Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ODYSSEY: BOOK 16. TELLEMACHUS FINDS HIS FATHER, by HOMER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ODYSSEY: BOOK 16. TELLEMACHUS FINDS HIS FATHER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: He said, and urged him forth, who binding on
Last Line: Of tenderest grief.
Subject(s): Mythology - Classical


HE said, and urged him forth, who binding on
His sandals, to the city bent his way.
Nor went Eumaeus from his home unmark'd
By Pallas, who in semblance of a fair
Damsel, accomplish'd in domestic arts,
Approaching to the cottage entrance, stood
Opposite, by Ulysses plain discern'd,
But to his son invisible; for the Gods
Appear not manifest alike to all.
The mastiffs saw her also, and with tone
Querulous hid themselves, yet bark'd they not.
She beckon'd him abroad. Ulysses saw
The sign, and issuing through the outer court,
Approach'd her, whom the Goddess thus bespake:
'Laertes' progeny, for wiles renown'd!
Disclose thyself to thy own son, that, death
Concerting and destruction to your foes,
Ye may the royal city seek, nor long
Shall ye my presence there desire in vain,
For I am ardent to begin the fight.'
Minerva spake, and with her rod of gold
Touch'd him; his mantle, first, and vest she made
Pure as new-blanch'd; dilating, next, his form,
She gave dimensions ampler to his limbs;
Swarthy again his manly hue became,
Round his full face, and black his bushy chin.
The change perform'd, Minerva disappear'd,
And the illustrious Hero turn'd again
Into the cottage; wonder at that sight
Seiz'd on Telemachus, askance he look'd,
Awe-struck, not unsuspicious of a God,
And in wing'd accents eager thus began:
'Thou art no longer, whom I lately saw,
Nor are thy cloaths, nor is thy port the same.
Thou art a God, I know, and dwell'st in heav'n.
Oh, smile on us, that we may yield thee rites
Acceptable, and present thee golden gifts
Elaborate; ah, spare us, Pow'r divine!'
To whom Ulysses, Hero toil-inured:
'I am no God. Why deem'st thou me divine?
I am thy father, for whose sake thou lead'st
A life of woe, by violence oppress'd.'
So saying, he kiss'd his son, while from his cheeks
Tears trickled, tears till then perforce restrained.
Telemachus (for he believed him not
His father yet) thus, wond'ring, spake again:
'My father, said'st thou? no. Thou art not He,
But some divinity beguiles my soul
With mockeries, to afflict me still the more;
For never mortal man could have so wrought
By his own pow'r; some interposing God
Alone could render thee both young and old,
For old thou wast of late, and foully clad,
But wear'st the semblance, now, of those in heav'n!
To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied:
'Telemachus! it is not well, my son!
That thou should'st greet thy father with a face
Of wild astonishment, and stand aghast.
Ulysses, save myself, none comes, be sure.
Such as thou seest, after ten thousand woes
Which I have borne, I visit once again
My native country in the twentieth year.
This wonder Athenaean Pallas wrought,
She cloathed me even with what form she would,
For so she can. Now poor I seem and old,
Now young again, and clad in fresh attire.
The Gods who dwell in yonder heav'n, with ease
Dignify or debase a mortal man.'
So saying, he sat. Then threw Telemachus
His arms around his father's neck, and wept.
Desire intense of lamentation seized
On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged
His grief, more frequent wailing than the bird,
(Eagle or hook-nail'd vulture) from whose nest
Some swain hath stol'n her yet unfeather'd young.
So from their eyelids they big drops distill'd
Of tenderest grief.





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