Chapter_16

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“Now when our barque had left Océanus

And entered the great deep, we reached the isle

Aeaea, where the Morning, child of Dawn,

Abides, and holds her dances, and the Sun

Goes up from earth. We landed there and drew

Our galley up the beach; we disembarked

And laid us down to sleep beside the sea,

And waited for the holy Morn to rise.

“Then when the rosy-fingered Morn appeared,

The child of Dawn, I sent my comrades forth

To bring from Circè’s halls Elpenor’s corse.

And where a headland stretched into the deep

We hewed down trees, and held the funeral rites

With many tears; and having there consumed

The body and the arms with fire, we built

A tomb, and reared a column to the dead,

And on its summit fixed a tapering oar.

“All this was duly done; yet was the news

Of our return from Hades not concealed

From Circè. She attired herself in haste

And came; her maids came with her, bringing bread

And store of meats and generous wine; and thus

Spake the wise goddess, standing in the midst:⁠—

“ ‘Ah, daring ones! who, yet alive, have gone

Down to the abode of Pluto; twice to die

Is yours, while others die but once. Yet now

Take food, drink wine, and hold a feast today,

And with the dawn of morning ye shall sail;

And I will show the way, and teach you all

Its dangers, so that ye may not lament

False counsels followed, either on the land

Or on the water, to your grievous harm.’

“She spake, and our confiding minds were swayed

Easily by her counsels. All that day

Till set of sun we sat and banqueted

Upon the abundant meats and generous wines;

And when the Sun went down, and darkness came,

The crew beside the fastenings of our barque

Lay down to sleep, while Circè took my hand,

Led me apart, and made me sit, and took

Her seat before me, and inquired of all

That I had seen. I told her faithfully,

And then the mighty goddess Circè said:⁠—

“ ‘Thus far is well; now needfully attend

To what I say, and may some deity

Help thee remember it! Thou first wilt come

To where the Sirens haunt. They throw a spell

O’er all who pass that way. If unawares

One finds himself so nigh that he can hear

Their voices, round him nevermore shall wife

And lisping children gather, welcoming

His safe return with joy. The Sirens sit

In a green field, and charm with mellow notes

The comer, while beside them lie in heaps

The bones of men decaying underneath

The shrivelled skins. Take heed and pass them by.

First fill with wax well kneaded in the palm

The ears of thy companions, that no sound

May enter. Hear the music, if thou wilt,

But let thy people bind thee, hand and foot,

To the good ship, upright against the mast,

And round it wind the cord, that thou mayst hear

The ravishing notes. But shouldst thou then entreat

Thy men, commanding them to set thee free,

Let them be charged to bind thee yet more fast

With added bands. And when they shall have passed

The Sirens by, I will not judge for thee

Which way to take; consider for thyself;

I tell thee of two ways. There is a pile

Of beetling rocks, where roars the mighty surge

Of dark-eyed Amphitritè; these are called

The Wanderers by the blessed gods. No birds

Can pass them safe, not even the timid doves,

Which bear ambrosia to our father Jove,

But ever doth the slippery rock take off

Someone, whose loss the God at once supplies,

To keep their number full. To these no barque

Guided by man has ever come, and left

The spot unwrecked; the billows of the deep

And storms of fire in air have scattered wide

Timbers of ships and bodies of drowned men.

One only of the barques that plough the deep

Has passed them safely⁠—Argo, known to all

By fame, when coming from Aeaeta home⁠—

And her the billows would have dashed against

The enormous rocks, if Juno, for the sake

Of Jason, had not come to guide it through.

“ ‘Two are the rocks; one lifts to the broad heaven

Its pointed summit, where a dark gray cloud

Broods, and withdraws not; never is the sky

Clear o’er that peak, not even in summer days

Or autumn; nor can man ascend its steeps,

Or venture down⁠—so smooth the sides, as if

Man’s art had polished them. There in the midst

Upon the western side toward Erebus

There yawns a shadowy cavern; thither thou,

Noble Ulysses, steer thy barque, yet keep

So far aloof that, standing on the deck,

A youth might send an arrow from a bow

Just to the cavern’s mouth. There Scylla dwells,

And fills the air with fearful yells; her voice

The cry of whelps just littered, but herself

A frightful prodigy⁠—a sight which none

Would care to look on, though he were a god.

Twelve feet are hers, all shapeless; six long necks,

A hideous head on each, and triple rows

Of teeth, close set and many, threatening death.

And half her form is in the cavern’s womb,

And forth from that dark gulf her heads are thrust,

To look abroad upon the rocks for prey⁠—

Dolphin, or dogfish, or the mightier whale,

Such as the murmuring Amphitritè breeds

In multitudes. No mariner can boast

That he has passed by Scylla with a crew

Unharmed; she snatches from the deck, and bears

Away in each grim mouth, a living man.

“ ‘Another rock, Ulysses, thou wilt see,

Of lower height, so near her that a spear,

Cast by the hand, might reach it. On it grows

A huge wild fig-tree with luxuriant leaves.

Below, Charybdis, of immortal birth,

Draws the dark water down; for thrice a day

She gives it forth, and thrice with fearful whirl

She draws it in. O, be it not thy lot

To come while the dark water rushes down!

Even Neptune could not then deliver thee.

Then turn thy course with speed toward Scylla’s rock,

And pass that way; ’twere better far that six

Should perish from the ship than all be lost’

“She spake, and I replied: ‘O goddess, deign

To tell me truly, cannot I at once

Escape Charybdis and defend my friends

Against the rage of Scylla when she strikes?’

“I spake; the mighty goddess answered me:⁠—

‘Rash man! dost thou still think of warlike deeds,

And feats of strength? And wilt thou not give way

Even to the deathless gods? That pest is not

Of mortal mould; she cannot die, she is

A thing to tremble and to shudder at,

And fierce, and never to be overcome.

There is no room for courage; flight is best.

And if thou shouldst delay beside the rock

To take up arms, I fear lest once again

She fall on thee with all her heads, and seize

As many men. Pass by the monster’s haunt

With all the speed that thou canst make, and call

Upon Crataeis, who brought Scylla forth

To be the plague of men, and who will calm

Her rage, that she assault thee not again.

“ ‘Then in thy voyage shalt thou reach the isle

Trinacria, where, in pastures of the Sun,

His many beeves and fading sheep are fed⁠—

Seven herds of oxen, and as many flocks

Of sheep, and fifty in each flock and herd.

They never multiply; they never die.

Two shepherdesses tend them, goddesses,

Nymphs with redundant locks⁠—Lampelia one,

The other Phaëthusa. These the nymph

Naeëra to the overgoing Sun

Brought forth, and when their queenly mother’s care

Had reared them, she appointed them to dwell

In far Trinacria, there to keep the flocks

And oxen of their father. If thy thoughts

Be fixed on thy return, so that thou leave

These flocks and herds unharmed, ye all will come

To Ithaca, though after many toils.

But if thou rashly harm them, I foretell

Destruction to thy ship and all its crew;

And if thyself escape, thou wilt return

Late and in sorrow, all thy comrades lost.’

“She spake; the Morning on her golden throne

Looked forth; the glorious goddess went her way

Into the isle, I to my ship, and bade

The men embark and cast the hawsers loose.

And straight they went on board, and duly manned

The benches, smiting as they sat with oars

The hoary waters. Circè, amber-haired,

The mighty goddess of the musical voice,

Sent a fair wind behind our dark-prowed ship

That gayly bore us company, and filled

The sails. When we had fairly ordered all

On board our galley, we sat down, and left

The favoring wind and helm to bear us on,

And thus in sadness I bespake the crew:⁠—

“ ‘My friends! it were not well that one or two

Alone should know the oracles I heard

From Circè, great among the goddesses;

And now will I disclose them, that ye all,

Whether we are to die or to escape

The doom of death, may be forewarned. And first

Against the wicked Sirens and their song

And flowery bank she warns us. I alone

May hear their voice, but ye must bind me first

With bands too strong to break, that I may stand

Upright against the mast; and let the cords

Be fastened round it. If I then entreat

And bid you loose me, make the bands more strong.’

“Thus to my crew I spake, and told them all

That they should know, while our good ship drew near

The island of the Sirens, prosperous gales

Wafting it gently onward. Then the breeze

Sank to a breathless calm; some deity

Had hushed the winds to slumber. Straightway rose

The men and furled the sails and laid them down

Within the ship, and sat and made the sea

White with the beating of their polished blades,

Made of the fir-tree. Then I took a mass

Of wax and cut it into many parts,

And kneaded each with a strong hand. It grew

Warm with the pressure, and the beams of him

Who journeys round the earth, the monarch Sun.

With this I filled the ears of all my men

From first to last. They bound me, in their turn,

Upright against the mast-tree, hand and foot,

And tied the cords around it. Then again

They sat and threshed with oars the hoary deep.

And when, in running rapidly, we came

So near the Sirens as to hear a voice

From where they sat, our galley flew not by

Unseen by them, and sweetly thus they sang:⁠—

“ ‘O world-renowned Ulysses! thou who art

The glory of the Achaians, turn thy barque

Landward, that thou mayst listen to our lay

No man has passed us in his galley yet,

Ere he has heard our warbled melodies.

He goes delighted hence a wiser man;

For all that in the spacious realm of Troy

The Greeks and Trojans by the will of Heaven

Endured we know, and all that comes to pass

In all the nations of the fruitful earth.’ ”

’Twas thus they sang, and sweet the strain. I longed

To listen, and with nods I gave the sign

To set me free; they only plied their oars

The faster. Then upsprang Eurylochus

And Perimedes, and with added cords

Bound me, and drew the others still more tight.

And when we now had passed the spot, and heard

No more the melody the Sirens sang,

My comrades hastened from their ears to take

The wax, and loosed the cords and set me free.

“As soon as we had left the isle, I saw

Mist and a mountain billow, and I heard

The thunder of the waters. From the hands

Of my affrighted comrades flew the oars,

The deep was all in uproar; but the ship

Stopped there, for all the rowers ceased their task.

I went through all the ship exhorting them

With cheerful words, man after man, and said:⁠—

“ ‘Reflect, my friends, that we are not untried

In evil fortunes, nor in sadder plight

Are we than when within his spacious cave

The brutal Cyclops held us prisoners;

Yet through my valor we escaped, and through

My counsels and devices, and I think

That ye will live to bear this day’s events

In memory like those. Now let us act.

Do all as I advise; go to your seats

Upon the benches, smiting with your oars

These mighty waves, and haply Jove will grant

That we escape the death which threatens us.

Thee, helmsman, I adjure⁠—and heed my words,

Since to thy hands alone is given in charge

Our gallant vessel’s rudder⁠—steer thou hence

From mist and tumbling waves, and well observe

The rock, lest where it juts into the sea

Thou heed it not, and bring us all to wreck.’

“I spake, and quickly all obeyed my words.

Yet said I naught of Scylla⁠—whom we now

Could not avoid⁠—lest all the crew in fear

Should cease to row, and crowd into the hold.

And then did I forget the stern command

Which Circè gave me, not to arm myself

For combat. In my shining arms I cased

My limbs, and took in hand two ponderous spears,

And went on deck, and stood upon the prow⁠—

For there it seemed to me that Scylla first

Would show herself⁠—that monster of the rocks⁠—

To seize my comrades. Yet I saw her not,

Though weary grew my eyes with looking long

And eagerly upon those dusky cliffs.

“Sadly we sailed into the strait, where stood

On one hand Scylla, and the dreaded rock

Charybdis on the other, drawing down

Into her horrid gulf the briny flood;

And as she threw it forth again, it tossed

And murmured as upon a glowing fire

The water in a cauldron, while the spray,

Thrown upward, fell on both the summit-rocks;

And when once more she swallowed the salt sea,

It whirled within the abyss, while far below

The bottom of blue sand was seen. My men

Grew pale with fear; we looked into the gulf

And thought our end was nigh. Then Scylla snatched

Six of my comrades from our hollow barque,

The best in valor and in strength of arm.

I looked to my good ship; I looked to them,

And saw their hands and feet still swung in air

Above me, while for the last time on earth

They called my name in agony of heart.

As when an angler on a jutting rock

Sits with his taper rod, and casts his bait

To snare the smaller fish, he sends the horn

Of a wild bull that guards his line afar

Into the water, and jerks out a fish,

And throws it gasping shoreward; so were they

Uplifted gasping to the rocks, and there

Scylla devoured them at her cavern’s mouth,

Stretching their hands to me with piercing cries

Of anguish. ’Twas in truth the saddest sight,

Whatever I have suffered and where’er

Have roamed the waters, that mine eyes have seen.

“Escaping thus the rocks, the dreaded haunt

Of Scylla and Charybdis, we approached

The pleasant island of the Sun, where grazed

The oxen with broad foreheads, beautiful,

And flocks of sheep, the fatlings of the god

Who makes the round of heaven. While yet at sea

I heard from my black ship the low of herds

In stables, and the bleatings of the flocks,

And straightway came into my thought the words

Of the blind seer Tiresias, him of Thebes,

And of Aeaean Circè, who had oft

Warned me to shun the island of the god

Whose light is sweet to all. And then I said

To my companions with a sorrowing heart:⁠—

“ ‘My comrades, sufferers as ye are, give ear.

I shall disclose the oracles which late

Tiresias and Aeaean Circè gave.

The goddess earnestly admonished me

Not to approach the island of the Sun,

Whose light is sweet to all, for there she said

Some great misfortune lay in wait for us.

Now let us speed the ship and pass the isle.’

“I spake; their hearts were broken as they heard,

And bitterly Eurylochus replied:⁠—

“ ‘Austere art thou, Ulysses; thou art strong

Exceedingly; no labor tires thy limbs;

They must be made of iron, since thy will

Denies thy comrades, overcome with toil

And sleeplessness, to tread the land again,

And in that isle amid the waters make

A generous banquet. Thou wouldst have us sail

Into the swiftly coming night, and stray

Far from the island, through the misty sea.

By night spring up the mighty winds that make

A wreck of ships, and how can one escape

Destruction, should a sudden hurricane

Rise from the south or the hard-blowing west,

Such as, in spite of all the sovereign gods,

Will cause a ship to founder in the deep?

Let us obey the dark-browed Night, and take

Our evening meal, remaining close beside

Our gallant barque, and go on board again

When morning breaks, and enter the wide sea.’

“So spake Eurylochus; the rest approved.

And then I knew that some divinity

Was meditating evil to our band,

And I bespake him thus in winged words:⁠—

“ ‘Eurylochus, ye force me to your will,

Since I am only one. Now all of you

Bind yourselves to me firmly, by an oath,

That if ye haply here shall meet a herd

Of beeves or flock of sheep, ye will not dare

To slay a single ox or sheep, but feed

Contented on the stores that Circè gave.’

“I spake, and readily my comrades swore

As I required; and when that solemn oath

Was taken, to the land we brought and moored

Our galley in a winding creek, beside

A fountain of sweet water. From the deck

Stepped my companions and made ready there

Their evening cheer. They ate and drank till thirst

And hunger were appeased, and then they thought

Of those whom Scylla from our galley’s deck

Snatched and devoured; they thought and wept till sleep

Stole softly over them amid their tears.

Now came the third part of the night; the stars

Were sinking when the Cloud-compeller Jove

Sent forth a violent wind with eddying gusts,

And covered both the earth and sky with clouds,

And darkness fell from heaven. When Morning came,

The rosy-fingered daughter of the Dawn,

We drew the ship into a spacious grot.

There were the seats of nymphs, and there we saw

The smooth fair places where they danced. I called

A council of my men, and said to them:⁠—

“ ‘My friends, in our good ship are food and drink;

Abstain we from these beeves, lest we be made

To suffer; for these herds and these fair flocks

Are sacred to a dreaded god, the Sun⁠—

The all-beholding and all-hearing Sun.’

“I spake, and all were swayed by what I said

Full easily. A month entire the gales

Blew from the south, and after that no wind

Save east and south. While yet we had our bread

And ruddy wine, my comrades spared the beeves,

Moved by the love of life. But when the stores

On board our galley were consumed, they roamed

The island in their need, and sought for prey,

And snared with barbed hooks the fish and birds⁠—

Whatever came to hand⁠—till they were gaunt

With famine. Meantime I withdrew alone

Into the isle, to supplicate the gods,

If haply one of them might yet reveal

The way of my return. As thus I strayed

Into the land, apart from all the rest,

I found a sheltered nook where no wind came,

And prayed with washen hands to all the gods

Who dwell in heaven. At length they bathed my lids

In a soft sleep. Meantime, Eurylochus

With fatal counsels thus harangued my men:⁠—

“ ‘Hear, my companions, sufferers as ye are,

The words that I shall speak. All modes of death

Are hateful to the wretched race of men;

But this of hunger, thus to meet our fate,

Is the most fearful. Let us drive apart

The best of all the oxen of the Sun,

And sacrifice them to the immortal ones

Who dwell in the broad heaven. And if we come

To Ithaca, our country, we will there

Build to the Sun, whose path is o’er our heads,

A sumptuous temple, and endow its shrine

With many gifts and rare. But if it be

His will, approved by all the other gods,

To sink our barque in anger, for the sake

Of these his high-horned oxen, I should choose

Sooner to gasp my life away amid

The billows of the deep, than pine to death

By famine in this melancholy isle.’

“So spake Eurylochus; the crew approved.

Then from the neighboring herd they drove the best

Of all the beeves; for near the dark-prowed ship

The fair broad-fronted herd with crooked horns

Were feeding. Round the victims stood my crew,

And, offering their petitions to the gods,

Held tender oak-leaves in their hands, just plucked

From a tall tree, for in our good ship’s hold

Was no white barley now. When they had prayed,

And slain and dressed the beeves, they hewed away

The thighs and covered them with double folds

Of caul, and laid raw slices over these.

Wine had they not to pour in sacrifice

Upon the burning flesh; they poured instead

Water, and roasted all the entrails thus.

Now when the thighs were thoroughly consumed,

And entrails tasted, all the rest was carved

Into small portions, and transfixed with spits.

“Just then the gentle slumber left my lids.

I hurried to the shore and my good ship,

And, drawing near, perceived the savory steam

From the burnt-offering. Sorrowfully then

I called upon the ever-living gods:⁠—

“ ‘O Father Jove, and all ye blessed gods,

Who live forever, ’twas a cruel sleep

In which ye lulled me to my grievous harm;

My comrades here have done a fearful wrong.’

“Lampetia, of the trailing robes, in haste

Flew to the Sun, who journeys round the earth,

To tell him that my crew had slain his beeves,

And thus in anger he bespake the gods:⁠—

“ ‘O Father Jove, and all ye blessed gods

Who never die, avenge the wrong I bear

Upon the comrades of Laertes’ son,

Ulysses, who have foully slain my beeves,

In which I took delight whene’er I rose

Into the starry heaven, and when again

I sank from heaven to earth. If for the wrong

They make not large amends, I shall go down

To Hades, there to shine among the dead.’

“The cloud-compelling Jupiter replied:⁠—

‘Still shine, O Sun! among the deathless gods

And mortal men, upon the nourishing earth.

Soon will I cleave, with a white thunderbolt,

Their galley in the midst of the black sea.’

“This from Calypso of the radiant hair

I heard thereafter; she herself, she said,

Had heard it from the herald Mercury.

“When to the ship I came, beside the sea,

I sternly chid them all, man after man,

Yet could we think of no redress; the beeves

Were dead; and now with prodigies the gods

Amazed my comrades⁠—the skins moved and crawled,

The flesh both raw and roasted on the spits

Lowed with the voice of oxen. Six whole days

My comrades feasted, taking from the herd

The Sun’s best oxen. When Saturnian Jove

Brought the seventh day, the tempest ceased; the wind

Fell, and we straightway went on board. We set

The mast upright, and, spreading the white sails,

We ventured on the great wide sea again.

“When we had left the isle, and now appeared

No other land, but only sea and sky,

The son of Saturn caused a lurid cloud

To gather o’er the galley, and to cast

Its darkness on the deep. Not long our ship

Ran onward, ere the furious west-wind rose

And blew a hurricane. A strong blast snapped

Both ropes that held the mast; the mast fell back;

The tackle dropped entangled to the hold;

The mast, in falling on the galley’s stern,

Dashed on the pilot’s head and crushed the bones,

And from the deck he plunged like one who dives

Into the deep; his gallant spirit left

The limbs at once. Jove thundered from on high,

And sent a thunderbolt into the ship,

That, quaking with the fearful blow, and filled

With stifling sulphur, shook my comrades off

Into the deep. They floated round the ship

Like seamews; Jupiter had cut them off

From their return. I moved from place to place,

Still in the ship, until the tempest’s force

Parted the sides and keel. Before the waves

The naked keel was swept. The mast had snapped

Just at the base, but round it was a thong

Made of a bullock’s hide; with this I bound

The mast and keel together, took my seat

Upon them, and the wild winds bore me on.

“The west-wind ceased to rage; but in its stead

The south-wind blew, and brought me bitter grief.

I feared lest I must measure back my way

To grim Charybdis. All night long I rode

The waves, and with the rising sun drew near

The rock of Scylla and the terrible

Charybdis as her gulf was drawing down

The waves of the salt sea. There as I came

I raised myself on high till I could grasp

The lofty fig-tree, and I clung to it

As clings a bat⁠—for I could neither find

A place to plant my feet, nor could I climb,

So distant were the roots, so far apart

The long huge branches overshadowing

Charybdis. Yet I firmly kept my hold

Till she should throw the keel and mast again

Up from the gulf. They, as I waited long,

Came up again, though late⁠—as late as one

Who long has sat adjudging strifes between

Young suitors pleading in the marketplace

Rises and goes to take his evening meal;

So late the timbers of my barque returned,

Thrown from Charybdis. Then I dropped amid

The dashing waves, and came with hands and feet

On those long timbers in the midst, that they

Might bear my weight. I sat on them and rowed

With both my hands. The father of the gods

And mortals suffered not that I should look

On Scylla’s rock again, else had I not

Escaped a cruel death. For nine long days

I floated on the waters; on the tenth

The gods at nightfall bore me to an isle⁠—

Ogygia, where Calypso, amber-haired,

A mighty goddess, skilled in song, abides,

Who kindly welcomed me, and cherished me.

Why should I speak of this? Here in these halls

I gave the history yesterday to thee

And to thy gracious consort, and I hate

To tell again a tale once fully told.”