He thus:  nor insolent of word alone,
Spurn’d with his rustic heel his king unknown;
Spurn’d, but not moved:  he like a pillar stood,
Nor stirr’d an inch, contemptuous, from the road: 
Doubtful, or with his staff to strike him dead,
Or greet the pavement with his worthless head. 
Short was that doubt; to quell his rage inured,
The hero stood self-conquer’d, and endured. 
But hateful of the wretch, Eumaeus heaved
His hands obtesting, and this prayer conceived: 
“Daughters of Jove! who from the ethereal bowers
Descend to swell the springs, and feed the flowers! 
Nymphs of this fountain! to whose sacred names
Our rural victims mount in blazing flames! 
To whom Ulysses’ piety preferr’d
The yearly firstlings of his flock and herd;
Succeed my wish, your votary restore: 
Oh, be some god his convoy to our shore! 
Due pains shall punish then this slave’s offence,
And humble all his airs of insolence,
Who, proudly stalking, leaves the herds at large,
Commences courtier, and neglects his charge.”

“What mutters he? (Melanthius sharp rejoins;)
This crafty miscreant, big with dark designs? 
The day shall come—­nay, ’tis already near—­
When, slave! to sell thee at a price too dear
Must be my care; and hence transport thee o’er,
A load and scandal to this happy shore. 
Oh! that as surely great Apollo’s dart,
Or some brave suitor’s sword, might pierce the heart
Of the proud son; as that we stand this hour
In lasting safety from the father’s power!”

So spoke the wretch, but, shunning farther fray,
Turn’d his proud step, and left them on their way. 
Straight to the feastful palace he repair’d,
Familiar enter’d, and the banquet shared;
Beneath Eurymachus, his patron lord,
He took his place, and plenty heap’d the board.

Meantime they heard, soft circling in the sky
Sweet airs ascend, and heavenly minstrelsy
(For Phemius to the lyre attuned the strain): 
Ulysses hearken’d, then address’d the swain: 

“Well may this palace admiration claim,
Great and respondent to the master’s fame! 
Stage above stage the imperial structure stands,
Holds the chief honours, and the town commands: 
High walls and battlements the courts inclose,
And the strong gates defy a host of foes. 
Far other cares its dwellers now employ;
The throng’d assembly and the feast of joy: 
I see the smokes of sacrifice aspire,
And hear (what graces every feast) the lyre.”

Then thus Eumaeus:  “Judge we which were best;
Amidst yon revellers a sudden guest
Choose you to mingle, while behind I stay? 
Or I first entering introduce the way? 
Wait for a space without, but wait not long;
This is the house of violence and wrong: 
Some rude insult thy reverend age may bear;
For like their lawless lords the servants are.”