There from the portal, with her mild command,

Thus gently checks the minstrel’s tuneful hand:


“Phemius! let acts of gods, and heroes old,

What ancient bards in hall and bower have told,

Attemper’d to the lyre, your voice employ;

Such the pleased ear will drink with silent joy.

But, oh! forbear that dear disastrous name,

To sorrow sacred, and secure of fame;

My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound,

And every piercing note inflicts a wound.”


“Why, dearest object of my duteous love,

(Replied the prince,) will you the bard reprove?

Oft, Jove’s ethereal rays (resistless fire)

The chanter’s soul and raptured song inspire

Instinct divine? nor blame severe his choice,

Warbling the Grecian woes with heart and voice;

For novel lays attract our ravish’d ears;

But old, the mind with inattention hears:

Patient permit the sadly pleasing strain;

Familiar now with grief, your tears refrain,

And in the public woe forget your own;

You weep not for a perish’d lord alone.

What Greeks new wandering in the Stygian gloom,

Wish your Ulysses shared an equal doom!

Your widow’d hours, apart, with female toil

And various labours of the loom beguile;

There rule, from palace-cares remote and free;

That care to man belongs, and most to me.”


Mature beyond his years, the queen admires

His sage reply, and with her train retires.

Then swelling sorrows burst their former bounds,

With echoing grief afresh the dome resounds;

Till Pallas, piteous of her plaintive cries,

In slumber closed her silver-streaming eyes.


Meantime, rekindled at the royal charms,

Tumultuous love each beating bosom warms;

Intemperate rage a wordy war began;

But bold Telemachus assumed the man.

“Instant (he cried) your female discord end,

Ye deedless boasters! and the song attend;

Obey that sweet compulsion, nor profane

With dissonance the smooth melodious strain.

Pacific now prolong the jovial feast;

But when the dawn reveals the rosy east,