Constant as Jove the night and day bestows,

Bleeds a whole hecatomb, a vintage flows.

None match’d this hero’s wealth, of all who reign

O’er the fair islands of the neighbouring main.

Nor all the monarchs whose far-dreaded sway

The wide-extended continents obey:

First, on the main land, of Ulysses’ breed

Twelve herds, twelve flocks, on ocean’s margin feed;

As many stalls for shaggy goats are rear’d;

As many lodgments for the tusky herd;

Two foreign keepers guard: and here are seen

Twelve herds of goats that graze our utmost green;

To native pastors is their charge assign’d,

And mine the care to feed the bristly kind;

Each day the fattest bleeds of either herd,

All to the suitors’ wasteful board preferr’d.”

Thus he, benevolent: his unknown guest

With hunger keen devours the savoury feast;

While schemes of vengeance ripen in his breast.

Silent and thoughtful while the board he eyed,

Eumaeus pours on high the purple tide;

The king with smiling looks his joy express’d,

And thus the kind inviting host address’d:


“Say now, what man is he, the man deplored,

So rich, so potent, whom you style your lord?

Late with such affluence and possessions bless’d,

And now in honour’s glorious bed at rest.

Whoever was the warrior, he must be

To fame no stranger, nor perhaps to me:

Who (so the gods and so the Fates ordain’d)

Have wander’d many a sea, and many a land.”


“Small is the faith the prince and queen ascribe

(Replied Eumaeus) to the wandering tribe.

For needy strangers still to flattery fly,

And want too oft betrays the tongue to lie.

Each vagrant traveller, that touches here,

Deludes with fallacies the royal ear,

To dear remembrance makes his image rise,

And calls the springing sorrows from her eyes.

Such thou mayst be. But he whose name you crave

Moulders in earth, or welters on the wave,

Or food for fish or dogs his relics lie,

Or torn by birds are scatter’d through the sky.