Full in their face the lifted bow he bore,

And quiver’d deaths, a formidable store;

Before his feet the rattling shower he threw,

And thus, terrific, to the suitor-crew:


“One venturous game this hand hath won to-day,

Another, princes! yet remains to play;

Another mark our arrow must attain.

Phœbus, assist! nor be the labour vain.”

Swift as the word the parting arrow sings,

And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings:

Wretch that he was, of unprophetic soul!

High in his hands he rear’d the golden bowl!

E’en then to drain it lengthen’d out his breath;

Changed to the deep, the bitter draught of death:

For fate who fear’d amidst a feastful band?

And fate to numbers, by a single hand?

Full through his throat Ulysses’ weapon pass’d,

And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last.

The tumbling goblet the wide floor o’erflows,

A stream of gore burst spouting from his nose;

Grim in convulsive agonies be sprawls:

Before him spurn’d the loaded table falls,

And spreads the pavement with a mingled flood

Of floating meats, and wine, and human blood.

Amazed, confounded, as they saw him fall,

Up rose the throngs tumultuous round the hall:

O’er all the dome they cast a haggard eye,

Each look’d for arms—in vain; no arms were nigh:

“Aim’st thou at princes? (all amazed they said;)

Thy last of games unhappy hast thou play’d;

Thy erring shaft has made our bravest bleed,

And death, unlucky guest, attends thy deed.

Vultures shall tear thee.” Thus incensed they spoke,

While each to chance ascribed the wondrous stroke:

Blind as they were: for death e’en now invades

His destined prey, and wraps them all in shades.

Then, grimly frowning, with a dreadful look,

That wither’d all their hearts, Ulysses spoke:


“Dogs, ye have had your day! ye fear’d no more

Ulysses vengeful from the Trojan shore;

While, to your lust and spoil a guardless prey,

Our house, our wealth, our helpless handmaids lay: