The Odyssey (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

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      Plant the fair column o’er the vacant grave,

      A hero’s honours let the hero have.

      With decent grief the royal dead deplored,

      For the chaste queen select an equal lord.

      Then let revenge your daring mind employ,

      By fraud or force the suitor train destroy,

      And starting into manhood, scorn the boy.

      Hast thou not heard how young Orestes, fired

      With great revenge, immortal praise acquired?

      His virgin-sword AEgysthus’ veins imbrued;

      The murderer fell, and blood atoned for blood.

      O greatly bless’d with every blooming grace!

      With equal steps the paths of glory trace;

      Join to that royal youth’s your rival name,

      And shine eternal in the sphere of fame.

      But my associates now my stay deplore,

      Impatient on the hoarse-resounding shore.

      Thou, heedful of advice, secure proceed;

      My praise the precept is, be thine the deed.

      “The counsel of my friend (the youth rejoin’d)

      Imprints conviction on my grateful mind.

      So fathers speak (persuasive speech and mild)

      Their sage experience to the favourite child.

      But, since to part, for sweet refection due,

      The genial viands let my train renew;

      And the rich pledge of plighted faith receive,

      Worthy the air of Ithaca to give.”

      “Defer the promised boon (the goddess cries,

      Celestial azure brightening in her eyes),

      And let me now regain the Reithrian port;

      From Temese return’d, your royal court

      I shall revisit, and that pledge receive;

      And gifts, memorial of our friendship, leave.”

      Abrupt, with eagle-speed she cut the sky;

      Instant invisible to mortal eye.

      Then first he recognized the ethereal guest;

      Wonder and joy alternate fire his breast;

      Heroic thoughts, infused, his heart dilate;

      Revolving much his father’s doubtful fate.

      At length, composed, he join’d the suitor-throng;

      Hush’d in attention to the warbled song.

      His tender theme the charming lyrist chose.

      Minerva’s anger, and the dreadful woes

      Which voyaging from Troy the victors bore,

      While storms vindictive intercept the store.

      The shrilling airs the vaulted roof rebounds,

      Reflecting to the queen the silver sounds.

      With grief renew’d the weeping fair descends;

      Their sovereign’s step a virgin train attends:

      A veil, of richest texture wrought, she wears,

      And silent to the joyous hall repairs.

      There from the portal, with her mild command,

      Thus gently checks the minstrel’s tuneful hand:

      “Phemius! let acts of gods, and heroes old,

      What ancient bards in hall and bower have told,

      Attemper’d to the lyre, your voice employ;

      Such the pleased ear will drink with silent joy.

      But, oh! forbear that dear disastrous name,

      To sorrow sacred, and secure of fame;

      My bleeding bosom sickens at the sound,

      And every piercing note inflicts a wound.”

      “Why, dearest object of my duteous love,

      (Replied the prince,) will you the bard reprove?

      Oft, Jove’s ethereal rays (resistless fire)

      The chanters soul and raptured song inspire

      Instinct divine? nor blame severe his choice,

      Warbling the Grecian woes with heart and voice;

      For novel lays attract our ravish’d ears;

      But old, the mind with inattention hears:

      Patient permit the sadly pleasing strain;

      Familiar now with grief, your tears refrain,

      And in the public woe forget your own;

      You weep not for a perish’d lord alone.

      What Greeks new wandering in the Stygian gloom,

      Wish your Ulysses shared an equal doom!

      Your widow’d hours, apart, with female toil

      And various labours of the loom beguile;

      There rule, from palace-cares remote and free;

      That care to man belongs, and most to me.”

      Mature beyond his years, the queen admires

      His sage reply, and with her train retires.

      Then swelling sorrows burst their former bounds,

      With echoing grief afresh the dome resounds;

      Till Pallas, piteous of her plaintive cries,

      In slumber closed her silver-streaming eyes.

      Meantime, rekindled at the royal charms,

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