Shall end those hopes, and fate is on the wing!


Then thus Telemachus: “Some god I find

With pleasing frenzy has possess’d my mind;

When a loved mother threatens to depart,

Why with this ill-timed gladness leaps my heart?

Come then, ye suitors! and dispute a prize

Richer than all the Achaian state supplies,

Than all proud Argos, or Mycaena knows,

Than all our isles or continents inclose;

A woman matchless, and almost divine,

Fit for the praise of every tongue but mine.

No more excuses then, no more delay;

Haste to the trial—Lo! I lead the way.


“I too may try, and if this arm can wing

The feather’d arrow through the destined ring,

Then if no happier night the conquest boast,

I shall not sorrow for a mother lost;

But, bless’d in her, possess those arms alone,

Heir of my father’s strength, as well as throne.”


He spoke; then rising, his broad sword unbound,

And cast his purple garment on the ground.

A trench he open’d: in a line he placed.

The level axes, and the points made fast

(His perfect skill the wondering gazers eyed,

The game as yet unseen, as yet untried).

Then, with a manly pace, he took his stand:

And grasp’d the bow, and twang’d it in his hand.

Three times, with beating heart, he made essay:

Three times, unequal to the task, gave way;

A modest boldness on his cheek appear’d:

And thrice he hoped, and thrice again he fear’d.

The fourth had drawn it. The great sire with joy

Beheld, but with a sign forbade the boy.

His ardour straight the obedient prince suppress’d,

And, artful, thus the suitor-train address’d:


“O lay the cause on youth yet immature!

(For heaven forbid such weakness should endure!)

How shall this arm, unequal to the bow,

Retort an insult, or repel a foe?

But you! whom Heaven with better nerves has bless’d,

Accept the trial, and the prize contest.”


He cast the bow before him, and apart

Against the polish’d quiver propp’d the dart.