“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! Then thus Telemachus: “Some god I find With pleasing frenzy has possess’d my mind; When a loved mother threatens to depart, Why with this ill-timed gladness leaps my heart? Come then, ye suitors! and dispute a prize Richer than all the Achaian state supplies, Than all proud Argos, or Mycaena knows, Than all our isles or continents inclose; A woman matchless, and almost divine, Fit for the praise of every tongue but mine. No more excuses then, no more delay; Haste to the trial—Lo! I lead the way. “I too may try, and if this arm can wing The feather’d arrow through the destined ring, Then if no happier night the conquest boast, I shall not sorrow for a mother lost; But, bless’d in her, possess those arms alone, Heir of my father’s strength, as well as throne.”