Now gently winding up the fair ascent,
By many an easy step the matron went;
Then o’er the pavement glides with grace divine
(With polish’d oak the level pavements shine);
The folding gates a dazzling light display’d,
With pomp of various architrave o’erlaid. 
The bolt, obedient to the silken string,
Forsakes the staple as she pulls the ring;
The wards respondent to the key turn round;
The bars fall back; the flying valves resound;
Loud as a bull makes hill and valley ring,
So roar’d the lock when it released the spring. 
She moves majestic through the wealthy room,
Where treasured garments cast a rich perfume;
There from the column where aloft it hung,
Reach’d in its splendid case, the bow unstrung;
Across her knees she laid the well-known bow,
And pensive sate, and tears began to flow. 
To full satiety of grief she mourns,
Then silent to the joyous hall returns,
To the proud suitors bears in pensive state
The unbended bow, and arrows winged with fate.

Behind, her train the polish’d coffer brings,
Which held the alternate brass and silver rings. 
Full in the portal the chaste queen appears,
And with her veil conceals the coming tears: 
On either side awaits a virgin fair;
While thus the matron, with majestic air: 

“Say you, when these forbidden walls inclose,
For whom my victims bleed, my vintage flows: 
If these neglected, faded charms can move? 
Or is it but a vain pretence, you love? 
If I the prize, if me you seek to wife,
Hear the conditions, and commence the strife. 
Who first Ulysses’ wondrous bow shall bend,
And through twelve ringlets the fleet arrow send;
Him will I follow, and forsake my home,
For him forsake this loved, this wealthy dome,
Long, long the scene of all my past delight,
And still to last, the vision of my night!”

Graceful she said, and bade Eumaeus show
The rival peers the ringlets and the bow. 
From his full eyes the tears unbidden spring,
Touch’d at the dear memorials of his king. 
Philaetius too relents, but secret shed
The tender drops.  Antinous saw, and said: 

“Hence to your fields, ye rustics! hence away,
Nor stain with grief the pleasures of the day;
Nor to the royal heart recall in vain
The sad remembrance of a perish’d man. 
Enough her precious tears already flow—­
Or share the feast with due respect; or go
To weep abroad, and leave to us the bow,
No vulgar task!  Ill suits this courtly crew
That stubborn horn which brave Ulysses drew. 
I well remember (for I gazed him o’er
While yet a child), what majesty he bore! 
And still (all infant as I was) retain
The port, the strength, the grandeur of the man.”

He said, but in his soul fond joys arise,
And his proud hopes already win the prize. 
To speed the flying shaft through every ring,
Wretch! is not thine:  the arrows of the king
Shall end those hopes, and fate is on the wing!