No More Learning

Give him the bath, my maidens; spread his couch
With linen soft, with fleecy gaberdines[82]
And rugs of splendid hue, that he may lie
Waiting, well-warm'd, the golden morn's return.
Attend him also at the peep of day 400
With bath and unction, that, his seat resumed
Here in the palace, he may be prepared
For breakfast with Telemachus; and woe
To him who shall presume to incommode
Or cause him pain; that man shall be cashier'd
Hence instant, burn his anger as it may.
For how, my honour'd inmate! shalt thou learn
That I in wisdom oeconomic aught
Pass other women, if unbathed, unoiled,
Ill-clad, thou sojourn here? man's life is short, 410
Whoso is cruel, and to cruel arts
Addict, on him all men, while yet he lives,
Call plagues and curses down, and after death
Scorn and proverbial mock'ries hunt his name.
But men, humane themselves, and giv'n by choice
To offices humane, from land to land
Are rumour'd honourably by their guests,
And ev'ry tongue is busy in their praise.
Her answer'd then, Ulysses, ever-wise.
Consort revered of Laertiades! 420
Warm gaberdines and rugs of splendid hue
To me have odious been, since first the sight
Of Crete's snow-mantled mountain-tops I lost,
Sweeping the billows with extended oars.
No; I will pass, as I am wont to pass
The sleepless night; for on a sordid couch
Outstretch'd, full many a night have I reposed
Till golden-charioted Aurora dawn'd.
Nor me the foot-bath pleases more; my foot
Shall none of all thy ministring maidens touch, 430
Unless there be some ancient matron grave
Among them, who hath pangs of heart endured
Num'rous, and keen as I have felt myself;
Her I refuse not. She may touch my feet.
Him answer'd then prudent Penelope.
Dear guest! for of all trav'llers here arrived
From distant regions, I have none received
Discrete as thou, or whom I more have lov'd,
So just thy matter is, and with such grace
Express'd.
I have an ancient maiden grave, 440
The nurse who at my hapless husband's birth
Receiv'd him in her arms, and with kind care
Maternal rear'd him; she shall wash thy feet,
Although decrepid. Euryclea, rise!
Wash one coeval with thy Lord; for such
The feet and hands, it may be, are become
Of my Ulysses now; since man beset
With sorrow once, soon wrinkled grows and old.
She said, then Euryclea with both hands
Cov'ring her face, in tepid tears profuse 450
Dissolved, and thus in mournful strains began.
Alas! my son, trouble for thy dear sake
Distracts me. Jove surely of all mankind
Thee hated most, though ever in thy heart
Devoutly giv'n; for never mortal man
So many thighs of fatted victims burn'd,
And chosen hecatombs produced as thou
To Jove the Thund'rer, him entreating still
That he would grant thee a serene old age,
And to instruct, thyself, thy glorious son. 460
Yet thus the God requites thee, cutting off
All hope of thy return--oh ancient sir!
Him too, perchance, where'er he sits a guest
Beneath some foreign roof, the women taunt,
As all these shameless ones have taunted thee,
Fearing whose mock'ry thou forbidd'st their hands
This office, which Icarius' daughter wise
To me enjoins, and which I, glad perform.
Yes, I will wash thy feet; both for her sake
And for thy own,--for sight of thee hath raised 470
A tempest in my mind. Hear now the cause!
Full many a guest forlorn we entertain,
But never any have I seen, whose size,
The fashion of whose foot and pitch of voice,
Such likeness of Ulysses show'd, as thine.
To whom Ulysses, ever-shrewd, replied.
Such close similitude, O ancient dame!
As thou observ'st between thy Lord and me,
All, who have seen us both, have ever found.
He said; then taking the resplendent vase 480
Allotted always to that use, she first
Infused cold water largely, then, the warm.