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But his chaste spouse awoke; she weeping sat
On her soft couch, and, noblest of her sex,
Satiate at length with tears, her pray'r address'd
First to Diana of the Pow'rs above.
Diana, awful progeny of Jove!
I would that with a shaft this moment sped 70
Into my bosom, thou would'st here conclude
My mournful life! or, oh that, as it flies,
Snatching me through the pathless air, a storm
Would whelm me deep in Ocean's restless tide!
So, when the Gods their parents had destroy'd,
Storms suddenly the beauteous daughters snatch'd[89]
Of Pandarus away; them left forlorn
Venus with curds, with honey and with wine
Fed duly; Juno gave them to surpass
All women in the charms of face and mind, 80
With graceful stature eminent the chaste
Diana bless'd them, and in works of art
Illustrious, Pallas taught them to excel.
But when the foam-sprung Goddess to the skies
A suitress went on their behalf, to obtain
Blest nuptials for them from the Thund'rer Jove,
(For Jove the happiness, himself, appoints,
And the unhappiness of all below)
Meantime, the Harpies ravishing away
Those virgins, gave them to the Furies Three, 90
That they might serve them. O that me the Gods
Inhabiting Olympus so would hide
From human eyes for ever, or bright-hair'd
Diana pierce me with a shaft, that while
Ulysses yet engages all my thoughts,
My days concluded, I might 'scape the pain
Of gratifying some inferior Chief!
This is supportable, when (all the day
To sorrow giv'n) the mourner sleeps at night;
For sleep, when it hath once the eyelids veil'd, 100
All reminiscence blots of all alike,
Both good and ill; but me the Gods afflict
Not seldom ev'n in dreams, and at my side,
This night again, one lay resembling him;
Such as my own Ulysses when he join'd
Achaia's warriors; my exulting heart
No airy dream believed it, but a truth.
While thus she spake, in orient gold enthroned
Came forth the morn; Ulysses, as she wept,
Heard plain her lamentation; him that sound 110
Alarm'd; he thought her present, and himself
Known to her. Gath'ring hastily the cloak
His cov'ring, and the fleeces, them he placed
Together on a throne within the hall,
But bore the bull's-hide forth into the air.
Then, lifting high his hands to Jove, he pray'd.
Eternal Sire! if over moist and dry
Ye have with good-will sped me to my home
After much suff'ring, grant me from the lips
Of some domestic now awake, to hear 120
Words of propitious omen, and thyself
Vouchsafe me still some other sign abroad.
Such pray'r he made, and Jove omniscient heard.
Sudden he thunder'd from the radiant heights
Olympian; glad, Ulysses heard the sound.
A woman, next, a labourer at the mill
Hard by, where all the palace-mills were wrought,
Gave him the omen of propitious sound.
Twelve maidens, day by day, toil'd at the mills,
Meal grinding, some, of barley, some, of wheat, 130
Marrow of man. [90] The rest (their portion ground)
All slept; she only from her task as yet
Ceas'd not, for she was feeblest of them all;
She rested on her mill, and thus pronounced
The happy omen by her Lord desired.
Jove, Father, Governor of heav'n and earth!
Loud thou hast thunder'd from the starry skies
By no cloud veil'd; a sign propitious, giv'n
To whom I know not; but oh grant the pray'r
Of a poor bond-woman! appoint their feast 140
This day, the last that in Ulysses' house
The suitors shall enjoy, for whom I drudge,
With aching heart and trembling knees their meal
Grinding continual. Feast they here no more!
She ended, and the list'ning Chief received
With equal joy both signs; for well he hoped
That he should punish soon those guilty men.
And now the other maidens in the hall
Assembling, kindled on the hearth again
Th' unwearied blaze; then, godlike from his couch 150
Arose Telemachus, and, fresh-attired,
Athwart his shoulders his bright faulchion slung,
Bound his fair sandals to his feet, and took
His sturdy spear pointed with glitt'ring brass;
Advancing to the portal, there he stood,
And Euryclea thus, his nurse, bespake.
Nurse! have ye with respectful notice serv'd
Our guest? or hath he found a sordid couch
E'en where he might? for, prudent though she be,
My mother, inattentive oft, the worse 160
Treats kindly, and the better sends away.
Whom Euryclea answer'd, thus, discrete.
Blame not, my son! who merits not thy blame.