And to his hand if Phœbus 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 Phœbus 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