Part 16

Then were my fellows instant to convey Kids, cheeses, lambs, aship-board, and away Sail the salt billow. I thought best not so, But better otherwise; and first would know, What guest-gifts he would spare me. Little knew My friends on whom they would have prey’d. His view Prov’d after, that his inwards were too rough For such bold usage. We were bold enough In what I suffer’d; which was there to stay, Make fire and feed there, though bear none away. There sat we, till we saw him feeding come, And on his neck a burthen lugging home, Most highly huge, of sere-wood, which the pile That fed his fire supplied all supper-while. Down by his den he threw it, and up rose A tumult with the fall. Afraid, we close Withdrew ourselves, while he into a cave Of huge receipt his high-fed cattle drave, All that he milk’d; the males he left without His lofty roofs, that all bestrow’d about With rams and buck-goats were. And then a rock He lift aloft, that damm’d up to his flock The door they enter’d; ’twas so hard to wield, That two-and-twenty waggons, all four-wheel’d, (Could they be loaded, and have teams that were Proportion’d to them) could not stir it there. Thus making sure, he kneel’d and milk’d his ewes, And braying goats, with all a milker’s dues; Then let in all their young. Then quick did dress His half milk up for cheese, and in a press Of wicker press’d it; put in bowls the rest, To drink and eat, and serve his supping feast. All works dispatch’d thus, he began his fire; Which blown, he saw us, and did thus inquire: ῾Ho! guests! What are ye? Whence sail ye these seas? Traffic, or rove ye, and like thieves oppress Poor strange adventurers, exposing so Your souls to danger, and your lives to woe?’ This utter’d he, when fear from our hearts took The very life, to be so thunder-strook With such a voice, and such a monster see; But thus I answer’d: ‘Erring Grecians, we From Troy were turning homewards, but by force Of adverse winds, in far diverted course, Such unknown ways took, and on rude seas toss’d, As Jove decreed, are cast upon this coast, Of Agamemnon, famous Atreus’ son, We boast ourselves the soldiers; who hath won[7] Renown that reacheth heav’n, to overthrow So great a city, and to ruin so So many nations. Yet at thy knees lie Our prostrate bosoms, forc’d with pray’rs to try If any hospitable right, or boon Of other nature, such as have been won By laws of other houses, thou wilt give. Rev’rence the Gods, thou great’st of all that live. We suppliants are; and hospitable Jove Pours wreak on all whom pray’rs want pow’r to move, And with their plagues together will provide That humble guests shall have their wants supplied.’ He cruelly answer’d: ‘O thou fool,’ said he, To come so far, and to importune me With any God’s fear, or observéd love! We Cyclops care not for your goat-fed Jove, Nor other Bless’d ones; we are better far. To Jove himself dare I bid open war, To thee, and all thy fellows, if I please. But tell me, where’s the ship, that by the seas Hath brought thee hither? If far off, or near, Inform me quickly.’ These his temptings were; But I too much knew not to know his mind, And craft with craft paid, telling him the wind (Thrust up from sea by Him that shakes the shore) Had dash’d our ships against his rocks, and tore Her ribs in pieces close upon his coast, And we from high wrack sav’d, the rest were lost. He answer’d nothing, but rush’d in, and took Two of my fellows up from earth, and strook Their brains against it. Like two whelps they flew About his shoulders, and did all embrue The blushing earth. No mountain lion tore Two lambs so sternly, lapp’d up all their gore Gush’d from their torn-up bodies, limb by limb (Trembling with life yet) ravish’d into him. Both flesh and marrow-stufféd bones he eat, And ev’n th’ uncleanséd entrails made his meat. We, weeping, cast our hands to heav’n, to view A sight so horrid. Desperation flew, With all our after lives, to instant death, In our believ’d destruction. But when breath The fury of his appetite had got, Because the gulf his belly reach’d his throat, Man’s flesh, and goat’s milk, laying lay’r on lay’r, Till near chok’d up was all the pass for air, Along his den, among’st his cattle, down He rush’d, and streak’d him. When my mind was grown Desp’rate to step in, draw my sword, and part His bosom where the strings about the heart Circle the liver, and add strength of hand. But that rash thought, more stay’d, did countermand, For there we all had perish’d, since it past Our pow’rs to lift aside a log so vast, As barr’d all outscape; and so sigh’d away The thought all night, expecting active day. Which come, he first of all his fire enflames, Then milks his goats and ewes, then to their dams Lets in their young, and, wondrous orderly, With manly haste dispatch’d his housewif’ry. Then to his breakfast, to which other two Of my poor friends went; which eat, out then go His herds and fat flocks, lightly putting by The churlish bar, and clos’d it instantly; For both those works with ease as much he did, As you would ope and shut your quiver lid. With storms of whistlings then his flock he drave Up to the mountains; and occasion gave For me to use my wits, which to their height I striv’d to screw up, that a vengeance might By some means fall from thence, and Pallas now Afford a full ear to my neediest vow. This then my thoughts preferr’d: A huge club lay Close by his milk-house, which was now in way To dry and season, being an olive-tree Which late he fell’d, and, being green, must be Made lighter for his manage. ’Twas so vast, That we resembled it to some fit mast, To serve a ship of burthen that was driv’n With twenty oars, and had a bigness giv’n To bear a huge sea. Full so thick, so tall, We judg’d this club; which I, in part, hew’d small, And cut a fathom off. The piece I gave Amongst my soldiers, to take down, and shave; Which done, I sharpen’d it at top, and then, Harden’d in fire, I hid it in the den Within a nasty dunghill reeking there, Thick, and so moist it issued ev’rywhere. Then made I lots cast by my friends to try Whose fortune serv’d to dare the bor’d-out eye Of that man-eater; and the lot did fall On four I wish’d to make my aid of all, And I the fifth made, chosen like the rest. Then came the even, and he came from the feast Of his fat cattle, drave in all; nor kept One male abroad; if, or his memory slept By Gods’ direct will, or of purpose was His driving in of all then, doth surpass My comprehension. But he clos’d again The mighty bar, milk’d, and did still maintain All other observation as before. His work all done, two of my soldiers more At once he snatch’d up, and to supper went. Then dar’d I words to him, and did present A bowl of wine, with these words: ‘Cyclop! take A bowl of wine, from my hand, that may make Way for the man’s flesh thou hast eat, and show What drink our ship held; which in sacred vow I offer to thee to take ruth on me In my dismission home. Thy rages be Now no more sufferable. How shall men, Mad and inhuman that thou art, again Greet thy abode, and get thy actions grace, If thus thou ragest, and eat’st up their race.’ He took, and drunk, and vehemently joy’d To taste the sweet cup; and again employ’d My flagon’s pow’rs, entreating more, and said: ῾Good guest, again afford my taste thy aid, And let me know thy name, and quickly now, That in thy recompense I may bestow A hospitable gift on thy desert, And such a one as shall rejoice thy heart. For to the Cyclops too the gentle earth Bears gen’rous wine, and Jove augments her birth, In store of such, with show’rs; but this rich wine Fell from the river, that is mere divine, Of nectar and ambrosia.’ This again I gave him, and again; nor could the fool abstain, But drunk as often. When the noble juice Had wrought upon his spirit, I then gave use To fairer language, saying: ‘Cyclop! now, As thou demand’st, I’ll tell my name, do thou Make good thy hospitable gift to me. My name is No-Man; No-Man each degree Of friends, as well as parents, call my name.’ He answer’d, as his cruel soul became: ‘No-Man! I’ll eat thee last of all thy friends; And this is that in which so much amends I vow’d to thy deservings, thus shall be My hospitable gift made good to thee.’ This said, he upwards fell, but then bent round His fleshy neck; and Sleep, with all crowns crown’d, Subdued the savage. From his throat brake out My wine, with man’s-flesh gobbets, like a spout, When, loaded with his cups, he lay and snor’d; And then took I the club’s end up, and gor’d The burning coal-heap, that the point might heat; Confirm’d my fellow’s minds, lest Fear should let Their vow’d assay, and make them fly my aid. Straight was the olive-lever, I had laid Amidst the huge fire to get hard’ning, hot, And glow’d extremely, though ’twas green; which got From forth the cinders, close about me stood My hardy friends; but that which did the good Was God’s good inspiratión, that gave A spirit beyond the spirit they us’d to have; Who took the olive spar, made keen before, And plung’d it in his eye, and up I bore, Bent to the top close, and help’d pour it in, With all my forces. And as you have seen A ship-wright bore a naval beam, he oft Thrusts at the auger’s froofe, works still aloft, And at the shank help others, with a cord Wound round about to make it sooner bor’d, All plying the round still; so into his eye The fiery stake we labour’d to imply. Out gush’d the blood that scalded, his eye-ball Thrust out a flaming vapour, that scorch’d all His brows and eye-lids, his eye-strings did crack, As in the sharp and burning rafter brake. And as a smith, to harden any tool, Broad axe, or mattock, in his trough doth cool The red-hot substance, that so fervent is It makes the cold wave straight to seethe and hiss; So sod and hiss’d his eye about the stake. He roar’d withal, and all his cavern brake In claps like thunder. We did frighted fly, Dispers’d in corners. He from forth his eye The fixed stake pluck’d; after which the blood Flow’d freshly forth; and, mad, he hurl’d the wood About his hovel. Out he then did cry For other Cyclops, that in caverns by Upon a windy promontory dwell’d; Who, hearing how impetuously he yell’d, Rush’d ev’ry way about him, and inquir’d, What ill afflicted him, that he exspir’d Such horrid clamours, and in sacred Night To break their sleeps so? Ask’d him, if his fright Came from some mortal that his flocks had driv’n? Or if by craft, or might, his death were giv’n? He answer’d from his den: ‘By craft, nor might, No-Man hath giv’n me death.’ They then said right, ‘If no man hurt thee, and thyself alone, That which is done to thee by Jove is done; And what great Jove inflicts no man can fly. Pray to thy Father yet, a Deity, And prove, from him if thou canst help acquire.’ Thus spake they, leaving him; when all-on-fire My heart with joy was, that so well my wit And name deceiv’d him; whom now pain did split, And groaning up and down he groping tried To find the stone, which found, he put aside; But in the door sat, feeling if he could (As his sheep issued) on some man lay hold; Esteeming me a fool, that could devise No stratagem to ‘scape his gross surprise. But I, contending what I could invent My friends and me from death so eminent To get deliver’d, all my wiles I wove (Life being the subject) and did this approve: Fat fleecy rams, most fair, and great, lay there, That did a burden like a violet bear.[8] These, while this learn’d-in-villainy did sleep, I yok’d with osiers cut there, sheep to sheep, Three in a rank, and still the mid sheep bore A man about his belly, the two more March’d on his each side for defence. I then, Choosing myself the fairest of the den, His fleecy belly under-crept, embrac’d His back, and in his rich wool wrapt me fast With both my hands, arm’d with as fast a mind. And thus each man hung, till the morning shin’d; Which come, he knew the hour, and let abroad His male-flocks first, the females unmilk’d stood Bleating and braying, their full bags so sore With being unemptied, but their shepherd more With being unsighted; which was cause his mind Went not a milking. He, to wreak inclin’d, The backs felt, as they pass’d, of those male dams, Gross fool! believing, we would ride his rams! Nor ever knew that any of them bore Upon his belly any man before. The last ram came to pass him, with his wool And me together loaded to the full, For there did I hang; and that ram he stay’d, And me withal had in his hands, my head Troubled the while, not causelessly, nor least. This ram he grop’d, and talk’d to: ‘Lazy beast! Why last art thou now? Thou hast never us’d To lag thus hindmost, but still first hast bruis’d The tender blossom of a flow’r, and held State in thy steps, both to the flood and field, First still at fold at even, now last remain? Dost thou not wish I had mine eye again, Which that abhorr’d man No-Man did put out, Assisted by his execrable rout, When he had wrought me down with wine? But he Must not escape my wreak so cunningly. I would to heav’n thou knew’st, and could but speak, To tell me where he lurks now! I would break His brain about my cave, strew’d here and there, To ease my heart of those foul ills, that were Th’ inflictions of a man I priz’d at nought.’ Thus let he him abroad; when I, once brought A little from his hold, myself first los’d, And next my friends. Then drave we, and dispos’d, His straight-legg’d fat fleece-bearers over land, Ev’n till they all were in my ship’s command; And to our lov’d friends show’d our pray’d-for sight, Escap’d from death. But, for our loss, outright They brake in tears; which with a look I stay’d, And bade them take our boot in. They obey’d, And up we all went, sat, and us’d our oars. But having left as far the savage shores As one might hear a voice, we then might see The Cyclop at the haven; when instantly I stay’d our oars, and this insultance us’d: ῾Cyclop! thou shouldst not have so much abus’d Thy monstrous forces, to oppose their least Against a man immartial, and a guest, And eat his fellows. Thou mightst know there were Some ills behind, rude swain, for thee to bear, That fear’d not to devour thy guests, and break All laws of humans. Jove sends therefore wreak, And all the Gods, by me.’ This blew the more His burning fury; when the top he tore From off a huge rock, and so right a throw Made at our ship, that just before the prow It overflew and fell, miss’d mast and all Exceeding little; but about the fall So fierce a wave it rais’d, that back it bore Our ship so far, it almost touch’d the shore. A bead-hook then, a far-extended one, I snatch’d up, thrust hard, and so set us gone Some little way; and straight commanded all To help me with their oars, on pain to fall Again on our confusion. But a sign I with my head made, and their oars were mine In all performance. When we off were set, (Then first, twice further) my heart was so great, It would again provoke him, but my men On all sides rush’d about me, to contain, And said: ‘Unhappy! why will you provoke A man so rude, that with so dead a stroke, Giv’n with his rock-dart, made the sea thrust back Our ship so far, and near hand forc’d our wrack? Should he again but hear your voice resound, And any word reach, thereby would be found His dart’s direction, which would, in his fall, Crush piece-meal us, quite split our ship and all; So much dart wields the monster.’ Thus urg’d they Impossible things, in fear; but I gave way To that wrath which so long I held deprest, By great necessity conquer’d, in my breast: ‘Cyclop! if any ask thee, who impos’d[9] Th’ unsightly blemish that thine eye enclos’d, Say that Ulysses, old Laertes’ son, Whose seat is Ithaca, and who hath won Surname of City-razer, bor’d it out.’ At this, he bray’d so loud, that round about He drave affrighted echoes through the air, And said: ‘O beast! I was premonish’d fair, By aged prophecy, in one that was A great and good man, this should come to pass; And how ’tis prov’d now! Augur Telemus, Surnam’d Eurymides (that spent with us His age in augury, and did exceed In all presage of truth) said all this deed Should this event take, author’d by the hand Of one Ulysses, who I thought was mann’d With great and goodly personage, and bore A virtue answerable; and this shore Should shake with weight of such a conqueror; When now a weakling came, a dwarfy thing, A thing of nothing; who yet wit did bring, That brought supply to all, and with his wine Put out the flame where all my light did shine. Come, land again, Ulysses! that my hand May guest-rites give thee, and the great command, That Neptune hath at sea, I may convert To the deduction where abides thy heart, With my solicitings, whose son I am, And whose fame boasts to bear my father’s name. Nor think my hurt offends me, for my sire Can soon repose in it the visual fire, At his free pleasure; which no pow’r beside Can boast, of men, or of the Deified.’ I answer’d: ‘Would to God! I could compell Both life and soul from thee, and send to hell Those spoils of nature! Hardly Neptune then Could cure thy hurt, and give thee all again.’ Then flew fierce vows to Neptune, both his hands To star-born heav’n cast: ‘O thou that all lands Gird’st in thy ambient circle, and in air Shak’st the curl’d tresses of thy sapphire hair, If I be thine, or thou mayst justly vaunt Thou art my father, hear me now, and grant That this Ulysses, old Laertes’ son, That dwells in Ithaca, and name hath won Of City-ruiner, may never reach His natural region. Or if to fetch That, and the sight of his fair roofs and friends, Be fatal to him, let him that amends For all his miseries, long time and ill, Smart for, and fail of; nor that fate fulfill, Till all his soldiers quite are cast away In others’ ships. And when, at last, the day Of his sole-landing shall his dwelling show, Let Detriment prepare him wrongs enow.’ Thus pray’d he Neptune; who, his sire, appear’d, And all his pray’r to ev’ry syllable heard. But then a rock, in size more amplified Than first, he ravish’d to him, and implied A dismal strength in it, when, wheel’d about, He sent it after us; nor flew it out From any blind aim, for a little pass Beyond our fore-deck from the fall there was, With which the sea our ship gave back upon, And shrunk up into billows from the stone, Our ship again repelling near as near The shore as first. But then our rowers were, Being warn’d, more arm’d, and stronglier stemm’d the flood That bore back on us, till our ship made good The other island, where our whole fleet lay, In which our friends lay mourning for our stay, And ev’ry minute look’d when we should land. Where, now arriv’d, we drew up to the sand, The Cyclops’ sheep dividing, that none there Of all our privates might be wrung, and bear Too much on pow’r. The ram yet was alone By all my friends made all my portion Above all others; and I made him then A sacrifice for me and all my men[10] To cloud-compelling Jove that all commands, To whom I burn’d the thighs; but my sad hands Receiv’d no grace from him, who studied how To offer men and fleet to overthrow.

All day, till sun-set, yet, we sat and eat, And lib’ral store took in of wine and meat. The sun then down, and place resign’d to shade, We slept. Morn came, my men I rais’d, and made All go aboard, weigh anchor, and away. They boarded, sat, and beat the aged sea; And forth we made sail, sad for loss before, Any yet had comfort since we lost no more.”

FINIS LIBRI NONI HOM. ODYSS.

[1] _Εἰνοσίϕυλλον, quatientem seu agitantem frondes._

[2] _Quædam quibus corpus alitur et vita sustentatur ὕλη appellantur._

[3] _Amor patriœ._

[4] After night, in the first of the morning.

[5] The ancient custom of calling home the dead.

[6] The description of all these countries have admirable allegories besides their artly and pleasing relation.

[7] This his relation of Agamemnon, and his glory and theirs for Troy’s sack, with the piety of suppliants’ receipt, to him that was so barbarous and impious, must be intended spoken by Ulysses, with supposition that his hearers would note, still as he spake, how vain they would show to the Cyclops; who respected little Agamemnon, or their valiant exploit against Troy, or the Gods themselves. For otherwise, the serious observation of the words (though good and grave, if spoken to another) want their intentional sharpness and life.

[8] Wool of a violet colour.

[9] Ulysses’ continued insolence, no more to repeat what he said to the Cyclop, than to let his hearers know epithets, and estimation in the world.

[10] No occasion let pass to Ulysses’ piety in our Poet’s singular wit and wisdom.

THE TENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS

THE ARGUMENT

Ulysses now relates to us The grace he had with Æolus, Great Guardian of the hollow Winds; Which in a leather bag he binds, And gives Ulysses; all but one, Which Zephyr was, who fill’d alone Ulysses’ sails. The bag once seen, While he slept, by Ulysses’ men, They thinking it did gold enclose, To find it, all the winds did loose, Who back flew to their Guard again. Forth sail’d he; and did next attain To where the Læstrygonians dwell. Where he eleven ships lost, and fell On the Ææan coast, whose shore He sends Eurylochus t’ explore, Dividing with him half his men. Who go, and turn no more again, All, save Eurylochus, to swine By Circe turn’d. Their stays incline Ulysses to their search; who got Of Mercury an antidote, Which moly was, ’gainst Circe’s charms, And so avoids his soldiers’ harms. A year with Circe all remain, And then their native forms regain. On utter shores a time they dwell, While Ithacus descends to hell.

ANOTHER ARGUMENT

_Κάππα._ Great Æolus, And Circe, friends Finds Ithacus; And hell descends.