“Stranger, art thou still here, the palace pest, And begging still, and wilt thou ne’er depart? We shall not end this quarrel, I perceive, Till thou hast tried the flavor of my fist. It is not decent to be begging here Continually; the Greeks have other feasts.”
He spake; Ulysses answered not, but shook His head in silence, planning fearful things.
Philoetius now, a master-herdsman, came, And for the banquet of the suitors led A heifer that had never yeaned, and goats The fatlings of the flock; they came across The ferry, brought by those whose office is To bear whoever comes from shore to shore. He bound his animals in the sounding porch, And went and, standing by the swineherd, said:—
“Who, swineherd, is the stranger newly come To this our palace? of what parents born, And of what race, and where his native land? Unhappy seemingly, yet like a king In person. Sorrowful must be the lot Of men who wander to and fro on earth, When even to kings the gods appoint distress.”
He spake, and, greeting with his offered hand Ulysses, said in winged words aloud:—
“Stranger and father, hail! and mayst thou yet Be happy in the years to come at least, Though held in thrall by many sorrows now. Yet thou, All-father Jove! art most austere Of all the gods, not sparing even those Who have their birth from thee, but bringing them To grief and pain. The sweat is on my brow When I behold this stranger, and my eyes Are filled with tears when to my mind comes back The image of Ulysses, who must now, I think, be wandering, clothed in rags like thee, Among the