“Just as she finished her illustrious toil,
Ill fortune led Ulysses to our isle. 
Far in a lonely nook, beside the sea,
At an old swineherd’s rural lodge he lay: 
Thither his son from sandy Pyle repairs,
And speedy lands, and secretly confers. 
They plan our future ruin, and resort
Confederate to the city and the court. 
First came the son; the father nest succeeds,
Clad like a beggar, whom Eumaeus leads;
Propp’d on a staff, deform’d with age and care,
And hung with rags that flutter’d in the air. 
Who could Ulysses in that form behold? 
Scorn’d by the young, forgotten by the old,
Ill-used by all! to every wrong resigned,
Patient he suffered with a constant mind. 
But when, arising in his wrath to obey
The will of Jove, he gave the vengeance way: 
The scattered arms that hung around the dome
Careful he treasured in a private room;
Then to her suitors bade his queen propose
The archer’s strife, the source of future woes,
And omen of our death!  In vain we drew
The twanging string, and tried the stubborn yew: 
To none it yields but great Ulysses’ hands;
In vain we threat; Telemachus commands: 
The bow he snatch’d, and in an instant bent;
Through every ring the victor arrow went. 
Fierce on the threshold then in arms he stood;
Poured forth the darts that thirsted for our blood,
And frown’d before us, dreadful as a god! 
First bleeds Antinous:  thick the shafts resound,
And heaps on heaps the wretches strew the ground;
This way, and that, we turn, we fly, we fall;
Some god assisted, and unmann’d us all;
Ignoble cries precede the dying groans;
And battered brains and blood besmear the stones.

“Thus, great Atrides, thus Ulysses drove
The shades thou seest from yon fair realms above;
Our mangled bodies now deformed with gore,
Cold and neglected, spread the marble floor. 
No friend to bathe our wounds, or tears to shed
O’er the pale corse! the honours of the dead.”

“Oh bless’d Ulysses! (thus the king express’d
His sudden rapture) in thy consort bless’d! 
Not more thy wisdom than her virtue shined;
Not more thy patience than her constant mind. 
Icarius’ daughter, glory of the past,
And model to the future age, shall last: 
The gods, to honour her fair fame, shall rise
(Their great reward) a poet in her praise. 
Not such, O Tyndarus! thy daughter’s deed,
By whose dire hand her king and husband bled;
Her shall the Muse to infamy prolong,
Example dread, and theme of tragic song! 
The general sex shall suffer in her shame,
And e’en the best that bears a woman’s name.”

Thus in the regions of eternal shade
Conferr’d the mournful phantoms of the dead;
While from the town, Ulysses and his band
Pass’d to Laertes’ cultivated land. 
The ground himself had purchased with his pain,
And labour made the rugged soil a plain,
There stood his mansion of the rural sort,
With useful buildings round the lowly court;
Where the few servants that divide his care
Took their laborious rest, and homely fare;
And one Sicilian matron, old and sage,
With constant duty tends his drooping age.