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Say, if my sire, good old Laertes, lives? If yet Telemachus, my son, survives? Say, by his rule is my dominion awed, Or crush'd by traitors with an iron rod? Say, if my spouse maintains her royal trust; Though tempted, chaste, and obstinately just? Or if no more her absent lord she wails, But the false woman o'er the wife prevails? Thee in Telemachus thy realm obeys; In sacred groves celestial rites he pays, And shares the banquet in superior state, Graced with such honours as become the great Thy sire in solitude foments his care: The court is joyless, for thou art not there!

No costly carpets raise his hoary head, No rich embroidery shines to grace his bed; Even when keen winter freezes in the skies, Rank'd with his slaves, on earth the monarch lies: Deep are his sighs, his visage pale, his dress The garb of woe and habit of distress.

And when the autumn takes his annual round, The leafy honours scattering on the ground, Regardless of his years, abroad he lies, His bed the leaves, his canopy the skies. Thus cares on cares his painful days consume, And bow his age with sorrow to the tomb!


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Wild with despair, I shed a copious tide Of flowing tears, and thus with sighs replied:. Turn to my arms, to my embraces turn! Is it, ye powers that smile at human harms! Too great a bliss to weep within her arms? Or has hell's queen an empty image sent, That wretched I might e'en my joys lament? But from the dark dominions speed the way, And climb the steep ascent to upper day: To thy chaste bride the wondrous story tell, The woes, the horrors, and the laws of hell. Dauntless my sword I seize: the airy crew, Swift as it flash'd along the gloom, withdrew; Then shade to shade in mutual forms succeeds, Her race recounts, and their illustrious deeds.

For fair Enipeus, as from fruitful urns He pours his watery store, the virgin burns; Smooth flows the gentle stream with wanton pride, And in soft mazes rolls a silver tide. As on his banks the maid enamour'd roves, The monarch of the deep beholds and loves; In her Enipeus' form and borrow'd charms The amorous god descends into her arms: Around, a spacious arch of waves he throws, And high in air the liquid mountain rose; Thus in surrounding floods conceal'd, he proves The pleasing transport, and completes his loves.

Then, softly sighing, he the fair address'd, And as he spoke her tender hand he press'd. The wife self-murder'd from a beam depends, And her foul soul to blackest hell descends; Thence to her son the choicest plagues she brings, And the fiends haunt him with a thousand stings. With gifts unnumber'd Neleus sought her arms, Nor paid too dearly for unequall'd charms; Great in Orchomenos, in Pylos great, He sway'd the sceptre with imperial state.

Three gallant sons the joyful monarch told, Sage Nestor, Periclimenus the bold, And Chromius last; but of the softer race, One nymph alone, a myracle of grace. Kings on their thrones for lovely Pero burn; The sire denies, and kings rejected mourn.

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my Odyssey thru Hell

To him alone the beauteous prize he yields, Whose arm should ravish from Phylacian fields The herds of Iphyclus, detain'd in wrong; Wild, furious herds, unconquerably strong! This dares a seer, but nought the seer prevails, In beauty's cause illustriously he fails; Twelve moons the foe the captive youth detains In painful dungeons, and coercive chains; The foe at last from durance where he lay, His heart revering, give him back to day; Won by prophetic knowledge, to fulfil The steadfast purpose of the Almighty will.

Proud of their strength, and more than mortal size, The gods they challenge, and affect the skies: Heaved on Olympus tottering Ossa stood; On Ossa, Pelion nods with all his wood. Such were they youths I had they to manhood grown Almighty Jove had trembled on his throne, But ere the harvest of the beard began To bristle on the chin, and promise man, His shafts Apollo aim'd; at once they sound, And stretch the giant monsters o'er the ground. But should I all recount, the night would fail, Unequal to the melancholy tale: And all-composing rest my nature craves, Here in the court, or yonder on the waves; In you I trust, and in the heavenly powers, To land Ulysses on his native shores.

He ceased; but left so charming on their ear His voice, that listening still they seem'd to hear, Till, rising up, Arete silence broke, Stretch'd out her snowy hand, and thus she spoke:. He, as my guest, is my peculiar care: You share the pleasure, then in bounty share To worth in misery a reverence pay, And with a generous hand reward his stay; For since kind heaven with wealth our realm has bless'd, Give it to heaven by aiding the distress'd.

Then sage Echeneus, whose grave reverend brow The hand of time had silvered o'er with snow, Mature in wisdom rose: "Your words he cries Demand obedience, for your words are wise. But let our king direct the glorious way To generous acts; our part is to obey. Be it my task to send with ample stores The stranger from our hospitable shores: Tread you my steps!

To whom the prince: "This night with joy I stay O monarch great in virtue as in sway! If thou the circling year my stay control, To raise a bounty noble as thy soul; The circling year I wait, with ampler stores And fitter pomp to hail my native shores: Then by my realms due homage would be paid; For wealthy kings are loyally obeyed! Thy words like music every breast control, Steal through the ear, and win upon the soul; soft, as some song divine, thy story flows, Nor better could the Muse record thy woes.

The godlike leaders who, in battle slain, Fell before Troy, and nobly press'd the plain? And lo! Thy tale with raptures I could hear thee tell, Thy woes on earth, the wondrous scenes in hell, Till in the vault of heaven the stars decay. And the sky reddens with the rising day.

Prepare to heir of murder and of blood; Of godlike heroes who uninjured stood Amidst a war of spears in foreign lands, Yet bled at home, and bled by female hands. He quaff'd the gore; and straight his soldier knew, And from his eyes pour'd down the tender dew: His arms he stretch'd; his arms the touch deceive, Nor in the fond embrace, embraces give: His substance vanish'd, and his strength decay'd, Now all Atrides is an empty shade.

Say while the sea, and while the tempest raves, Has Fate oppress'd thee in the roaring waves, Or nobly seized thee in the dire alarms Of war and slaughter, and the clash of arms? Nor nobly seized me in the dire alarms Of war and slaughter, and the clash of arms Stabb'd by a murderous hand Atrides died, A foul adulterer, and a faithless bride; E'en in my mirth, and at the friendly feast, O'er the full bowl, the traitor stabb'd his guest; Thus by the gory arm of slaughter falls The stately ox, and bleeds within the stalls.

But not with me the direful murder ends, These, these expired!

When war has tbunder'd with its loudest storms, Death thou hast seen in all her ghastly forms: In duel met her on the listed ground, When hand to hand they wound return for wound; But never have the eyes astonish'd view'd So vile a deed, so dire a scene of blood. E'en in the flow of joy, when now the bowl Glows in our veins, and opens every soul, We groan, we faint; with blood the doom is dyed. And o'er the pavement floats the dreadful tide-- Her breast all gore, with lamentable cries, The bleeding innocent Cassandra dies!

Then though pale death froze cold in every vein, My sword I strive to wield, but strive in vain; Nor did my traitress wife these eyelids close, Or decently in death my limbs compose. O woman, woman, when to ill thy mind Is bent, all hell contains no fouler fiend: And such was mine! I hoped the toils of war o'ercome, To meet soft quiet and repose at home; Delusive hope!

O wife, thy deeds disgrace The perjured sex, and blacken all the race; And should posterity one virtuous find, Name Clytemnestra, they will curse the kind.

Assassin's Creed Odyssey - Let's Play Part 15: Consulting a Ghost

By woman here thou tread'st this monrnful strand, And Greece by woman lies a desert land. But in thy consort cease to fear a foe, For thee she feels sincerity of woe; When Troy first bled beneath the Grecian arms, She shone unrivall'd with a blaze of charms; Thy infant son her fragrant bosom press'd, Hung at her knee, or wanton'd at her breast; But now the years a numerous train have ran; The blooming boy is ripen'd into man; Thy eyes shall see him burn with noble fire, The sire shall bless his son, the son his sire; But my Orestes never met these eyes, Without one look the murder'd father dies; Then from a wretched friend this wisdom learn, E'en to thy queen disguised, unknown, return; For since of womankind so few are just, Think all are false, nor e'en the faithful trust.

Or say in Pyle? War was his joy, and pleased with loud alarms, None but Pelides brighter shone in arms. But sure the eye of Time beholds no name So bless'd as thine in all the rolls of fame; Alive we hail'd thee with our guardian gods, And dead thou rulest a king in these abodes. Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead.

But say, if in my steps my son proceeds, And emulates his godlike father's deeds? If at the clash of arms, and shout of foes, Swells his bold heart, his bosom nobly glows?

Odyssey Convocation

Say if my sire, the reverend Peleus, reigns, Great in his Phthia, and his throne maintains; Or, weak and old, my youthful arm demands, To fix the sceptre steadfast in his hands? O might the lamp of life rekindled burn, And death release me from the silent urn! This arm, that thunder'd o'er the Phrygian plain, And swell'd the ground with mountains of the slain, Should vindicate my injured father's fame, Crush the proud rebel, and assert his claim.

With me from Scyros to the field of fame Radiant in arms the blooming hero came.

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When Greece assembled all her hundred states, To ripen counsels, and decide debates, Heavens! He first was seen of all the peers to rise, The third in wisdom, where they all were wise! But when, to try the fortune of the day, Host moved toward host in terrible array, Before the van, impatient for the fight, With martial port he strode, and stern delight: Heaps strew'd on heaps beneath his falchion groan'd, And monuments of dead deform'd the ground.

The time would fail should I in order tell What foes were vanquish'd, and what numbers fell: How, lost through love, Eurypylus was slain, And round him bled his bold Cetaean train.

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To Troy no hero came of nobler line, Or if of nobler, Memnon, it was thine. And when the gods our arms with conquest crown'd, When Troy's proud bulwarks smoked upon the ground, Greece, to reward her soldier's gallant toils, Heap'd high his navy with unnumber'd spoils. Alone, apart, in discontented mood, A gloomy shade the sullen Ajax stood; For ever sad, with proud disdain he pined, And the lost arms for ever stung his mind; Though to the contest Thetis gave the laws, And Pallas, by the Trojans, judged the cause. O why was I victorious in the strife?

O dear bought honour with so brave a life! I know it will be hard and yes they might disappoint you but I promise you, finding a friend is always worth the work. Try something new. Take a dance class, go to a new restaurant, climb a mountain.

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The past is the past and you are not that same girl. Surprise yourself and others by stepping out of what you know and into a new adventure. Listen to someone's story. Sometimes it feels like all the memories, feelings and heartache of your own journey will just eat you alive.

Take time to get out of your head by allowing someone else to be heard. And finally, do one last thing. Think back, way back to when you were a little kid.

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Picture your purest memory. Think about a moment in time when you were smiling and laughing, a time when everything was right with the world before stress and anxiety, worry and defeat. Got it? Okay now look at that girl, really look at her. That girl is still there. She is buried deep inside you wanting you to laugh and smile and dance again. You see that girl?