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Her answer'd, then, Penelope discrete.
Ah dearest nurse! indulge not to excess
This dang'rous triumph. Thou art well apprized
How welcome his appearance here would prove
To all, but chief, to me, and to his son,
Fruit of our love. But these things are not so; 70
Some God, resentful of their evil deeds,
And of their biting contumely severe,
Hath slain those proud; for whether noble guest
Arrived or base, alike they scoff'd at all,
And for their wickedness have therefore died.
But my Ulysses distant far, I know,
From Greece hath perish'd, and returns no more.
To whom thus Euryclea, nurse belov'd.
What word my daughter had escaped thy lips,
Who thus affirm'st thy husband, now within 80
And at his own hearth-side, for ever lost?
Canst thou be thus incredulous? Hear again--
I give thee yet proof past dispute, his scar
Imprinted by a wild-boar's iv'ry tusk.
Laving him I remark'd it, and desired,
Myself, to tell thee, but he, ever-wise,
Compressing with both hands my lips, forbad.
Come, follow me. My life shall be the pledge.
If I deceive thee, kill me as thou wilt.
To whom Penelope, discrete, replied.
90
Ah, dearest nurse, sagacious as thou art,
Thou little know'st to scan the counsels wise
Of the eternal Gods. But let us seek
My son, however, that I may behold
The suitors dead, and him by whom they died.
So saying, she left her chamber, musing much
In her descent, whether to interrogate
Her Lord apart, or whether to imprint,
At once, his hands with kisses and his brows.
O'erpassing light the portal-step of stone 100
She enter'd. He sat opposite, illumed
By the hearth's sprightly blaze, and close before
A pillar of the dome, waiting with eyes
Downcast, till viewing him, his noble spouse
Should speak to him; but she sat silent long,
Her faculties in mute amazement held.
By turns she riveted her eyes on his,
And, seeing him so foul attired, by turns
She recognized him not; then spake her son
Telemachus, and her silence thus reprov'd. 110
My mother! ah my hapless and my most
Obdurate mother! wherefore thus aloof
Shunn'st thou my father, neither at his side
Sitting affectionate, nor utt'ring word?
Another wife lives not who could endure
Such distance from her husband new-return'd
To his own country in the twentieth year,
After much hardship; but thy heart is still
As ever, less impressible than stone,
To whom Penelope, discrete, replied. 120
I am all wonder, O my son; my soul
Is stunn'd within me; pow'r to speak to him
Or to interrogate him have I none,
Or ev'n to look on him; but if indeed
He be Ulysses, and have reach'd his home,
I shall believe it soon, by proof convinced
Of signs known only to himself and me.
She said; then smiled the Hero toil-inured,
And in wing'd accents thus spake to his son.
Leave thou, Telemachus, thy mother here 130
To sift and prove me; she will know me soon
More certainly; she sees me ill-attired
And squalid now; therefore she shews me scorn,
And no belief hath yet that I am he.
But we have need, thou and myself, of deep
Deliberation. If a man have slain
One only citizen, who leaves behind
Few interested to avenge his death,
Yet, flying, he forsakes both friends and home;
But we have slain the noblest Princes far 140
Of Ithaca, on whom our city most
Depended; therefore, I advise thee, think!
Him, prudent, then answer'd Telemachus.