Soon as her eyes the welcome object met, The guilty fall’n, the mighty deed complete; A scream of joy her feeble voice essay’d; The hero check’d her, and composedly said. “Woman, experienced as thou art, control Indecent joy, and feast thy secret soul. To insult the dead is cruel and unjust; Fate and their crime have sunk them to the dust. Nor heeded these the censure of mankind, The good and bad were equal in their mind Justly the price of worthlessness they paid, And each now wails an unlamented shade. But thou sincere! O Euryclea, say, What maids dishonour us, and what obey?” Then she: “In these thy kingly walls remain (My son) full fifty of the handmaid train, Taught by my care to cull the fleece or weave, And servitude with pleasing tasks deceive; Of these, twice six pursue their wicked way, Nor me, nor chaste Penelope obey; Nor fits it that Telemachus command (Young as he is) his mother’s female band. Hence to the upper chambers let me fly Where slumbers soft now close the royal eye; There wake her with the news”—the matron cried. “Not so (Ulysses, more sedate, replied), Bring first the crew who wrought these guilty deeds.” In haste the matron parts: the king proceeds; “Now to dispose the dead, the care remains To you, my son, and you, my faithfull swains; The offending females to that task we doom, To wash, to scent, and purify the room; These (every table cleansed, and every throne, And all the melancholy labour done) Drive to yon court, without the palace wall, There the revenging sword shall smite them all; So with the suitors let them mix in dust, Stretch’d in a long oblivion of their lust.” He said: the lamentable train appear, Each vents a groan, and drops a tender tear; Each heaved her mournful burden, and beneath The porch deposed the ghastly heap of death. The chief severe, compelling each to move, Urged the dire task imperious from above; With thirsty sponge they rub the tables o’er (The swains unite their toil); the walls, the floor, Wash’d with the effusive wave, are purged of gore. Once more the palace set in fair array, To the base court the females take their way; There compass’d close between the dome and wall (Their life’s last scene) they trembling wait their fall. Then thus the prince: “To these shall we afford A fate so pure as by the martial sword? To these, the nightly prostitutes to shame, And base revilers of our house and name?” Thus speaking, on the circling wall he strung A ship’s tough cable from a column hung; Near the high top he strain’d it strongly round, Whence no contending foot could reach the ground. Their heads above connected in a row, They beat the air with quivering feet below: Thus on some tree hung struggling in the snare, The doves or thrushes flap their wings in air. Soon fled the soul impure, and left behind The empty corse to waver with the wind.