“One venturous game this hand hath won to-day,
Another, princes! yet remains to play;
Another mark our arrow must attain. 
Phoebus, assist! nor be the labour vain.” 
Swift as the word the parting arrow sings,
And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings: 
Wretch that he was, of unprophetic soul! 
High in his hands he rear’d the golden bowl! 
E’en then to drain it lengthen’d out his breath;
Changed to the deep, the bitter draught of death: 
For fate who fear’d amidst a feastful band? 
And fate to numbers, by a single hand? 
Full through his throat Ulysses’ weapon pass’d,
And pierced his neck.  He falls, and breathes his last. 
The tumbling goblet the wide floor o’erflows,
A stream of gore burst spouting from his nose;
Grim in convulsive agonies be sprawls: 
Before him spurn’d the loaded table falls,
And spreads the pavement with a mingled flood
Of floating meats, and wine, and human blood. 
Amazed, confounded, as they saw him fall,
Up rose he throngs tumultuous round the hall: 
O’er all the dome they cast a haggard eye,
Each look’d for arms—­in vain; no arms were nigh: 
“Aim’st thou at princes? (all amazed they said;)
Thy last of games unhappy hast thou play’d;
Thy erring shaft has made our bravest bleed,
And death, unlucky guest, attends thy deed. 
Vultures shall tear thee.”  Thus incensed they spoke,
While each to chance ascribed the wondrous stroke: 
Blind as they were:  for death e’en now invades
His destined prey, and wraps them all in shades. 
Then, grimly frowning, with a dreadful look,
That wither’d all their hearts, Ulysses spoke: 

“Dogs, ye have had your day! ye fear’d no more
Ulysses vengeful from the Trojan shore;
While, to your lust and spoil a guardless prey,
Our house, our wealth, our helpless handmaids lay: 
Not so content, with bolder frenzy fired,
E’en to our bed presumptuous you aspired: 
Laws or divine or human fail’d to move,
Or shame of men, or dread of gods above;
Heedless alike of infamy or praise,
Or Fame’s eternal voice in future days;
The hour of vengeance, wretches, now is come;
Impending fate is yours, and instant doom.”

Thus dreadful he.  Confused the suitors stood,
From their pale cheeks recedes the flying blood: 
Trembling they sought their guilty heads to hide. 
Alone the bold Eurymachus replied: 

“If, as thy words import (he thus began),
Ulysses lives, and thou the mighty man,
Great are thy wrongs, and much hast thou sustain’d
In thy spoil’d palace, and exhausted land;
The cause and author of those guilty deeds,
Lo! at thy feet unjust Antinous bleeds
Not love, but wild ambition was his guide;
To slay thy son, thy kingdom to divide,
These were his aims; but juster Jove denied. 
Since cold in death the offender lies, oh spare
Thy suppliant people, and receive their prayer! 
Brass, gold, and treasures, shall the spoil defray,
Two hundred oxen every prince shall pay: 
The waste of years refunded in a day. 
Till then thy wrath is just.”  Ulysses burn’d
With high disdain, and sternly thus return’d: