The Odyssey (Wisehouse Classics Edition). Homer

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      Never on man did heavenly favour shine

      With rays so strong, distinguish’d and divine,

      As those with which Minerva mark’d thy sire)

      So might she love thee, so thy soul inspire!

      Soon should their hopes in humble dust be laid,

      And long oblivion of the bridal bed.”

      “Ah! no such hope (the prince with sighs replies)

      Can touch my breast; that blessing Heaven denies.

      Ev’n by celestial favour were it given,

      Fortune or fate would cross the will of Heaven.”

      “What words are these, and what imprudence thine?

      (Thus interposed the martial maid divine)

      Forgetful youth! but know, the Power above

      With ease can save each object of his love;

      Wide as his will, extends his boundless grace;

      Nor lost in time nor circumscribed by place.

      Happier his lot, who, many sorrows’ pass’d,

      Long labouring gains his natal shore at last;

      Than who, too speedy, hastes to end his life

      By some stern ruffian, or adulterous wife.

      Death only is the lot which none can miss,

      And all is possible to Heaven but this.

      The best, the dearest favourite of the sky,

      Must taste that cup, for man is born to die.”

      Thus check’d, replied Ulysses’ prudent heir:

      “Mentor, no more — the mournful thought forbear;

      For he no more must draw his country’s breath,

      Already snatch’d by fate, and the black doom of death!

      Pass we to other subjects; and engage

      On themes remote the venerable sage

      (Who thrice has seen the perishable kind

      Of men decay, and through three ages shined

      Like gods majestic, and like gods in mind);

      For much he knows, and just conclusions draws,

      From various precedents, and various laws.

      O son of Neleus! awful Nestor, tell

      How he, the mighty Agamemnon, fell;

      By what strange fraud Aegysthus wrought, relate

      (By force he could not) such a hero’s fate?

      Live Menelaus not in Greece? or where

      Was then the martial brother’s pious care?

      Condemn’d perhaps some foreign short to tread;

      Or sure Aegysthus had not dared the deed.”

      To whom the full of days: Illustrious youth,

      Attend (though partly thou hast guess’d) the truth.

      For had the martial Menelaus found

      The ruffian breathing yet on Argive ground;

      Nor earth had bid his carcase from the skies,

      Nor Grecian virgins shriek’d his obsequies,

      But fowls obscene dismember’d his remains,

      And dogs had torn him on the naked plains.

      While us the works of bloody Mars employ’d,

      The wanton youth inglorious peace enjoy’d:

      He stretch’d at ease in Argos’ calm recess

      (Whose stately steeds luxuriant pastures bless),

      With flattery’s insinuating art

      Soothed the frail queen, and poison’d all her heard.

      At first, with the worthy shame and decent pride,

      The royal dame his lawless suit denied.

      For virtue’s image yet possess’d her mind.

      Taught by a master of the tuneful kind;

      Atrides, parting for the Trojan war,

      Consign’d the youthful consort to his care.

      True to his charge, the bard preserved her long

      In honour’s limits; such the power of song.

      But when the gods these objects of their hate

      Dragg’d to the destruction by the links of fate;

      The bard they banish’d from his native soil,

      And left all helpless in a desert isle;

      There he, the sweetest of the sacred train,

      Sung dying to the rocks, but sung in vain.

      Then virtue was no more; her guard away,

      She fell, to lust a voluntary prey.

      Even to the temple stalk’d the adulterous spouse,

      With impious thanks, and mockery of the vows,

      With images, with garments, and with gold;

      And odorous fumes from loaded altars roll’d.

      “Meantime from flaming Troy we cut the way

      With Menelaus, through the curling sea.

      But when to Sunium’s sacred point we came,

      Crown’d with the temple of the Athenian dame;

      Atride’s pilot, Phrontes, there expired

      (Phrontes, of all the songs of men admired

      To steer the bounding bark with steady toil,

      When the storm thickens, and the billows boil);

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