Happy Telemachus then art thou, Ithaca’s true-born lord: Rejoice and welcome him now Safe to his home restored. Shout—O well is thee! The gods in worship and joy, pray we, —And high desert uplifts the prayer— Grant thee here in plenty the good thou meritest, Nor to fall in a like snare 1461 With him from whom thou inheritest, Ulysses, Laertes’ son.
Twenty are the years gone Since in another’s strife, To win a faithless wife He vexed the true, his own. For her new-married he left and his newborn boy, His true-born prince to manhood now upgrown, To fight at fateful Troy. 1470 In front of the strife Fought he, and fell not there, nor lies entombed By mighty Achilles’ side; Nor yet returned he home, but wandering wide To alien death was doomed.
Weep for him, ye that around his board Sit in the bright fire-shine: No more shall Ithaca’s lord Stretch his hand to the wine. Sing a mournful strain! 1480 Alas, he counteth not loss nor gain; His wife is wooed, and he makes no sign; Thralls go here and there, but another beckoneth. For the dead hath no desire, He knoweth nothing, nor reckoneth; He is cold, and feels not the fire.
_Enter suddenly Penelope_ (_with some six maids attendant_).
_Ul._ (_aside_). I see the beacon of my life undimmed.
Hush ye these mournful strains!—’tis music’s skill To comfort and wean sorrow’s heart away With beautiful distractions from its woe: 1490 Not to be plunged therein, and chafe remembrance With added echoes. Oh, I have wept enough. Would you my life should faster waste in grief, That ye must widen more its aching channels With melancholy dirges? These are fit For souls at ease; ay, such as ye, my lords, Who feel no thorns prick you, may love to drink The soft compunctious mimicries of woe. But me with all your pleasures still ye vex, In mine own house, forgetful of my wounds. 1500 —And thou, whom servest thou, Phemius, that thy mistress Thou disobeyest?
_Tel._ ’Twas at my command. Forgive me, mother.
_Pen._ Thou wert used, I think, To know me better, son.
_Tel._ If thou art come To take the presents which thy wooers bring, See where they lie.
_Pen._ My lords, the prince hath shewn me These gifts: they are well my due, and some amends For your continual spending, which to grudge 1510 Were unbecoming, were this house my own.