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Wretch! is not thine: the arrows of the king
Shall end those hopes, and fate is on the wing!
Then thus Telemachus: "Some god I find
With pleasing frenzy has possess'd my mind;
When a loved mother threatens to depart,
Why with this ill-timed gladness leaps my heart?
Come then, ye suitors! and dispute a prize
Richer than all the Achaian state supplies,
Than all proud Argos, or Mycaena knows,
Than all our isles or continents inclose;
A woman matchless, and almost divine,
Fit for the praise of every tongue but mine.
No more excuses then, no more delay;
Haste to the trial--Lo! I lead the way.
"I too may try, and if this arm can wing
The feather'd arrow through the destined ring,
Then if no happier night the conquest boast,
I shall not sorrow for a mother lost;
But, bless'd in her, possess those arms alone,
Heir of my father's strength, as well as throne."
He spoke; then rising, his broad sword unbound,
And cast his purple garment on the ground.
A trench he open'd: in a line he placed.
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