“Since great Ulysses sought the Phrygian plains,
Within these walls inglorious silence reigns. 
Say then, ye peers! by whose commands we meet? 
Why here once more in solemn council sit? 
Ye young, ye old, the weighty cause disclose: 
Arrives some message of invading foes? 
Or say, does high necessity of state
Inspire some patriot, and demand debate? 
The present synod speaks its author wise;
Assist him, Jove, thou regent of the skies!”

He spoke.  Telemachus with transport glows,
Embraced the omen, and majestic rose
(His royal hand the imperial sceptre sway’d);
Then thus, addressing to AEgyptius, said: 

“Reverend old man! lo here confess’d he stands
By whom ye meet; my grief your care demands. 
No story I unfold of public woes,
Nor bear advices of impending foes: 
Peace the blest land, and joys incessant crown: 
Of all this happy realm, I grieve alone. 
For my lost sire continual sorrows spring,
The great, the good; your father and your king. 
Yet more; our house from its foundation bows,
Our foes are powerful, and your sons the foes;
Hither, unwelcome to the queen, they come;
Why seek they not the rich Icarian dome? 
If she must wed, from other hands require
The dowry:  is Telemachus her sire? 
Yet through my court the noise of revel rings,
And waste the wise frugality of kings. 
Scarce all my herds their luxury suffice;
Scarce all my wine their midnight hours supplies. 
Safe in my youth, in riot still they grow,
Nor in the helpless orphan dread a foe. 
But come it will, the time when manhood grants
More powerful advocates than vain complaints. 
Approach that hour! insufferable wrong
Cries to the gods, and vengeance sleeps too long. 
Rise then, ye peers! with virtuous anger rise;
Your fame revere, but most the avenging skies. 
By all the deathless powers that reign above,
By righteous Themis and by thundering Jove
(Themis, who gives to councils, or denies
Success; and humbles, or confirms the wise),
Rise in my aid! suffice the tears that flow
For my lost sire, nor add new woe to woe. 
If e’er he bore the sword to strengthen ill,
Or, having power to wrong, betray’d the will,
On me, on me your kindled wrath assuage,
And bid the voice of lawless riot rage. 
If ruin to your royal race ye doom,
Be you the spoilers, and our wealth consume. 
Then might we hope redress from juster laws,
And raise all Ithaca to aid our cause: 
But while your sons commit the unpunish’d wrong,
You make the arm of violence too strong.”

While thus he spoke, with rage and grief he frown’d,
And dash’d the imperial sceptre to the ground. 
The big round tear hung trembling in his eye: 
The synod grieved, and gave a pitying sigh,
Then silent sate—­at length Antinous burns
With haughty rage, and sternly thus returns: