Phemius.

1.

Happy are the earth’s heirs: Who, that his toilsome lot And hard-won gain compares, Admires and envies not? At one time one, at another another best, Come mortal pleasures, troubling sweet content; But two above the rest Are ever of worth, Everywhere are praisèd and excellent, To live and possess the earth: And my name—ranked desire ’mong graven things— Would live with the island kings.

2.

Happy Telemachus then art thou, Ithaca’s true-born lord: Rejoice and welcome him now Safe to his home restored. Shout—O well is thee! The gods in worship and joy, pray we, —And high desert uplifts the prayer— Grant thee here in plenty the good thou meritest, Nor to fall in a like snare With him from whom thou inheritest, Ulysses, Laertes’ son.

1_a._

Twenty are the years gone Since in another’s strife, To win a faithless wife He vexed the true, his own. For her new-married he left and his newborn boy, His true-born prince to manhood now upgrown, To fight at fateful Troy. In front of the strife Fought he, and fell not there, nor lies entombed By mighty Achilles’ side; Nor yet returned he home, but wandering wide To alien death was doomed.

2_a._

Weep for him, ye that around his board Sit in the bright fire-shine: No more shall Ithaca’s lord Stretch his hand to the wine. Sing a mournful strain! Alas, he counteth not loss nor gain; His wife is wooed, and he makes no sign; Thralls go here and there, but another beckoneth. For the dead hath no desire, He knoweth nothing, nor reckoneth; He is cold, and feels not the fire.

[_He plays sad music in silence._

_Enter suddenly Penelope_ (_with some six maids attendant_).

_Ul._ (_aside_). I see the beacon of my life undimmed.