ere he reach his home again.
Then answer thus the shadowy form return'd.