therefore have they drawn Upon themselves an evil fate. But I, Who have done nothing—I their soothsayer— Must I too die? Then is there no reward Among the sons of men for worthy deeds.”
Ulysses, the sagacious, frowned and said:
“If then, in truth, thou wert as thou dost boast, A soothsayer among these men, thy prayer Within these palace-walls must oft have been That far from me might be the blessed day Of my return, and that my wife might take With thee her lot, and bring forth sons to thee, And therefore shalt thou not escape from death.”
He spake, and seizing with his powerful hand A falchion lying near, which from the grasp Of Agelaüs fell when he was slain, Just at the middle of the neck he smote Leiodes, while the words were on his lips, And the head fell, and lay amid the dust.
Phemius, the son of Terpius, skilled in song, Alone escaped the bitter doom of death. He by constraint had sung among the train Of suitors, and was standing now beside The postern door, and held his sweet-toned lyre, And pondered whether he should leave the hall, And sit before the altar of the great Herceian Jove, where, with Laertes, once Ulysses oft had burned the thighs of beeves, Or whether he should fling himself before Ulysses, as a suppliant, at his knees. This to his thought seemed wisest—to approach Laertes’ son, and clasp his knees. He placed His sweet harp on the floor, between the cup And silver-studded seat, and went and clasped The hero’s knees, and said in winged words:—
“I come, Ulysses, to thy knees. Respect And spare me. It will be a grief to thee, Hereafter, shouldst thou slay a bard, who sings For gods and men alike. I taught myself This art; some god has breathed into my mind Songs of all kinds, and I could sing to thee As to a god. O, seek not then to take My life! Thy own dear son Telemachus Will bear me witness that