“Is not thy thought my own? (the god replies
Who rolls the thunder o’er the vaulted skies;)
Hath not long since thy knowing soul decreed
The chief’s return should make the guilty bleed. 
’Tis done, and at thy will the Fates succeed. 
Yet hear the issue:  Since Ulysses’ hand
Has slain the suitors, Heaven shall bless the land. 
None now the kindred of the unjust shall own;
Forgot the slaughter’d brother and the son: 
Each future day increase of wealth shall bring,
And o’er the past Oblivion stretch her wing. 
Long shall Ulysses in his empire rest,
His people blessing, by his people bless’d. 
Let all be peace.”—­He said, and gave the nod
That binds the Fates; the sanction of the god
And prompt to execute the eternal will,
Descended Pallas from the Olympian hill.

Now sat Ulysses at the rural feast
The rage of hunger and of thirst repress’d: 
To watch the foe a trusty spy he sent: 
A son of Dolius on the message went,
Stood in the way, and at a glance beheld
The foe approach, embattled on the field. 
With backward step he hastens to the bower,
And tells the news.  They arm with all their power. 
Four friends alone Ulysses’ cause embrace,
And six were all the sons of Dolius’ race: 
Old Dolius too his rusted arms put on;
And, still more old, in arms Laertes shone. 
Trembling with warmth, the hoary heroes stand,
And brazen panoply invests the band. 
The opening gates at once their war display: 
Fierce they rush forth:  Ulysses leads the way. 
That moment joins them with celestial aid,
In Mentor’s form, the Jove-descended maid: 
The suffering hero felt his patient breast
Swell with new joy, and thus his son address’d: 

“Behold, Telemachus! (nor fear the sight,)
The brave embattled, the grim front of fight! 
The valiant with the valiant must contend. 
Shame not the line whence glorious you descend. 
Wide o’er the world their martial fame was spread;
Regard thyself, the living and the dead.”

“Thy eyes, great father! on this battle cast,
Shall learn from me Penelope was chaste.”

So spoke Telemachus:  the gallant boy
Good old Laertes heard with panting joy. 
“And bless’d! thrice bless’d this happy day! (he cries,)
The day that shows me, ere I close my eyes,
A son and grandson of the Arcesian name
Strive for fair virtue, and contest for fame!”

Then thus Minerva in Laertes’ ear: 
“Son of Arcesius, reverend warrior, hear! 
Jove and Jove’s daughter first implore in prayer,
Then, whirling high, discharge thy lance in air.” 
She said, infusing courage with the word. 
Jove and Jove’s daughter then the chief implored,
And, whirling high, dismiss’d the lance in air. 
Full at Eupithes drove the deathful spear: 
The brass-cheek’d helmet opens to the wound;
He falls, earth thunders, and his arms resound.