Borne by the tearful voice of Fame,
Whom erst, by false impeachment sped,
Maligned because for peace he pled,
Greece gave to death, now mourns him dead,—
His kinsman I, while yet a boy,
Sent by a needy sire to Troy.
While he yet stood in kingly state,
Mid brother kings in council great,
I too had power: but when he died,
By false Ulysses' spite belied,
(The tale is known) from that proud height
I sank to wretchedness and night,
And brooded in my dolorous gloom
On that my guiltless kinsman's doom:
Not all in silence—no, I swore,
Should Fortune bring me home once more,
My vengeance should redress his fate,
And speech engendered cankerous hate.
Thence dates my fall: Ulysses thence
Still scared me with some fresh pretence,
With chance-dropt words the people fired,
Sought means of hint[errata 1], intrigued, conspired.
Nor did the glow of hatred cool,
Till, using Calchas as his tool—
But why a tedious tale repeat,
To stay you from your morsel sweet?
If all are equal, Greek and Greek,
Enough—your tardy vengeance wreak;
My death will Ithacus delight,
And Atreus' sons the boon requite.'
We press, we yearn the truth to know
Nor dream how doubly base our foe:
He, faltering still and overawed,
Takes up the unfinished web of fraud.
