as thou art, Art thou in fact Ulysses’ son? In face And glorious eyes thou dost resemble him Exceedingly; for he and I of yore Were oftentimes companions, ere he sailed For Ilium, whither also went the best Among the Argives in their roomy ships, Nor have we seen each other since that day.”
Telemachus, the prudent, spake: “O guest, True answer shalt thou have. My mother says I am his son; I know not; never man Knew his own father. Would I were the son Of one whose happier lot it was to meet Amidst his own estates the approach of age. Now the most wretched of the sons of men Is he to whom they say I owe my birth. Thus is thy question answered.” Then again Spake blue-eyed Pallas: “Of a truth, the gods Ordain not that thy race, in years to come, Should be inglorious, since Penelope Hath borne thee such as I behold thee now. But frankly answer me—what feast is here, And what is this assembly? What may be The occasion? is a banquet given? is this A wedding? A collation, where the guests Furnish the meats, I think it cannot be, So riotously goes the revel on Throughout the palace. A well-judging man, If he should come among them, would be moved With anger at the shameful things they do.”