The Odyssey

“Meanwhile the goddess, with indulgent cares And social joys, the late transform’d repairs; The bath, the feast, their fainting soul renews: Rich in refulgent robes, and dropping balmy dews: Brightening with joy, their eager eyes behold, Each other’s face, and each his story told; Then gushing tears the narrative confound, And with their sobs the vaulted roof resound. When hush’d their passion, thus the goddess cries: ‘Ulysses, taught by labours to be wise, Let this short memory of grief suffice. To me are known the various woes ye bore. In storms by sea, in perils on the shore; Forget whatever was in Fortune’s power, And share the pleasures of this genial hour. Such be your mind as ere ye left your coast, Or learn’d to sorrow for a country lost. Exiles and wanderers now, where’er ye go, Too faithful memory renews your woe: The cause removed, habitual griefs remain, And the soul saddens by the use of pain.’

“Her kind entreaty moved the general breast; Tired with long toil, we willing sunk to rest. We plied the banquet, and the bowl we crown’d, Till the full circle of the year came round. But when the seasons following in their train, Brought back the months, the days, and hours again; As from a lethargy at once they rise, And urge their chief with animating cries:

“‘Is this, Ulysses, our inglorious lot? And is the name of Ithaca forgot? Shall never the dear land in prospect rise, Or the loved palace glitter in our eyes?’ “Melting I heard; yet till the sun’s decline Prolong’d the feast, and quaff’d the rosy wine But when the shades came on at evening hour, And all lay slumbering in the dusky bower, I came a suppliant to fair Circe’s bed, The tender moment seized, and thus I said: ‘Be mindful, goddess! of thy promise made; Must sad Ulysses ever be delay’d? Around their lord my sad companions mourn, Each breast beats homeward, anxious to return: If but a moment parted from thy eyes, Their tears flow round me, and my heart complies.’

“‘Go then (she cried), ah go! yet think, not I, Not Circe, but the Fates, your wish deny. Ah, hope not yet to breathe thy native air! Far other journey first demands thy care; To tread the uncomfortable paths beneath, And view the realms of darkness and of death. There seek the Theban bard, deprived of sight; Within, irradiate with prophetic light; To whom Persephone, entire and whole, Gave to retain the unseparated soul: The rest are forms, of empty ether made; Impassive semblance, and a flitting shade.’

“Struck at the word, my very heart was dead: Pensive I sate: my tears bedew’d the bed: To hate the light and life my soul begun, And saw that all was grief beneath the sun: Composed at length the gushing tears suppress’d, And my toss’d limbs now wearied into rest. ‘How shall I tread (I cried), ah, Circe! say, The dark descent, and who shall guide the way? Can living eyes behold the realms below? What bark to waft me, and what wind to blow?’

“‘Thy fated road (the magic power replied), Divine Ulysses! ask no mortal guide. Rear but the mast, the spacious sail display, The northern winds shall wing thee on thy way. Soon shalt thou reach old Ocean’s utmost ends, Where to the main the shelving shore descends; The barren trees of Proserpine’s black woods, Poplars and willows trembling o’er the floods: There fix thy vessel in the lonely bay, And enter there the kingdoms void of day, Where Phlegethon’s loud torrents, rushing down, Hiss in the flaming gulf of Acheron; And where, slow rolling from the Stygian bed, Cocytus’ lamentable waters spread: Where the dark rock o’erhangs the infernal lake, And mingling streams eternal murmurs make. First draw thy falchion, and on every side Trench the black earth a cubit long and wide: To all the shades around libations pour, And o’er the ingredients strew the hallow’d flour: New wine and milk, with honey temper’d bring, And living water from the crystal spring. Then the wan shades and feeble ghosts implore, With promised offerings on thy native shore; A barren cow, the stateliest of the isle, And heap’d with various wealth, a blazing pile: These to the rest; but to the seer must bleed A

sable ram, the pride of all thy breed. These solemn vows and holy offerings paid To all the phantom nations of the dead, Be next thy care the sable sheep to place Full o’er the pit, and hellward turn their face: But from the infernal rite thine eye withdraw, And back to Ocean glance with reverend awe. Sudden shall skim along the dusky glades Thin airy shoals, and visionary shades. Then give command the sacrifice to haste, Let the flay’d victims in the flame be cast, And sacred vows and mystic song applied To grisly Pluto and his gloomy bride. Wide o’er the pool thy falchion waved around Shall drive the spectres from unbidden ground: The sacred draught shall all the dead forbear, Till awful from the shades arise the seer. Let him, oraculous, the end, the way, The turns of all thy future fate display, Thy pilgrimage to come, and remnant of thy day.’

“So speaking, from the ruddy orient shone The morn, conspicuous on her golden throne. The goddess with a radiant tunic dress’d My limbs, and o’er me cast a silken vest. Long flowing robes, of purest white, array The nymph, that added lustre to the day: A tiar wreath’d her head with many a fold; Her waist was circled with a zone of gold. Forth issuing then, from place to place I flew; Rouse man by man, and animate my crew. ‘Rise, rise, my mates! ’tis Circe gives command: Our journey calls us; haste, and quit the land.’ All rise and follow, yet depart not all, For Fate decreed one wretched man to fall.

“A youth there was, Elpenor was he named, Not much for sense, nor much for courage famed: The youngest of our band, a vulgar soul, Born but to banquet, and to drain the bowl. He, hot and careless, on a turret’s height With sleep repair’d the long debauch of night: The sudden tumult stirred him where he lay, And down he hasten’d, but forgot the way; Full headlong from the roof the sleeper fell, And snapp’d the spinal joint, and waked in hell.

“The rest crowd round me with an eager look; I met them with a sigh, and thus bespoke: ‘Already, friends! ye think your toils are o’er, Your hopes already touch your native shore: Alas! far otherwise the nymph declares, Far other journey first demands our cares; To tread the uncomfortable paths beneath, The dreary realms of darkness and of death; To seek Tiresias’ awful shade below, And thence our fortunes and our fates to know.’

“My sad companions heard in deep despair; Frantic they tore their manly growth of hair; To earth they fell: the tears began to rain; But tears in mortal miseries are vain, Sadly they fared along the sea-beat shore; Still heaved their hearts, and still their eyes ran o’er. The ready victims at our bark we found, The sable ewe and ram together bound. For swift as thought the goddess had been there, And thence had glided, viewless as the air: The paths of gods what mortal can survey? Who eyes their motion? who shall trace their way?”