FIFTH STAVE

Now calleth he assembly of the chiefs,

Princes and kings and captains, them whose griefs

To ease his own like treasure had been lent;

Who came and sat at board within the tent

Of him they hailed host-father and their lord

For this adventure, in aught else abhorred

Of all true men. He sits above the rest,

The fox-red Agamemnon, round his crest

The circlet of his kingship over kings,

And at his thigh the sword gold-hilted swings

Which Zeus gave Atreus once; and in his heart

That gnawing doubt which twice had checkt his start

For high emprise, having twice egged him to it,

As stout Odysseus knew who had to rue it.

Beside him Nestor sat, Nestor the old,

White as the winter moon, with logic cold

Instilled, as if the blood in him had fled

And in his veins clear spirit ran instead,

Which made men reasons and not fired their sprites.

And next Idomeneus of countless fights,

Shrewd leader of the Cretans; by his side

Keen-flashing Diomedes in his pride,

The young, the wild in onset, whose war-shrill,

Next after Peleus’ son's, held all Troy still,

And stayed the gray crows at their ravelling

Of dead men's bones. Into debate full fling

Went he, adone with tapping of the foot

And drumming on the board. Had but his suit

Been granted — so he said — the war were done

And Troy a name ere full three years had gone:

For as for Helen and her daintiness,

Troy held a mort of women who no less

Than she could pleasure night when work was over

And men came home ready to play the lover;

And in housework would better her. Let Helen

Be laid by Paris, villain, and dead villain —

Dead long ago if he had taken the field

Instead of Menelaus. Then no shield

Had Kypris’ golden body been, acquist

With his sword-arm already, near the wrist!

So Diomedes. Next him sat a man

With all his woe to come, the Lokrian

Aias, son of Oïleus, bearded swart,

Pale, with his little eyes, and legs too short

And arms too long, a giant when he sat,

Dwarf else, and in the fight a tiger-cat.

But mark his neighbour, mark him well: to him

Falleth the lot to lay a charge more grim

On woman fair than even Althaia felt

Like lead upon her heartstrings, when she knelt

And blew to flame the brand that held the life

Of her own son; or Procne with the knife,

Who slew and dressed her child to be a meal

To his own father. But this man's thews were steel,

And steely were the nerves about his heart,

As they had need. Mark him, and mark the part

He plays hereafter. Odysseus is his name,

The wily Ithacan, deathless in his fame

And in his substance deathless, since he goes

Immortal forth and back wherever blows

The thunder of thy rhythm, O blind King,

First of the tribe of them with songs to sing,

Fountain of storied music and its end —

For who the poet since who doth not tend

To essay thy leaping measure, or call down

Thy nodded approbation for his crown

And all his wages?

Other chiefs sat there

In order due: as Pyrrhos, very fair

And young, with high bright colour, and the hue

Of evening in his eyes of violet-blue —

Son of Achilles he, and new to war.

Then Antiklos and Teukros, best by far

Of all the bowmen in the host. And last

Menestheus the Athenian dikast,

Who led the folk from Pallas's fair home.

To them spake Menelaus, being come

Into assembly last, and taken in hand

The spokesman's staff: “Ye princes of our land,

Adventurous Achaians, stout of heart,

Good news I bring, that now we may depart

Each to his home and kindred, each to his hearth

And wife and children dear and well-tilled garth,

Contented with the honour he has brought

To me and mine, since I have what we've sought

With bitter pain and loss. Yea, even now

Hath Heré crowned your strife and earned my vow

Made these ten years come harvest, having drawn

The veil from off those eyes than which not dawn

Holds sweeter light nor holier, once they see.

Yea, chieftains, Helen's heart comes back to me;

And fast she watches now hard by the wall

Of the wicked house, and ere the cock shall call

Another morn I have her in my arms

Redeemed for Sparta, pure of Trojan harms,

Whole-hearted and clean-hearted as she came

First, before Paris and his deed of shame

Threatened my house with wreck, and on his own

Have brought no joy. This night, disguised, alone,

I stand within the city, waiting day;

Then when men sleep, all in the shadowless gray,

Robbing the robber, I drop down with her

Over the wall — and lo! the end of the war!”

Thus great of heart and high of heart he spake,

And trembling ceased. Awhile none cared to break

The silence, like unto that breathless hush

That holds a forest ere the great winds rush

Up from the sea-gulf, bringing furious rain

Like mist to drown all nature, blot the plain

In one great sheet of water without form.

So held the chiefs. Then Diomede brake in storm.

Ever the first he was to fling his spear

Into the press of battle; dread his cheer,

Like the long howling of a wolf at eve

Or clamour of the sea-birds when they grieve

And hanker the out-scouring of the net

Hidden behind the darkness and the wet

Of tempest-ridden nights. “Princes,” he cried,

“What say ye to this wooer of his bride,

For whom it seems ten nations and their best

Have fought ten years to bring her back to nest?

Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this

You flung forth fortune — to ensure him his?

And he made snug at home, we seek our lands

Barer than we left them, with emptier hands,

And some with fewer members, shed that he

Might fare as soft and trim as formerly!

Not so went I adventuring, good friend;

Not so look I this business to have end:

Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight,

And so will live by day as thou by night,

Sating my eyes with havoc on this race

Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place

Brought level with the herbage and the weed,

That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed,

And moles make palaces, and bats keep house.

And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse

As quit thy score by thieving from a thief

And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief

For Tydeus’ son, who sees no end of strife

But in his own or in his foeman's life.”

So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: “By that great shade

Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made

Who slew my father, think not so to have done

With Troy and Priam; for Peleides’ son

Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost

Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast,

Murdered and unacquit while that man's father

Liveth.”

Then leapt up two, and both together

Cried, “Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill

Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!”

And Aias said, “Are there no women then

In Troy, but only her? And are we men

Or virgins of Athené?” And the dream

Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam

His shifting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips

Behind his beard.

Then stood that prince of ships

And shipmen, great Odysseus; with one hand

He held the staff, with one he took command;

And thus in measured tones, with word intent

Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement,

Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight

Clamour died down, even as the wind at night

Falls and is husht at rising of the moon.

“Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon

Is strife of ten years rounded to a close,

Neither so are men seated, friends or foes.

For say thus lightly we renounced the meed

Of our long travail, gave so little heed

To our great dead as find in one man's joy

Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy —

Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear,

Stock without master, wasting year by year;

Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons

Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs

For sorrow, but the darkness covers all —

What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall,

Or what beside a name, who let go by

Ilios the rich for others’ usury?

And have the blessed Gods no say in this?

Think you they be won over by a kiss —

Heré the Queen, she, the unwearied aid

Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid?

Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate,

Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate,

And for her towers abasement to the dust?

Behold, O King, lust shall be paid with lust,

And treachery with treachery, and for blood

Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood

Of our pent passion; break her gates in, raze

The walls of her, cumber her pleasant ways

With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil

Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil,

Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things,

Harness of flashing bronze, swords, meed of kings,

Chariots and horses swifter than the wind

Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind

Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall

Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall.

So only shall ye close this agelong strife,

Nor by redemption of a too fair wife,

Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold,

O Menelaus, may the tale be told!

Nay, but by slaying of Achilles’ slayer,

By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer,

By not withholding from the spoils of war

Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are

Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall.”

He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all,

Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum,

One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb;

One raging to be contraried, one torn

By those two passions wherewith he was born,

The lust for body's ease and lust of gain.

Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men,

Gentle his voice to hear. “Laertes’ son,”

He said, but‘ twas Nestor he looked upon,

The wise old man who sat beside his chair,

Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair

Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it,

Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it

From foe, or over friend made stronger claim:

“Laertes’ son,” the king said, “all men's fame

Reports thee just and fertile in device;

And as the friend of God great is thy price

To us of Argos; for without the Gods

How should we look to trace the limitless roads

That weave a criss-cross‘ twixt us and our home?

Go to now, some will stay and other some

Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart,

Not warfaring as men fare to the mart,

To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout;

But honour is the prize wherefor they go out,

And having that, dishonoured are content

To leave the foe — that is best punishment.

Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth,

Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth —

As if of blood enough had not been spilt!—

Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt,

Noble Odysseus, seeking how compose

His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows

Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer,

Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her.

Come, let this be the sum of our debate.”

“Content you,” Menelaus said, “I wait

Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus.”

Then said Odysseus, “Be it as you choose,

Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say

Let me win into Troy as best I may,

Seek out the lovely lady of our land

And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand

The sentries, how the warders of the gates;

The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits

To crown our long endeavour. These things learned,

Back to the ships I come ere yet are burned

The watch-fires of the night, before the sun

Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run

Out of the golden gateways of the East.”

Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least.