Or, heavens! might he return! (and soon appear

He shall, I trust; a hero scorns despair:)

Might he return, I yield my life a prey

To my worst foe, if that avenging day

Be not their last: but should I lose my life,

Oppress’d by numbers in the glorious strife,

I chose the nobler part, and yield my breath,

Rather than bear dishonor, worse than death;

Than see the hand of violence invade

The reverend stranger and the spotless maid;

Than see the wealth of kings consumed in waste,

The drunkard’s revel, and the gluttons’ feast.”


Thus he, with anger flashing from his eye;

Sincere the youthful hero made reply:

“Nor leagued in factious arms my subjects rise,

Nor priests in fabled oracles advise;

Nor are my brothers, who should aid my power,

Turn’d mean deserters in the needful hour.

Ah me! I boast no brother; heaven’s dread King

Gives from our stock an only branch to spring:

Alone Laertes reign’d Arcesius’ heir,

Alone Ulysses drew the vital air,

And I alone the bed connubial graced,

An unbless’d offspring of a sire unbless’d!

Each neighbouring realm, conducive to our woe,

Sends forth her peers, and every peer a foe:

The court proud Samos and Dulichium fills,

And lofty Zacinth crown’d with shady hills.

E’en Ithaca and all her lords invade

The imperial sceptre, and the regal bed:

The queen, averse to love, yet awed by power,

Seems half to yield, yet flies the bridal hour:

Meantime their licence uncontroll’d I bear;

E’en now they envy me the vital air:

But Heaven will sure revenge, and gods there are.


“But go Eumaeus! to the queen impart

Our safe return, and ease a mother’s heart.

Yet secret go; for numerous are my foes,

And here at least I may in peace repose.”


To whom the swain: “I hear and I obey:

But old Laertes weeps his life away,

And deems thee lost: shall I my speed employ

To bless his age: a messenger of joy?

The mournful hour that tore his son away