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 then 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,