So prayed he. All-providing Jupiter Hearkened, and thundered from the clouds around The bright Olympian peaks. Ulysses heard With gladness. From a room within the house, In which the mills of the king’s household stood, A woman, laboring at the quern, gave forth An omen also. There were twelve who toiled In making flour of barley and of wheat— The strength of man. The rest were all asleep; Their tasks were done; one only, of less strength Than any other there, kept toiling on. She paused a moment, stopped the whirling stone, And spake these words—a portent for the king:—
“O Father Jove, the king of gods and men! Thou hast just thundered from the starry heaven, And yet there is no cloud. To someone here It is a portent. O perform for me, All helpless as I am, this one request! Let now the suitors in this palace take Their last and final pleasant feast today— These men who make my limbs, with constant toil, In grinding corn for them, to lose their strength, Once let them banquet here, and then no more.”
She spake; the omen of the woman’s words And Jove’s loud thunder pleased Ulysses well; And now he deemed he should avenge himself Upon the guilty ones. The other maids Of that fair palace of Ulysses woke And came together, and upon the hearth Kindled a steady fire. Telemachus Rose from his bed in presence like a god, Put on his garments, hung his trenchant sword Upon his shoulder, tied to his fair feet The shapely sandals, took his massive spear Tipped with sharp brass, and, stopping as he reached The threshold, spake to Eurycleia thus:—
“Dear nurse, have ye with honor fed and lodged Our guest, or have ye suffered him to find A lodging where he might, without your care? Discerning as she is, my mother pays High honor to the worse among her guests, And sends the nobler man unhonored hence.”
And thus the prudent Eurycleia said: “My child, blame not thy mother; she deserves No blame. The stranger sat and drank his wine, All that he