"Not so, Eurymachus: that no man draws The wondrous bow, attend another cause. Sacred to Phoebus is the solemn day, Which thoughtless we in games would waste away: Till the next dawn this ill-timed strife forego, And here leave fixed the ringlets in a row. Now bid the sewer approach, and let us join In due libations, and in rites divine, So end our night: before the day shall spring, The choicest offerings let Melanthius bring: Let then to Phoebus' name the fatted thighs Feed the rich smokes high curling to the skies. So shall the patron of these arts bestow (For his the gift) the skill to bend the bow."
They heard well pleased: the ready heralds bring The cleansing waters from the limpid spring: The goblet high with rosy wine they crown'd, In order circling to the peers around. That rite complete, uprose the thoughtful man, And thus his meditated scheme began:
"If what I ask your noble minds approve, Ye peers and rivals in the royal love! Chief, if it hurt not great Antinous' ear (Whose sage decision I with wonder hear), And if Eurymachus the motion please: Give Heaven this day and rest the bow in peace. To-morrow let your arms dispute the prize, And take it he, the favour'd of the skies! But, since till then this trial you delay, Trust it one moment to my hands to-day: Fain would I prove, before your judging eyes, What once I was, whom wretched you despise: If yet this arm its ancient force retain; Or if my woes (a long-continued train) And wants and insults, make me less than man."
Rage flash'd in lightning from the suitors' eyes, Yet mixed with terror at the bold emprise. Antinous then: "O miserable guest! Is common sense quite banish'd from thy breast? Sufficed it not, within the palace placed, To sit distinguish'd, with our presence graced, Admitted here with princes to confer, A man unknown, a needy wanderer? To copious wine this insolence we owe, And much thy betters wine can overthrow: The great Eurytian when this frenzy stung, Pirithous' roofs with frantic riot rung; Boundless the Centaur raged; till one and all The heroes rose, and dragg'd him from the hall; His nose they shorten'd, and his ears they slit, And sent him sober'd home, with better wit. Hence with long war the double race was cursed, Fatal to all, but to the aggressor first. Such fate I prophesy our guest attends, If here this interdicted bow he bends: Nor shall these walls such insolence contain: The first fair wind transports him o'er the main, Where Echetus to death the guilty brings (The worst of mortals, e'en the worst of kings). Better than that, if thou approve our cheer; Cease the mad strife and share our bounty here."
To this the queen her just dislike express'd:
"'Tis impious, prince, to harm the stranger-guest, Base to insult who bears a suppliant's name, And some respect Telemachus may claim. What if the immortals on the man bestow Sufficient strength to draw the mighty bow? Shall I, a queen, by rival chiefs adored, Accept a wandering stranger for my lord? A hope so idle never touch'd his brain: Then ease your bosoms of a fear so vain. Far be he banish'd from this stately scene Who wrongs his princess with a thought so mean."
"O fair! and wisest of so fair a kind! (Respectful thus Eurymachus rejoin'd,) Moved by no weak surmise, but sense of shame, We dread the all-arraigning voice of Fame: We dread the censure of the meanest slave, The weakest woman: all can wrong the brave. 'Behold what wretches to the bed pretend Of that brave chief whose bow they could not bend! In came a beggar of the strolling crew, And did what all those princes could not do.' Thus will the common voice our deed defame, And thus posterity upbraid our name."
To whom the queen: "If fame engage your views, Forbear those acts which infamy pursues; Wrong and oppression no renown can raise; Know, friend! that virtue is the path to praise. The stature of our guest, his port, his face, Speak him descended from no vulgar race. To him the bow, as he desires, convey; And to his hand if Phoebus give the day, Hence, to reward his merit, be shall bear A two-edged falchion and a shining spear, Embroider'd sandals, a rich cloak and vest, A safe conveyance to his port of rest."
"O royal mother! ever-honour'd name! Permit me (cries Telemachus) to claim A son's just right. No Grecian prince but I Has power this bow to grant or to deny. Of all that Ithaca's rough hills contain, And all wide Elis' courser-breeding plain, To me alone my father's arms descend; And mine alone they are, to give or lend. Retire, O queen! thy household task resume, Tend, with thy maids, the labours of thy loom; The bow, the darts, and arms of chivalry, These cares to man belong, and most to me."
Mature beyond his years, the queen admired His sage reply, and with her train retired; There in her chamber as she sate apart, Revolved his words, and placed them in her heart. On her Ulysses then she fix'd her soul; Down her fair cheek the tears abundant roll, Till gentle Pallas, piteous of her cries, In slumber closed her silver-streaming eyes.
Now through the press the bow Eumaeus bore, And all was riot, noise, and wild uproar. "Hold! lawless rustic! whither wilt thou go? To whom, insensate, dost thou bear the bow? Exiled for this to some sequester'd den, Far from the sweet society of men, To thy own dogs a prey thou shalt be made; If Heaven and Phoebus lend the suitors aid." Thus they. Aghast he laid the weapon down, But bold Telemachus thus urged him on: "Proceed, false slave, and slight their empty words: What! hopes the fool to please so many lords? Young as I am, thy prince's vengeful hand Stretch'd forth in wrath shall drive thee from the land. Oh! could the vigour of this arm as well The oppressive suitors from my walls expel! Then what a shoal of lawless men should go To fill with tumult the dark courts below!"
The suitors with a scornful smile survey The youth, indulging in the genial day. Eumaeus, thus encouraged, hastes to bring The strifeful bow and gives it to the king. Old Euryclea calling them aside, "Hear what Telemachus enjoins (he cried): At every portal let some matron wait, And each lock fast the well-compacted gate; And if unusual sounds invade their ear, If arms, or shouts, or dying groans they hear, Let none to call or issue forth presume, But close attend the labours of the loom."
Her prompt obedience on his order waits; Closed in an instant were the palace gates. In the same moment forth Philaetius flies, Secures the court, and with a cable ties The utmost gate (the cable strongly wrought Of Byblos' reed, a ship from Egypt brought); Then unperceived and silent at the board His seat he takes, his eyes upon his lord.
And now his well-known bow the master bore, Turn'd on all sides, and view'd it o'er and o'er; Lest time or worms had done the weapon wrong, Its owner absent, and untried so long. While some deriding--"How he turns the bow! Some other like it sure the man must know, Or else would copy; or in bows he deals; Perhaps he makes them, or perhaps he steals." "Heaven to this wretch (another cried) be kind! And bless, in all to which he stands inclined. With such good fortune as he now shall find."
Heedless he heard them: but disdain'd reply; The bow perusing with exactest eye. Then, as some heavenly minstrel, taught to sing High notes responsive to the trembling string, To some new strain when he adapts the lyre, Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire, Relaxes, strains, and draws them to and fro; So the great master drew the mighty bow, And drew with ease. One hand aloft display'd The bending horns, and one the string essay'd. From his essaying hand the string, let fly, Twang'd short and sharp like the shrill swallow's cry. A general horror ran through all the race, Sunk was each heart, and pale was every face, Signs from above ensued: the unfolding sky In lightning burst; Jove thunder'd from on high. Fired at the call of heaven's almighty Lord, He snatch'd the shaft that glitter'd on the board (Fast by, the rest lay sleeping in the sheath, But soon to fly the messengers of death).
Now sitting as he was, the cord he drew, Through every ringlet levelling his view: Then notch'd the shaft, released, and gave it wing; The whizzing arrow vanished from the string, Sung on direct, and threaded every ring. The solid gate its fury scarcely bounds; Pierced through and through the solid gate resounds, Then to the prince: "Nor have I wrought thee shame; Nor err'd this hand unfaithful to its aim; Nor prov'd the toil too hard; nor have I lost That ancient vigour, once my pride and boast. Ill I deserved these haughty peers' disdain; Now let them comfort their dejected train, In sweet repast their present hour employ, Nor wait till evening for the genial joy: Then to the lute's soft voice prolong the night; Music, the banquet's most refined delight."
He said, then gave a nod; and at the word Telemachus girds on his shining sword. Fast by his father's side he takes his stand: The beamy javelin lightens in his hand.