And turning sudden, shun the death design’d.


Meantime, the king, Eumaeus, and the rest,

Sate in the cottage, at their rural feast:

The banquet pass’d, and satiate every man,

To try his host, Ulysses thus began:


“Yet one night more, my friends, indulge your guest;

The last I purpose in your walls to rest:

To-morrow for myself I must provide,

And only ask your counsel, and a guide;

Patient to roam the street, by hunger led,

And bless the friendly hand that gives me bread.

There in Ulysses’ roof I may relate

Ulysses’ wanderings to his royal mate;

Or, mingling with the suitors’ haughty train,

Not undeserving some support obtain.

Hermes to me his various gifts imparts.

Patron of industry and manual arts:

Few can with me in dexterous works contend,

The pyre to build, the stubborn oak to rend;

To turn the tasteful viand o’er the flame;

Or foam the goblet with a purple stream.

Such are the tasks of men of mean estate,

Whom fortune dooms to serve the rich and great.”


“Alas! (Eumaeus with a sigh rejoin’d).

How sprung a thought so monstrous in thy mind?

If on that godless race thou would’st attend,

Fate owes thee sure a miserable end!

Their wrongs and blasphemies ascend the sky,

And pull descending vengeance from on high.

Not such, my friend, the servants of their feast:

A blooming train in rich embroidery dress’d,

With earth’s whole tribute the bright table bends,

And smiling round celestial youth attends.

Stay, then: no eye askance beholds thee here;

Sweet is thy converse to each social ear;

Well pleased, and pleasing, in our cottage rest,

Till good Telemachus accepts his guest

With genial gifts, and change of fair attires,

And safe conveys thee where thy soul desires.”


To him the man of woes; “O gracious Jove!

Reward this stranger’s hospitable love!

Who knows the son of sorrow to relieve,

Cheers the sad heart, nor lets affliction grieve.

Of all the ills unhappy mortals know,