Death of Argus

32So talked the twain. A dog was lying near,
And lifted up his head and pricked his ears.
It was Argus, which the much-enduring man
Odysseus long before had reared, but left
Untried, when for the hallowed town of Troy
He sailed. The young men oft had led him forth
In eager chase of wild goats, stags, and hares;
But now, his master far away, he lay
Neglected, just before the stable doors,
Amid the droppings of the mules and beeves,
Heaped high till carried to the spacious fields
Of which Odysseus was the lord. There lay
Argus, devoured with vermin. As he saw
Odysseus drawing near, he wagged his tail
And dropped his ears, but found that he could come
No nearer to his master. Seeing this,
Odysseus wiped away a tear unmarked
By the good swineherd, whom he questioned thus: —

33“Eumaeus, this I marvel at —this dog,
That lies upon the dunghill, beautiful
In form, but whether in the chase as fleet
As he is fairly shaped I cannot tell.
Worthless, perchance, as house-dogs often are,
Whose masters keep them for the sake of show.”

34And thus, Eumaeus, you did make reply:
“The dog belongs to one who died afar.
Had he the power of limb which once he had
For feats of hunting when Odysseus sailed
For Troy and left him, you would be amazed
Both at his swiftness and his strength. No beast
In the thick forest depths which once he saw,
Or even tracked by footprints, could escape.
And now he is a sufferer, since his lord
Has perished far from his own land. No more
The careless women heed the creature’s wants;
For, when the master is no longer near,
The servants cease from their appointed tasks,
And on the day that one becomes a slave
The Thunderer, Zeus, takes half his worth away.”