No More Learning

who while my soul is sore
Of fresh affronts, are meditating more.
But Heaven denies this honour to my hand,
Nor shall my father repossess the land;
The father's fortune never to return,
And the sad son's to softer and to mourn! "
Thus he; and Nestor took the word: "My son,
Is it then true, as distant rumours run,
That crowds of rivals for thy mother's charms
Thy palace fill with insults and alarms?
Say, is the fault, through tame submission, thine?
Or leagued against thee, do thy people join,
Moved by some oracle, or voice divine?
And yet who knows, but ripening lies in fate
An hour of vengeance for the afflicted state;
When great Ulysses shall suppress these harms,
Ulysses singly, or all Greece in arms.
But if Athena, war's triumphant maid,
The happy son will as the father aid,
(Whose fame and safety was her constant care
In every danger and in every war:
Never on man did heavenly favour shine
With rays so strong, distinguish'd and divine,
As those with which Minerva mark'd thy sire)
So might she love thee, so thy soul inspire!
Soon should their hopes in humble dust be laid,
And long oblivion of the bridal bed. "

"Ah! no such hope (the prince with sighs replies)
Can touch my breast; that blessing Heaven denies.
Ev'n by celestial favour were it given,
Fortune or fate would cross the will of Heaven. "

"What words are these, and what imprudence thine?
(Thus interposed the martial maid divine)
Forgetful youth! but know, the Power above
With ease can save each object of his love;
Wide as his will, extends his boundless grace;
Nor lost in time nor circumscribed by place.
Happier his lot, who, many sorrows' pass'd,
Long labouring gains his natal shore at last;
Than who, too speedy, hastes to end his life
By some stern ruffian, or adulterous wife.
Death only is the lot which none can miss,
And all is possible to Heaven but this.
The best, the dearest favourite of the sky,
Must taste that cup, for man is born to die. "

Thus check'd, replied Ulysses' prudent heir:
"Mentor, no more--the mournful thought forbear;
For he no more must draw his country's breath,
Already snatch'd by fate, and the black doom of death!
Pass we to other subjects; and engage
On themes remote the venerable sage
(Who thrice has seen the perishable kind
Of men decay, and through three ages shined
Like gods majestic, and like gods in mind);
For much he knows, and just conclusions draws,
From various precedents, and various laws.
O son of Neleus! awful Nestor, tell
How he, the mighty Agamemnon, fell;
By what strange fraud Aegysthus wrought, relate
(By force he could not) such a hero's fate?
Live Menelaus not in Greece? or where
Was then the martial brother's pious care?
Condemn'd perhaps some foreign short to tread;
Or sure Aegysthus had not dared the deed. "
To whom the full of days: Illustrious youth,
Attend (though partly thou hast guess'd) the truth.
For had the martial Menelaus found
The ruffian breathing yet on Argive ground;
Nor earth had bid his carcase from the skies,
Nor Grecian virgins shriek'd his obsequies,
But fowls obscene dismember'd his remains,
And dogs had torn him on the naked plains.
While us the works of bloody Mars employ'd,
The wanton youth inglorious peace enjoy'd:
He stretch'd at ease in Argos' calm recess
(Whose stately steeds luxuriant pastures bless),
With flattery's insinuating art
Soothed the frail queen, and poison'd all her heard.
At first, with the worthy shame and decent pride,
The royal dame his lawless suit denied.
For virtue's image yet possess'd her mind.
Taught by a master of the tuneful kind;
Atrides, parting for the Trojan war,
Consign'd the youthful consort to his care.
True to his charge, the bard preserved her long
In honour's limits; such the power of song.