“The fiction pleased, our generous train complies, Nor fraud mistrusts in virtue’s fair disguise. The work she plied, but studious of delay, Each following night reversed the toils of day. Unheard, unseen, three years her arts prevail; The fourth, her maid reveal’d the amazing tale, And show’d as unperceived we took our stand, The backward labours of her faithless hand. Forced she completes it; and before us lay The mingled web, whose gold and silver ray Display’d the radiance of the night and day. “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 next 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.”