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So there he lay at rest, the storm tossed great Odysseus, |
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borne down by his hard labors first and now deep sleep |
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as Athena traveled through the countryside |
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and reached the Phaeacians' city. Years ago |
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they lived in a land of spacious dancing circles, |
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Hyperia, all too close to the overbearing Cyclops, |
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stronger, violent brutes who harried them without end. |
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So their godlike king, Nausithous, led the people off |
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in a vast migration, settled them in Scheria, |
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far from the men who toil on this earth- |
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he flung up walls around the city, built the houses, |
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raised the gods' temples and shared the land for plowing. |
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But his fate had long since forced him down to Death |
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and now Alcinous ruled, and the gods made him wise. |
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Straight to his house the clear eyed Pallas went, |
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full of plans for great Odysseus' journey home. |
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She made her way to the gaily painted room |
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where a young girl lay asleep . . . |
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a match for the deathless gods in build and beauty, |
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Nausicaa, the daughter of generous King Alcinous. |
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Two handmaids fair as the Graces slept beside her, |
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flanking the two posts, with the gleaming doors closed. |
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But the goddess drifted through like a breath of fresh air, |
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rushed to the girl's bed and hovering close she spoke, |
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in face and form like the shipman Dymas' daughter, |
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a girl the princess' age, and dearest to her heart. |
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Disguised, the bright eyed goddess chided, "Nausicaa, |
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how could your mother bear a careless girl like you? |
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Look at your fine clothes, lying here neglected-- |
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with your marriage not far off, |
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the day you should be decked in all your glory |
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and offer elegant dress to those who form your escort. |
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That's how a bride's good name goes out across the world |
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and it brings her father and queenly mother joy. Come, |
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let's go wash these clothes at the break of day-- |
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I'll help you, lend a hand, and the work will fly! |
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You won't stay unwed long. The noblest men |
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in the country court you now, all Phaeacians |
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just like you, Phaeacia born and raised. So come, |
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first thing in the morning press your kingly father |
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to harness the mules and wagon for you, all to carry |
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your sashes, dresses, glossy spreads for your bed. |
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It's so much nicer for you to ride than go on foot. |
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The washing pools are just too far from town." |
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the bright eyed goddess sped away to Olympus, where, |
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they say, the gods' eternal mansion stands unmoved, |
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never rocked by gale winds, never drenched by rains, |
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nor do the drifting snows assail it, no, the clear air |
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stretches away without a cloud, and a great radiance |
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plays across that world where the blithe gods |
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live all their days in bliss. There Athena went, |
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once the bright eyed one had urged the princess on. |
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Dawn soon rose on her splendid throne and woke |
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Nausicaa finely gowned. Still beguiled by her dream, |
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down she went through the house to tell her parents now, |
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her beloved father and mother. She found them both inside. |
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Her mother sat at the hearth with several waiting women, |
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spinning yarn on a spindle, lustrous sea blue wool. |
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Her father she met as he left to join the lords |
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at a council island nobles asked him to attend. |
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She stepped up close to him, confiding, "Daddy dear, |
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I wonder, won't you have them harness a wagon for me, |
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the tall one with the good smooth wheels . . . so I |
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can take our clothes to the river for a washing? |
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Lovely things, but lying before me all soiled. |
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And you yourself, sitting among the princes, |
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debating points at your council, |
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you really should be wearing spotless linen. |
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Then you have five sons, full grown in the palace, |
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two of them married, but three are lusty bachelors |
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always demanding crisp shirts fresh from the wash |
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when they go out to dance. Look at my duties-- |
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that all rests on me." |
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to touch on her hopes for marriage, young warm hopes, |
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in her father's presence. But he saw through it all |
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and answered quickly, "I won't deny you the mules, |
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my darling girl . . . I won't deny you anything. |
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Off you go, and the men will harness a wagon, |
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the tall one with the good smooth wheels, |
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fitted out with a cradle on the top." |
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he called to the stablemen and they complied. |
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They trundled the wagon out now, rolling smoothly, |
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backed the mule team into the traces, hitched them up, |
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while the princess brought her finery from the room |
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and piled it into the wagon's polished cradle. |
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Her mother packed a hamper--treats of all kinds, |
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favorite things to refresh her daughter's spirits-- |
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poured wine in a skin, and as Nausicaa climbed aboard, |
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the queen gave her a golden flask of stippling olive oil |
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for her and her maids to smooth on after bathing. |
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Then, taking the whip in hand and glistening reins, |
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she touched the mules to a start and out they clattered, |
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trotting on at a clip, bearing the princess and her clothes |
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and not alone: her maids went with her, stepping briskly too. |
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Once they reached the banks of the river flowing strong |
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where the pools would never fail, with plenty of water |
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cool and clear, bubbling up and rushing through |
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to scour the darkest stains--they loosed the mules, |
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out from under the wagon yoke, and chased them down |
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the river's rippling banks to graze on luscious clover. |
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Down from the cradle they lifted clothes by the armload, |
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plunged them into the dark pools and stamped them down |
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in the hollows, one girl racing the next to finish first |
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until they'd scoured and rinsed off all the grime, |
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then they spread them out in a line along the beach |
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where the surf had washed a pebbly scree ashore. |
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And once they'd bathed and smoothed their skin with oil, |
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they took their picnic, sitting along the river's banks |
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and waiting for all the clothes to dry in the hot noon sun. |
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Now fed to their hearts' content, the princess and her retinue |
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threw their veils to the wind, struck up a game of ball. |
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White armed Nausicaa led their singing, dancing beat . . . |
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as lithe as Artemis with her arrows striding down |
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from a high peak--Taygetus' towering ridge or Erymanthus-- |
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thrilled to race with the wild boar or bounding deer, |
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and nymphs of the hills race with her, |
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daughters of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder, |
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ranging the hills in sport, and Leto's heart exults |
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as head and shoulders over the rest her daughter rises, |
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unmistakable--she outshines them all, though all are lovely. |
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So Nausicaa shone among her maids, a virgin, still unwed. |
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But now, as she was about to fold her clothes |
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and yoke the mules and turn for home again, |
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now clear eyed Pallas thought of what came next, |
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to make Odysseus wake and see this young beauty |
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and she would lead him to the Phaeacians' town. |
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The ball-- |
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but it missed the girl, splashed in a deep swirling pool |
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and they all shouted out-- |
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He sat up with a start, puzzling, his heart pounding: |
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"Man of misery, whose land have I lit on now? |
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What are they here--violent, savage, lawless? |
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or friendly to strangers, god fearing men? |
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Listen: shouting, echoing round me--women, girls-- |
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or the nymphs who haunt the rugged mountain tops |
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and the river springs and meadows lush with grass! |
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Or am I really close to people who speak my language? |
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Up with you, see how the land lies, see for yourself now . . ." |
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Muttering so, great Odysseus crept out of the bushes, |
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stripping off with his massive hand a leafy branch |
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from the tangled olive growth to shield his body, |
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hide his private parts. And out he stalked |
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as a mountain lion exultant in his power |
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strides through wind and rain and his eyes blaze |
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and he charges sheep or oxen or chases wild deer |
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but his hunger drives him on to go for flocks, |
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even to raid the best defended homestead. |
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So Odysseus moved out . . . |
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about to mingle with all those lovely girls, |
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naked now as he was, for the need drove him on, |
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a terrible sight, all crusted, caked with brine-- |
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they scattered in panic down the jutting beaches. |
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Only Alcinous' daughter held fast, for Athena planted |
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courage within her heart, dissolved the trembling in her limbs, |
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and she firmly stood her ground and faced Odysseus, torn now-- |
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Should he fling his arms around her knees, the young beauty, |
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plead for help, or stand back, plead with a winning word, |
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beg her to lead him to the town and lend him clothing? |
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This was the better way, he thought. Plead now |
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with a subtle, winning word and stand well back, |
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don't clasp her knees, the girl might bridle, yes. |
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He launched in at once, endearing, sly and suave: |
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"Here I am at your mercy, princess-- |
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are you a goddess or a mortal? If one of the gods |
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who rule the skies up there, you're Artemis to the life, |
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the daughter of mighty Zeus--I see her now--just look |
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at your build, your bearing, your lithe flowing grace . . . |
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But if you're one of the mortals living here on earth, |
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three times blest are your father, your queenly mother, |
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three times over your brothers too. How often their hearts |
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must warm with joy to see you striding into the dances-- |
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such a bloom of beauty. True, but he is the one |
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more blest than all other men alive, that man |
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who sways you with gifts and leads you home, his bride! |
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I have never laid eyes on anyone like you, |
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neither man nor woman . . . |
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I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me. |
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once I saw the like--in Delos, beside Apollo's altar-- |
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the young slip of a palm tree springing into the light. |
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There I'd sailed, you see, with a great army in my wake, |
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out on the long campaign that doomed my life to hardship. |
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That vision! Just as I stood there gazing, rapt, for hours . . . |
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no shaft like that had ever risen up from the earth-- |
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so now I marvel at you, my lady: rapt, enthralled, |
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too struck with awe to grasp you by the knees |
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though pain has ground me down. |
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the twentieth day, did I escape the wine dark sea. |
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Till then the waves and the rushing gales had swept me on |
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from the island of Ogygia. Now some power has tossed me here, |
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doubtless to suffer still more torments on your shores. |
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I can't believe they'll stop. Long before that |
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the gods will give me more, still more. |
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princess, please! You, after all that I have suffered, |
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you are the first I've come to. I know no one else, |
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none in your city, no one in your land. |
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Show me the way to town, give me a rag for cover, |
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just some cloth, some wrapper you carried with you here. |
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And may the good gods give you all your heart desires: |
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husband, and house, and lasting harmony too. |
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No finer, greater gift in the world than that . . . |
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when man and woman possess their home, two minds, |
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two hearts that work as one. Despair to their enemies, |
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joy to all their friends. Their own best claim to glory." |
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"Stranger," the white armed princess answered staunchly, |
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"friend, you're hardly a wicked man, and no fool, I'd say-- |
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it's Olympian Zeus himself who hands our fortunes out, |
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to each of us in turn, to the good and bad, |
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however Zeus prefers . . . |
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He gave you pain, it seems. You simply have to bear it. |
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But now, seeing you've reached our city and our land, |
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you'll never lack for clothing or any other gift, |
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the right of worn out suppliants come our way. |
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I'll show you our town, tell you our people's name. |
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Phaeacians we are, who hold this city and this land, |
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and I am the daughter of generous King Alcinous. |
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All our people's power stems from him." |
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She called out to her girls with lovely braids: |
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"Stop, my friends! Why run when you see a man? |
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Surely you don't think him an enemy, do you? |
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There's no one alive, there never will be one, |
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who'd reach Phaeacian soil and lay it waste. |
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The immortals love us far too much for that. |
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We live too far apart, out in the surging sea, |
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off at the world's end-- |
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no other mortals come to mingle with us. |
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But here's an unlucky wanderer strayed our way |
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and we must tend him well. Every stranger and beggar |
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comes from Zeus, and whatever scrap we give him |
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he'll be glad to get. So, quick, my girls, |
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give our newfound friend some food and drink |
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and bathe the man in the river, |
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wherever you find some shelter from the wind." |
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they came to a halt and teased each other on |
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and led Odysseus down to a sheltered spot |
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where he could find a seat, |
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just as great Alcinous' daughter told them. |
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They laid out cloak and shirt for him to wear, |
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they gave him the golden flask of stippling olive oil |
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and pressed him to bathe himself in the river's stream. |
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Then thoughtful Odysseus reassured the handmaids, |
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"Stand where you are, dear girls, a good way off, " |
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so I can rinse the brine from my shoulders now |
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and rub myself with oil . . . |
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how long it's been since oil touched my skim |
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But I won't bathe in front of you. I would be embarrassed-- |
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stark naked before young girls with lovely braids." |
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The handmaids scurried off to tell their mistress. |
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Great Odysseus bathed in the river, scrubbed his body |
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clean of brine that clung to his back and broad shoulders, |
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scoured away the brackish scurf that caked his head. |
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And then, once he had bathed all over, rubbed in oil |
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and donned the clothes the virgin princess gave him, |
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Zeus's daughter Athena made him taller to all eyes, |
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his build more massive now, and down from his brow |
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she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters |
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full of blooms. As a master craftsman washes |
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gold over beaten silver--a man the god of fire |
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and Queen Athena trained in every fine technique-- |
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and finishes off his latest effort, handsome work, |
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so she lavished splendor over his head and shoulders now. |
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And down to the beach he walked and sat apart, |
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glistening in his glory, breathtaking, yes, |
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and the princess gazed in wonder . . . |
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then turned to her maids with lovely braided hair: |
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"Listen, my white armed girls, to what I tell you. |
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The gods of Olympus can't be all against this man |
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who's come to mingle among our noble people. |
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At first he seemed appalling, I must say-- |
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now he seems like a god who rules the skies up there! |
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Ah, if only a man like that were called my husband, |
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lived right here, pleased to stay forever . . . |
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Give the stranger food and drink, my girls." |
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They hung on her words and did her will at once, |
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set before Odysseus food and drink, and he ate and drank, |
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the great Odysseus, long deprived, so ravenous now-- |
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it seemed like years since he had tasted food. |
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The white armed princess thought of one last thing. |
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Folding the clothes, she packed them into her painted wagon, |
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hitched the sharp hoofed mules, and climbing up herself, |
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Nausicaa urged Odysseus, warmly urged her guest, |
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"Up with you now, my friend, and off to town we go. |
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I'll see you into my wise father's palace where, |
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I promise you, you'll meet all the best Phaeacians. |
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Wait, let's do it this way. You seem no fool to me. |
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While we're passing along the fields and plowlands, |
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you follow the mules and wagon, stepping briskly |
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with all my maids. I'll lead the way myself. |
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But once we reach our city, ringed by walls |
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and strong high towers too, with a fine harbor either side . . . |
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and the causeway in is narrow; along the road the rolling ships |
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are all hauled up, with a slipway cleared for every vessel. |
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There's our assembly, round Poseidon's royal precinct, |
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built of quarried slabs planted deep in the earth. |
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Here the sailors tend their black ships' tackle, |
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cables and sails, and plane their oarblades down. |
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Phaeacians, you see, care nothing for bow or quiver, |
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only for masts and oars and good trim ships themselves-- |
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we glory in our ships, crossing the foaming seas! |
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But I shrink from all our sea dogs' nasty gossip. |
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Some old salt might mock us behind our backs-- |
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we have our share of insolent types in town |
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and one of the coarser sort, spying us, might say, |
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'Now who's that tall, handsome stranger Nausicaa has in tow? |
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Where'd she light on him? Her husband to be, just wait! |
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But who--some shipwrecked stray she's taken up with, |
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some alien from abroad? Since nobody lives nearby. |
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Unless it's really a god come down from the blue |
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to answer all her prayers, and to have her all his days. |
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Good riddance! Let the girl go roving to find herself |
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a man from foreign parts. She only spurns her own-- |
310 |
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countless Phaeacians round about who court her, |
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nothing but our best.' |
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just think of the scandal that would face me then. |
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I'd find fault with a girl who carried on that way, |
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flouting her parents' wishes--father, mother, still alive-- |
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consorting with men before she'd tied the knot in public. |
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No, stranger, listen closely to what I say, the sooner |
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to win your swift voyage home at my father's hands. |
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Now, you'll find a splendid grove along the road-- |
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poplars, sacred to Pallas-- |
320 |
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a bubbling spring's inside and meadows run around it. |
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There lies my father's estate, his blooming orchard too, |
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as far from town as a man's strong shout can carry. |
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Take a seat there, wait a while, and give us time |
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to make it into town and reach my father's house. |
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Then, when you think we're home, walk on yourself |
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to the city, ask the way to my father's palace, |
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generous King Alcinous. You cannot miss it, |
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even an innocent child could guide you there. |
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No other Phaeacian's house is built like that: |
330 |
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so grand, the palace of Alcinous, our great hero. |
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Once the mansion and courtyard have enclosed you, go, |
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quickly' across the hall until you reach my mother. |
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Beside the hearth she sits in the fire's glare, |
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spinning yarn on a spindle, sea blue wool-- |
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a stirring sight, you'll see . . . |
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she leans against a pillar, her ladies sit behind. |
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And my father's throne is drawn up close beside her; |
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there he sits and takes his wine, a mortal like a god. |
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Go past him, grasp my mother's knees--if you want |
340 |
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to see the day of your return, rejoicing, soon, |
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even if your home's a world away. |
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If only the queen will take you to her heart, |
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then there's hope that you will see your loved ones, |
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reach your own grand house, your native land at last." |
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|
At that she touched the mules with her shining whip |
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and they quickly left the running stream behind. |
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The team trotted on, their hoofs wove in and out. |
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She drove them back with care so all the rest, |
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maids and Odysseus, could keep the pace on foot, |
350 |
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and she used the whip discreetly. |
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The sun sank as they reached the hallowed grove, |
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sacred to Athena, where Odysseus stopped and sat |
|
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and said a prayer at once to mighty Zeus's daughter: |
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"Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder-- |
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tireless one, Athena! Now hear my prayer at last, |
|
|
for you never heard me then, when I was shattered, |
|
|
when the famous god of earthquakes wrecked my craft. |
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Grant that here among the Phaeacian people |
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I may find some mercy and some love!" |
360 |
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So he prayed and Athena heard his prayer |
|
|
but would not yet appear to him undisguised. |
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|
She stood in awe of her Father's brother, lord of the sea |
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who still seethed on, still churning with rage against |
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the great Odysseus till he reached his native land. |
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Last updated 29 January 1998 |
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