The Seventeenth Book Of Homer's Odysseys

...
  Such speech they chang'd; when in the yard there lay
  A dog, call'd Argus, which, before his way
  Assum'd for Ilion, Ulysses bred,
  Yet stood his pleasure then in little stead,
  As being too young; but, growing to his grace,
  Young men made choice of him for every chace,
  Or of their wild goats, of their hares, or harts.
  But his king gone, and he, now past his parts,
  Lay all abjectly on the stable's store,
  Before the oxstall, and mules' stable door,
  To keep the clothes cast from the peasants' hands,
  While they laid compass on Ulysses' lands;
  The dog, with ticks (unlook'd-to) over-grown.
  But by this dog no sooner seen but known
  Was wise Ulysses, who new enter'd there,
  Up went his dog's laid ears, and, coming near,
  Up he himself rose, fawn'd, and wagg'd his stern,
  Couch'd close his ears, and lay so; nor discern
  Could evermore his dear-lov'd lord again.
  Ulysses saw it, nor had power t' abstain
  From shedding tears; which (far-off seeing his swain)
  He dried from his sight clean; to whom he thus
  His grief dissembled: "'Tis miraculous,
  That such a dog as this should have his lair
  On such a dunghill, for his form is fair.
  And yet, I know not, if there were in him
  Good pace, or parts, for all his goodly limb;
  Or he liv'd empty of those inward things,
  As are those trencher-beagles tending kings,
  Whom for their pleasure's, or their glory's sake,
  Or fashion, they into their favour take."

  "This dog," said he, "was servant to one dead
  A huge time since. But if he bore his head,
  For form and quality, of such a height,
  As when Ulysses, bound for th' Ilion fight,
  Or quickly after, left him, your rapt eyes
  Would then admire to see him use his thighs
  In strength and swiftness. He would nothing fly,
  Nor anything let scape; if once his eye
  Seiz'd any wild beast, he knew straight his scent;
  Go where he would, away with him he went.
  Nor was there ever any savage stood
  Amongst the thickets of the deepest wood
  Long time before him, but he pull'd him down;
  As well by that true hunting to be shown
  In such vast coverts, as for speed of pace
  In any open lawn. For in deep chace
  He was a passing wise and well-nos'd hound.
  And yet is all this good in him uncrown'd
  With any grace here now; nor he more fed
  Than any errant cur. His king is dead,
  Far from his country; and his servants are
  So negligent they lend his hound no care.
  Where masters rule not, but let men alone,
  You never there see honest service done.
  That man's half virtue Jove takes quite away,
  That once is sun-burn'd with the servile day."
  This said, he enter'd the well-builded towers,
  Up bearing right upon the glorious wooers,
  And left poor Argus dead; his lord's first sight
  Since that time twenty years bereft his light.
...

Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)
105 Views

George Chapman

George Chapman was an English trance spiritual healer and medium. more…

All George Chapman poems | George Chapman Books

FAVORITE (0 fans)

Translation

Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • Chinese - Simplified 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • Chinese - Traditional 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Spanish Español (Spanish)
  • Japanese 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Portuguese Português (Portuguese)
  • German Deutsch (German)
  • Arabic العربية (Arabic)
  • French Français (French)
  • Russian Русский (Russian)
  • Kannada ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • Korean 한국어 (Korean)
  • Hebrew עברית (Hebrew)
  • Ukrainian Український (Ukrainian)
  • Urdu اردو (Urdu)
  • Hungarian Magyar (Hungarian)
  • Hindi मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesian Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italian Italiano (Italian)
  • Tamil தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Turkish Türkçe (Turkish)
  • Telugu తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • Thai ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Vietnamese Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Czech Čeština (Czech)
  • Polish Polski (Polish)
  • Indonesian Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Romanian Românește (Romanian)
  • Dutch Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Greek Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latin Latinum (Latin)
  • Swedish Svenska (Swedish)
  • Danish Dansk (Danish)
  • Finnish Suomi (Finnish)
  • Persian فارسی (Persian)
  • Yiddish ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • Armenian հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norwegian Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English English (English)

Discuss this George Chapman poem with the community:

Citation

Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

Style:MLAChicagoAPA

"The Seventeenth Book Of Homer's Odysseys" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 22 May 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/14843/the-seventeenth-book-of-homer's-odysseys>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.