Agamemnon, that his fame Might never die. When this was done I sailed For home; the gods bestowed a favoring wind. But now remain thou till the eleventh day, Or till the twelfth, beneath my roof, and then Will I dismiss thee with munificent gifts— Three steeds, a polished chariot, and a cup Of price, with which to pour, from day to day, Wine to the gods in memory of me.”
Then spake discreet Telemachus again:— “Atrides, seek not to detain me long, Though I could sit contentedly a year Beside thee, never longing for my home, Nor for my parents, such delight I find In listening to thy words; but even now, In hallowed Pylos, my companions grow Weary, while thou delayest my return. The gifts—whate’er thou choosest to bestow— Let them be such as I can treasure up. The steeds to Ithaca I may not take, I leave them to adorn thy retinue; For thou art ruler o’er a realm of plains, Where grows much lotus, and sweet grasses spring, And wheat and rye, and the luxuriant stalks Of the white barley. But in Ithaca Are no broad grounds for coursing, meadows none. Goats graze amid its fields, a fairer land Than those where horses feed. No isle that lies Within the deep has either roads for steeds Or meadows, least of all has Ithaca.”