# The Iliad and Odyssey of Homer (Cowper)/Volume 2/The Odyssey/Book XXIII

The footnotes are present in Cowper's translation.
BOOK XXIII
ARGUMENT
And now, with exultation loud the nurse Again ascended, eager to apprize The Queen of her Ulysses’ safe return; Joy braced her knees, with nimbleness of youth She stepp’d, and at her ear, her thus bespake.  Arise, Penelope! dear daughter, see With thy own eyes thy daily wish fulfill’d. Ulysses is arrived; hath reach’d at last His native home, and all those suitors proud Hath slaughter’d, who his family distress’d, His substance wasted, and controul’d his son.  To whom Penelope discrete replied. Dear nurse! the Gods have surely ta’en away Thy judgment; they transform the wise to fools, And fools conduct to wisdom, and have marr’d Thy intellect, who wast discrete before. Why wilt thou mock me, wretched as I am, With tales extravagant? and why disturb Those slumbers sweet that seal’d so fast mine eyes? For such sweet slumbers have I never known Since my Ulysses on his voyage sail’d To that bad city never to be named. Down instant to thy place again—begone— For had another of my maidens dared Disturb my sleep with tidings wild as these, I had dismiss’d her down into the house More roughly; but thine age excuses thee.  To whom the venerable matron thus. I mock thee not, my child; no—he is come— Himself, Ulysses, even as I say, That stranger, object of the scorn of all. Telemachus well knew his sire arrived, But prudently conceal’d the tidings, so To insure the more the suitors’ punishment.  So Euryclea she transported heard, And springing from the bed, wrapp’d in her arms The ancient woman shedding tears of joy, And in wing’d accents ardent thus replied.  Ah then, dear nurse inform me! tell me true! Hath he indeed arriv’d as thou declar’st? How dared he to assail alone that band Of shameless ones, for ever swarming here?  Then Euryclea, thus, matron belov’d. I nothing saw or knew; but only heard Groans of the wounded; in th’ interior house We trembling sat, and ev’ry door was fast. Thus all remain’d till by his father sent, Thy own son call’d me forth. Going, I found Ulysses compass’d by the slaughter’d dead. They cover’d wide the pavement, heaps on heaps. It would have cheer’d thy heart to have beheld Thy husband lion-like with crimson stains Of slaughter and of dust all dappled o’er; Heap’d in the portal, at this moment, lie Their bodies, and he fumigates, meantime, The house with sulphur and with flames of fire, And hath, himself, sent me to bid thee down. Follow me, then, that ye may give your hearts To gladness, both, for ye have much endured; But the event, so long your soul’s desire, Is come; himself hath to his household Gods Alive return’d, thee and his son he finds Unharm’d and at your home, nor hath he left Unpunish’d one of all his enemies.  Her answer’d, then, Penelope discrete. Ah dearest nurse! indulge not to excess This dang’rous triumph. Thou art well apprized How welcome his appearance here would prove To all, but chief, to me, and to his son, Fruit of our love. But these things are not so; Some God, resentful of their evil deeds, And of their biting contumely severe, Hath slain those proud; for whether noble guest Arrived or base, alike they scoff’d at all, And for their wickedness have therefore died. But my Ulysses distant far, I know, From Greece hath perish’d, and returns no more.  To whom thus Euryclea, nurse belov’d. What word my daughter had escaped thy lips, Who thus affirm’st thy husband, now within And at his own hearth-side, for ever lost? Canst thou be thus incredulous? Hear again— I give thee yet proof past dispute, his scar Imprinted by a wild-boar’s iv’ry tusk. Laving him I remark’d it, and desired, Myself, to tell thee, but he, ever-wise, Compressing with both hands my lips, forbad. Come, follow me. My life shall be the pledge. If I deceive thee, kill me as thou wilt.  To whom Penelope, discrete, replied. Ah, dearest nurse, sagacious as thou art, Thou little know’st to scan the counsels wise Of the eternal Gods. But let us seek My son, however, that I may behold The suitors dead, and him by whom they died.  So saying, she left her chamber, musing much In her descent, whether to interrogate Her Lord apart, or whether to imprint, At once, his hands with kisses and his brows. O’erpassing light the portal-step of stone She enter’d. He sat opposite, illumed By the hearth’s sprightly blaze, and close before A pillar of the dome, waiting with eyes Downcast, till viewing him, his noble spouse Should speak to him; but she sat silent long, Her faculties in mute amazement held. By turns she riveted her eyes on his, And, seeing him so foul attired, by turns She recognized him not; then spake her son Telemachus, and her silence thus reprov’d.  My mother! ah my hapless and my most Obdurate mother! wherefore thus aloof Shunn’st thou my father, neither at his side Sitting affectionate, nor utt’ring word? Another wife lives not who could endure Such distance from her husband new-return’d To his own country in the twentieth year, After much hardship; but thy heart is still As ever, less impressible than stone,  To whom Penelope, discrete, replied. I am all wonder, O my son; my soul Is stunn’d within me; pow’r to speak to him Or to interrogate him have I none, Or ev’n to look on him; but if indeed He be Ulysses, and have reach’d his home, I shall believe it soon, by proof convinced Of signs known only to himself and me.  She said; then smiled the Hero toil-inured, And in wing’d accents thus spake to his son.  Leave thou, Telemachus, thy mother here To sift and prove me; she will know me soon More certainly; she sees me ill-attired And squalid now; therefore she shews me scorn, And no belief hath yet that I am he. But we have need, thou and myself, of deep Deliberation. If a man have slain One only citizen, who leaves behind Few interested to avenge his death, Yet, flying, he forsakes both friends and home; But we have slain the noblest Princes far Of Ithaca, on whom our city most Depended; therefore, I advise thee, think!  Him, prudent, then answer’d Telemachus.  Be that thy care, my father! for report Proclaims thee shrewdest of mankind, with whom In ingenuity may none compare. Lead thou; to follow thee shall be our part With prompt alacrity; nor shall, I judge, Courage be wanting to our utmost force.  Thus then replied Ulysses, ever-wise. To me the safest counsel and the best Seems this. First wash yourselves, and put ye on Your tunics; bid ye, next, the maidens take Their best attire, and let the bard divine Harping melodious play a sportive dance, That, whether passenger or neighbour near, All may imagine nuptials held within. So shall not loud report that we have slain All those, alarm the city, till we gain Our woods and fields, where, once arriv’d, such plans We will devise, as Jove shall deign to inspire.  He spake, and all, obedient, in the bath First laved themselves, then put their tunics on; The damsels also dress’d, and the sweet bard, Harping melodious, kindled strong desire In all, of jocund song and graceful dance. The palace under all its vaulted roof Remurmur’d to the feet of sportive youths And cinctured maidens, while no few abroad, Hearing such revelry within, remark’d—  The Queen with many wooers, weds at last. Ah fickle and unworthy fair! too frail Always to keep inviolate the house Of her first Lord, and wait for his return.  So spake the people; but they little knew What had befall’n. Eurynome, meantime, With bath and unction serv’d the illustrious Chief Ulysses, and he saw himself attired Royally once again in his own house. Then, Pallas over all his features shed Superior beauty, dignified his form With added amplitude, and pour’d his curls Like hyacinthine flow’rs down from his brows. As when some artist by Minerva made And Vulcan, wise to execute all tasks Ingenious, borders silver with a wreath Of gold, accomplishing a graceful work, Such grace the Goddess o’er his ample chest Copious diffused, and o’er his manly brows. He, godlike, stepping from the bath, resumed His former seat magnificent, and sat Opposite to the Queen, to whom he said.  Penelope! the Gods to thee have giv’n Of all thy sex, the most obdurate heart. Another wife lives not who could endure Such distance from her husband new-return’d To his own country in the twentieth year, After such hardship. But prepare me, nurse, A bed, for solitary I must sleep, Since she is iron, and feels not for me.  Him answer’d then prudent Penelope. I neither magnify thee, sir! nor yet Depreciate thee, nor is my wonder such As hurries me at once into thy arms, Though my remembrance perfectly retains, Such as he was, Ulysses, when he sail’d On board his bark from Ithaca—Go, nurse, Prepare his bed, but not within the walls Of his own chamber built with his own bands. Spread it without, and spread it well with warm Mantles, with fleeces, and with richest rugs.  So spake she, proving him, and not untouch’d With anger at that word, thus he replied.  Penelope, that order grates my ear. Who hath displaced my bed? The task were hard E’en to an artist; other than a God None might with ease remove it; as for man, It might defy the stoutest in his prime Of youth, to heave it to a different spot. For in that bed elaborate, a sign, A special sign consists; I was myself The artificer; I fashion’d it alone. Within the court a leafy olive grew Lofty, luxuriant, pillar-like in girth. Around this tree I built, with massy stones Cemented close, my chamber, roof’d it o’er, And hung the glutinated portals on. I lopp’d the ample foliage and the boughs, And sev’ring near the root its solid bole, Smooth’d all the rugged stump with skilful hand, And wrought it to a pedestal well squared And modell’d by the line. I wimbled, next, The frame throughout, and from the olive-stump Beginning, fashion’d the whole bed above Till all was finish’d, plated o’er with gold, With silver, and with ivory, and beneath Close interlaced with purple cordage strong. Such sign I give thee. But if still it stand Unmoved, or if some other, sev’ring sheer The olive from its bottom, have displaced My bed—that matter is best known to thee.  He ceas’d; she, conscious of the sign so plain Giv’n by Ulysses, heard with flutt’ring heart And fault’ring knees that proof. Weeping she ran Direct toward him, threw her arms around The Hero, kiss’d his forehead, and replied.  Ah my Ulysses! pardon me—frown not— Thou, who at other times hast ever shewn Superior wisdom! all our griefs have flow’d From the Gods’ will; they envied us the bliss Of undivided union sweet enjoy’d Through life, from early youth to latest age. No. Be not angry now; pardon the fault That I embraced thee not as soon as seen, For horror hath not ceased to overwhelm My soul, lest some false alien should, perchance, Beguile me, for our house draws num’rous such. Jove’s daughter, Argive Helen, ne’er had given Free entertainment to a stranger’s love, Had she foreknown that the heroic sons Of Greece would bring her to her home again. But heav’n incited her to that offence, Who never, else, had even in her thought Harbour’d the foul enormity, from which Originated even our distress. But now, since evident thou hast described Our bed, which never mortal yet beheld, Ourselves except and Actoris my own Attendant, giv’n me when I left my home By good Icarius, and who kept the door, Though hard to be convinced, at last I yield.  So saying, she awaken’d in his soul Pity and grief; and folding in his arms His blameless consort beautiful, he wept. Welcome as land appears to those who swim, Whose gallant bark Neptune with rolling waves And stormy winds hath sunk in the wide sea, A mariner or two, perchance, escape The foamy flood, and, swimming, reach the land, Weary indeed, and with incrusted brine All rough, but oh, how glad to climb the coast! So welcome in her eyes Ulysses seem’d, Around whose neck winding her snowy arms, She clung as she would loose him never more. Thus had they wept till rosy-finger’d morn Had found them weeping, but Minerva check’d Night’s almost finish’d course, and held, meantime, The golden dawn close pris’ner in the Deep, Forbidding her to lead her coursers forth, Lampus and Phaëton that furnish light To all the earth, and join them to the yoke. Then thus, Ulysses to Penelope.  My love; we have not yet attain’d the close Of all our sufferings, but unmeasured toil Arduous remains, which I must still atchieve. For so the spirit of the Theban seer Inform’d me, on that day, when to enquire Of mine and of my people’s safe return I journey’d down to Pluto’s drear abode. But let us hence to bed, there to enjoy Tranquil repose. My love, make no delay.  Him answer’d then prudent Penelope. Thou shalt to bed at whatsoever time Thy soul desires, since the immortal Gods Give thee to me and to thy home again. But, thou hast spoken from the seer of Thebes Of arduous toils yet unperform’d; declare What toils? Thou wilt disclose them, as I judge, Hereafter, and why not disclose them now?  To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied. Ah conversant with woe! why would’st thou learn That tale? but I will tell it thee at large. Thou wilt not hear with joy, nor shall myself With joy rehearse it; for he bade me seek City after city, bearing, as I go, A shapely oar, till I shall find, at length, A people who the sea know not, nor eat Food salted; they trim galley crimson-prow’d Have ne’er beheld, nor yet smooth-shaven oar With which the vessel wing’d scuds o’er the waves. He gave me also this authentic sign, Which I will tell thee. In what place soe’er I chance to meet a trav’ler who shall name The oar on my broad shoulder borne, a van; He bade me, planting it on the same spot, Worship the King of Ocean with a bull, A ram, and a lascivious boar, then seek My home again, and sacrifice at home An hecatomb to the immortal Gods Inhabitants of the expanse above. So shall I die, at length, the gentlest death Remote from Ocean; it shall find me late, In soft serenity of age, the Chief Of a blest people.—Thus he prophesied.  Him answer’d then Penelope discrete. If heav’n appoint thee in old age a lot More tranquil, hope thence springs of thy escape Some future day from all thy threaten’d woes.  Such was their mutual conf’rence sweet; meantime Eurynome and Euryclea dress’d Their bed by light of the clear torch, and when Dispatchful they had spread it broad and deep, The ancient nurse to her own bed retired. Then came Eurynome, to whom in trust The chambers appertain’d, and with a torch Conducted them to rest; she introduced The happy pair, and went; transported they To rites connubial intermitted long, And now recover’d, gave themselves again. Meantime, the Prince, the herdsman, and the good Eumæus, giving rest each to his feet, Ceased from the dance; they made the women cease Also, and to their sev’ral chambers all Within the twilight edifice repair’d.  At length, with conjugal endearment both Satiate, Ulysses tasted and his spouse The sweets of mutual converse. She rehearsed, Noblest of women, all her num’rous woes Beneath that roof sustain’d, while she beheld The profligacy of the suitor-throng, Who in their wooing had consumed his herds And fatted flocks, and drawn his vessels dry; While brave Ulysses, in his turn, to her Related his successes and escapes, And his afflictions also; he told her all; She listen’d charm’d, nor slumber on his eyes Fell once, or ere he had rehearsed the whole. Beginning, he discoursed, how, at the first He conquer’d in Ciconia, and thence reach’d The fruitful shores of the Lotophagi; The Cyclops’ deeds he told her next, and how He well avenged on him his slaughter’d friends Whom, pitiless, the monster had devour’d. How to the isle of Æolus he came, Who welcom’d him and safe dismiss’d him thence, Although not destin’d to regain so soon His native land; for o’er the fishy deep Loud tempests snatch’d him sighing back again. How, also at Telepylus he arrived, Town of the Læstrygonians, who destroyed His ships with all their mariners, his own Except, who in his sable bark escaped. Of guileful Circe too he spake, deep-skill’d In various artifice, and how he reach’d With sails and oars the squalid realms of death, Desirous to consult the prophet there Theban Tiresias, and how there he view’d All his companions, and the mother bland Who bare him, nourisher of his infant years. How, next he heard the Sirens in one strain All chiming sweet, and how he reach’d the rocks Erratic, Scylla and Charybdis dire, Which none secure from injury may pass. Then, how the partners of his voyage slew The Sun’s own beeves, and how the Thund’rer Jove Hurl’d down his smoky bolts into his bark, Depriving him at once of all his crew, Whose dreadful fate he yet, himself, escaped. How to Ogygia’s isle he came, where dwelt The nymph Calypso, who, enamour’d, wish’d To espouse him, and within her spacious grot Detain’d, and fed, and promis’d him a life Exempt for ever from the sap of age, But him moved not. How, also, he arrived After much toil, on the Phæacian coast, Where ev’ry heart revered him as a God, And whence, enriching him with brass and gold, And costly raiment first, they sent him home. At this last word, oblivious slumber sweet Fell on him, dissipating all his cares.  Meantime, Minerva, Goddess azure-eyed, On other thoughts intent, soon as she deem’d Ulysses with connubial joys sufficed, And with sweet sleep, at once from Ocean rous’d The golden-axled chariot of the morn To illumine earth. Then from his fleecy couch The Hero sprang, and thus his spouse enjoined.  Oh consort dear! already we have striv’n Against our lot, till wearied with the toil, My painful absence, thou with ceaseless tears Deploring, and myself in deep distress Withheld reluctant from my native shores By Jove and by the other pow’rs of heav’n. But since we have in this delightful bed Met once again, watch thou and keep secure All my domestic treasures, and ere long I will replace my num’rous sheep destroy’d By those imperious suitors, and the Greeks Shall add yet others till my folds be fill’d. But to the woodlands go I now—to see My noble father, who for my sake mourns Continual; as for thee, my love, although I know thee wise, I give thee thus in charge. The sun no sooner shall ascend, than fame Shall wide divulge the deed that I have done, Slaying the suitors under my own roof. Thou, therefore, with thy maidens, sit retired In thy own chamber at the palace-top, Nor question ask, nor, curious, look abroad.  He said, and cov’ring with his radiant arms His shoulders, called Telemachus; he roused Eumæus and the herdsman too, and bade All take their martial weapons in their hand. Not disobedient they, as he enjoin’d, Put armour on, and issued from the gates Ulysses at their head. The earth was now Enlighten’d, but Minerva them in haste Led forth into the fields, unseen by all.
* ↑ The proof consisted in this—that the bed being attached to the stump of an olive tree still rooted, was immovable, and Ulysses having made it himself, no person present, he must needs be apprized of the impossibility of her orders, if he were indeed Ulysses; accordingly, this demonstration of his identity satisfies all her scruples.
* ↑ See the note on the same passage, Book XI.
* ↑ Aristophanes the grammarian and Aristarchus chose that the Odyssey should end here; but the story is not properly concluded till the tumult occasioned by the slaughter of so many Princes being composed, Ulysses finds himself once more in peaceful possession of his country.