Penelope

Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word,Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment,And halt assurances, canst thou evadeMy heart’s discernment. Think not such a filmHath touched these aged eyes, to make them loseThe subtlest mood of those even now adroop,Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze.Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles!O man of restless yearnings—fate-impelled,Fate-conquering—like a waif thrown back and forthO’er many waters! Oft I see thee standAt eve, a landmark on the outer cliff,Looking far westward; later, when the feastSmokes in the hall, and nimble servants passGreat bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus singsThe deeds of Peleus’ son, thy right hand movesStraight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home;Then, when thou hearest him follow in the songThine own miraculous sojourn of long yearsThrough stormy seas, weird islands, and the landOf giants, and the gray companions smiteTheir shields, and cry, What do we longer here?Afloat! and let the great waves bear us on!I know thou growest weary of the realm,Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame.

I too have had my longings. Am I notPenelope, who, when Ulysses cameTo Sparta, and Icarius bade her chooseBetwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her faceAnd stept upon the galley silver-oared,And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls?Then when the hateful Helen fled to TroyWith Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailedThen ships to Aulis, I would have thee go—Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war.So ten years passed; meanwhile I reared thy sonTo know his father’s wisdom, and, apartAmong my maidens, wove the yellow wool.But then, returning one by one, they came,—The island-princes; high-born dames of CreteAnd Cephalonia saw again their lords;Only Ulysses came not; yet the warWas over, and his vessels, like a troopOf cranes in file, had spread their wings for home.More was unknown. Then many a winter’s nightThe servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar,High on the palace-roof; with mine own handsI fired the heaps, that, haply, far awayOn the dark waters, might my lord take heartAnd know the glory of his kingly towers.

So winter passed; and summer came and went,And winter and another summer; then—Alas, how many weary months and days!But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowestPelasgia’s noblest chiefs, with kingly giftsAnd pledge of dower, gathered in the halls;But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yetThou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien shores.And great Athenè often in my dreamsShone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all,The people rose, swearing a king should rule,To keep their ancient empery of the islesInviolate and thrifty: bade me chooseA mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayedRespite, until the web within my loom,Of gold and purple curiously devisedFor old Laertes’ shroud, should fall completeFrom hands still faithful to his blood. Thou knowestHow like a ghost I left my couch at night,Unravelling the labor of the day,And warded off the fate, till came that timeWhen my lost sea-king thundered in his halls,And with long arrows clove the suitors’ hearts.So constant was I! now not thirty moonsGo by, and thou forgettest all. Alas!What profit is there any more in love?What thankless sequel hath a woman’s faith!

Yet if thou wilt,—in these thy golden years,Safe-housed in royalty, like a god reveredBy all the people,—if thou yearnest yetOnce more to dare the deep and Neptune’s hate,I will not linger in a widowed age;I will not lose Ulysses, hardly foundAfter long vigils; but will cleave aboutThy neck, with more than woman’s prayers and tears,Until thou take me with thee. As I leftMy sire, I leave my son, to follow whereUlysses goeth, dearer for the strengthOf that great heart which ever drives him onTo large experience of newer toils!

Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove,But, like Athenè’s helm, a guiding star,A glory and a comfort! O, be sureMy heart shall take its lesson from thine own!My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oarsIn the night watches; it shall warble songs,Whose music shall o’erpower the luring airsOf Nereïd or Siren. If we findThose isles thou namest, where the golden fountGives youth to all who taste it, we will drinkDeep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow,And I shall walk in beauty, as when firstI saw thee from afar in Sparta’s groves.But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swiftBlack currents bear us down the noisome waveThat leads to Hades, till the vessel sinkIn Stygian waters, none the less our soulsShall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand,Walk from the strand across Elysian fields,’Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say:“There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods,And she, his wife, most faithful unto death!”