To whom, while anger in his bosom glows,
With warmth replies the man of mighty woes: 
“Since audience mild is deign’d, permit my tongue
At once to pity and resent thy wrong. 
My heart weeps blood to see a soul so brave
Live to base insolence or power a slave,
But tell me, dost thou, prince, dost thou behold,
And hear their midnight revels uncontroll’d? 
Say, do thy subjects in bold faction rise,
Or priests in fabled oracles advise? 
Or are thy brothers, who should aid thy power,
Turn’d mean deserters in the needful hour? 
Oh that I were from great Ulysses sprung,
Or that these wither’d nerves like thine were strung,
Or, heavens! might he return! (and soon appear
He shall, I trust; a hero scorns despair:)
Might he return, I yield my life a prey
To my worst foe, if that avenging day
Be not their last:  but should I lose my life,
Oppress’d by numbers in the glorious strife,
I chose the nobler part, and yield my breath,
Rather than bear dishonor, worse than death;
Than see the hand of violence invade
The reverend stranger and the spotless maid;
Than see the wealth of kings consumed in waste,
The drunkard’s revel, and the gluttons’ feast.”

Thus he, with anger flashing from his eye;
Sincere the youthful hero made reply: 
“Nor leagued in factious arms my subjects rise,
Nor priests in fabled oracles advise;
Nor are my brothers, who should aid my power,
Turn’d mean deserters in the needful hour. 
Ah me!  I boast no brother; heaven’s dread King
Gives from our stock an only branch to spring: 
Alone Laertes reign’d Arcesius’ heir,
Alone Ulysses drew the vital air,
And I alone the bed connubial graced,
An unbless’d offspring of a sire unbless’d! 
Each neighbouring realm, conducive to our woe,
Sends forth her peers, and every peer a foe: 
The court proud Samos and Dulichium fills,
And lofty Zacinth crown’d with shady hills. 
E’en Ithaca and all her lords invade
The imperial sceptre, and the regal bed: 
The queen, averse to love, yet awed by power,
Seems half to yield, yet flies the bridal hour: 
Meantime their licence uncontroll’d I bear;
E’en now they envy me the vital air: 
But Heaven will sure revenge, and gods there are.

“But go Eumaeus! to the queen impart
Our safe return, and ease a mother’s heart. 
Yet secret go; for numerous are my foes,
And here at least I may in peace repose.”

To whom the swain:  “I hear and I obey: 
But old Laertes weeps his life away,
And deems thee lost:  shall I speed employ
To bless his age:  a messenger of joy? 
The mournful hour that tore his son away
Sent the sad sire in solitude to stray;
Yet busied with his slaves, to ease his woe,
He dress’d the vine, and bade the garden blow,
Nor food nor wine refused; but since the day
That you to Pylos plough’d the watery way,
Nor wine nor food he tastes; but, sunk in woes,
Wild springs the vine, no more the garden blows,
Shut from the walks of men, to pleasure lost,
Pensive and pale he wanders half a ghost.”