“Still in the dark abodes of death I stood,
When near Anticlea moved, and drank the blood. 
Straight all the mother in her soul awakes,
And, owning her Ulysses, thus she speaks;
’Comest thou, my son, alive, to realms beneath,
The dolesome realms of darkness and of death! 
Comest thou alive from pure, ethereal day? 
Dire is the region, dismal is the way! 
Here lakes profound, there floods oppose their waves,
There the wide sea with all his billows raves! 
Or (since to dust proud Troy submits her towers)
Comest thou a wanderer from the Phrygian shores? 
Or say, since honour call’d thee to the field,
Hast thou thy Ithaca, thy bride, beheld?’

“‘Source of my life,’ I cried, ’from earth I fly
To seek Tiresias in the nether sky,
To learn my doom; for, toss’d from woe to woe,
In every land Ulysses finds a foe: 
Nor have these eyes beheld my native shores,
Since in the dust proud Troy submits her towers.

“’But, when thy soul from her sweet mansion fled,
Say, what distemper gave thee to the dead? 
Has life’s fair lamp declined by slow decays,
Or swift expired it in a sudden blaze? 
Say, if my sire, good old Laertes, lives? 
If yet Telemachus, my son, survives? 
Say, by his rule is my dominion awed,
Or crush’d by traitors with an iron rod? 
Say, if my spouse maintains her royal trust;
Though tempted, chaste, and obstinately just? 
Or if no more her absent lord she wails,
But the false woman o’er the wife prevails?’

“Thus I, and thus the parent-shade returns: 
’Thee, ever thee, thy faithful consort mourns: 
Whether the night descends or day prevails,
Thee she by night, and thee by day bewails. 
Thee in Telemachus thy realm obeys;
In sacred groves celestial rites he pays,
And shares the banquet in superior state,
Graced with such honours as become the great
Thy sire in solitude foments his care: 
The court is joyless, for thou art not there! 
No costly carpets raise his hoary head,
No rich embroidery shines to grace his bed;
Even when keen winter freezes in the skies,
Rank’d with his slaves, on earth the monarch lies: 
Deep are his sighs, his visage pale, his dress
The garb of woe and habit of distress. 
And when the autumn takes his annual round,
The leafy honours scattering on the ground,
Regardless of his years, abroad he lies,
His bed the leaves, his canopy the skies. 
Thus cares on cares his painful days consume,
And bow his age with sorrow to the tomb!

“’For thee, my son, I wept my life away;
For thee through hell’s eternal dungeons stray: 
Nor came my fate by lingering pains and slow,
Nor bent the silver-shafted queen her bow;
No dire disease bereaved me of my breath;
Thou, thou, my son, wert my disease and death;
Unkindly with my love my son conspired,
For thee I lived, for absent thee expired.’