But isn’t it odd, to think whenever We all go through that terrible River,— Whose sluggish tide alone can sever (The Archbishop says) the Church decree, By floating one into Eternity And leaving the other alive as ever,— As each wades through that ghastly stream, The satins that rustle and gems that gleam Will grow pale and heavy, and sink away To the noisome River’s bottom-clay; Then the costly bride and her maidens six Will shiver upon the banks of the Styx, Quite as helpless as they were born,— Naked souls, and very forlorn; The Princess, then, must shift for herself, And lay her royalty on the shelf; She, and the beautiful Empress, yonder, Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonder, And even ourselves, and our dear little wives, Who calico wear each morn of their lives, And the sewing girls, and _les chiffoniers_, In rags and hunger,—a gaunt array,— And all the grooms of the caravan— Ay, even the great Don Rataplan Santa Claus de la Muscovado Señor Grandissimo Bastinado— That gold-encrusted, fortunate man!— All will land in naked equality: The lord of a ribboned principality Will mourn the loss of his _cordon_. Nothing to eat, and nothing to wear Will certainly be the fashion there! Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone, Those most used to a rag and bone, Though here on earth they labor and groan, Will stand it best, as they wade abreast To the other side of Jordan. PENELOPE. Not thus, Ulysses, with a tender word, Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment, And halt assurances, canst thou evade My heart’s discernment. Think not such a film Hath touched these aged eyes, to make them lose The subtlest mood of those even now adroop, Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze. Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles! O man of restless yearnings—fate-impelled, Fate-conquering—like a waif thrown back and forth O’er many waters! Oft I see thee stand At eve, a landmark on the outer cliff, Looking far westward; later, when the feast Smokes in the hall, and nimble servants pass Great bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus sings The deeds of Peleus’ son, thy right hand moves Straight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home; Then, when thou hearest him follow in the song Thine own miraculous sojourn of long years Through stormy seas, weird islands, and the land Of giants, and the gray companions smite Their shields, and cry, _What do we longer here?_ _Afloat! and let the great waves bear us on!_ I know thou growest weary of the realm, Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame.