Who is it that can keep off cruel Death,
If suddenly should rush out th’ angry breath
Of Notus, or the eager-spirited West,
That cuff ships dead, and do the Gods their best?
Serve black Night still with shore, meat, sleep, and ease,
And offer to the Morning for the seas.’
This all the rest approv’d, and then knew I
That past all doubt the Devil did apply
His slaught’rous works. Nor would they be withheld;
I was but one, nor yielded but compell’d.
But all that might contain them I assay’d,
A sacred oath on all their pow’rs I laid,
That if with herds or any richest-flocks
We chanc’d t’ encounter, neither sheep nor ox
We once should touch, nor (for that constant ill
That follows folly) scorn advice and kill,
But quiet sit us down and take such food
As the immortal Circe had bestow’d.
They swore all this in all severest sort;
And then we anchor’d in the winding port
Near a fresh river, where the long’d-for shore
They all flew out to, took in victuals store,
And, being full, thought of their friends, and wept
Their loss by Scylla, weeping till they slept.
In night’s third part, when stars began to stoop,
The Cloud-assembler put a tempest up.
A boist’rous spirit he gave it, drave out all
His flocks of clouds, and let such darkness fall
That Earth and Seas, for fear, to hide were driv’n,
For with his clouds he thrust out Night from heav’n.
At morn we drew our ships into a cave,
In which the Nymphs that Phœbus’ cattle drave
Fair dancing-rooms had, and their seats of state.
I urg’d my friends then, that, to shun their fate,
They would observe their oath, and take the food
Our ship afforded, nor attempt the blood
Of those fair herds and flocks, because they were
The dreadful God’s that all could see and hear.
They stood observant, and in that good mind
Had we been gone; but so adverse the wind
Stood to our passage, that we could not go.
For one whole month perpetually did blow
Impetuous Notus, not a breath’s repair
But his and Eurus’ rul’d in all the air.
As long yet as their ruddy wine and bread
Stood out amongst them, so long not a head
Of all those oxen fell in any strife
Amongst those students for the gut and life;
But when their victuals fail’d they fell to prey,
Necessity compell’d them then to stray
In rape of fish and fowl; whatever came
In reach of hand or hook, the belly’s flame
Afflicted to it. I then fell to pray’r,
And (making to a close retreat repair,
Free from both friends and winds) I wash’d my hands,
And all the Gods besought, that held commands
In liberal heav’n, to yield some mean to stay
Their desp’rate hunger, and set up the way
Of our return restrain’d. The Gods, instead
Of giving what I pray’d for — pow’r of deed —
A deedless sleep did on my lids distill,
For mean to work upon my friends their fill.
For whiles I slept, there wak’d no mean to curb
Their headstrong wants; which he that did disturb
My rule in chief at all times, and was chief
To all the rest in counsel to their grief,
Knew well, and of my present absence took
His fit advantage, and their iron strook
At highest heat. For, feeling their desire
In his own entrails, to allay the fire
That Famine blew in them, he thus gave way
To that affection: ‘Hear what I shall say,
Though words will staunch no hunger, ev’ry death
To us poor wretches that draw temporal breath
You know is hateful; but, all know, to die
The death of Famine is a misery
Past all death loathsome. Let us, therefore, take
The chief of this fair herd, and off’rings make
To all the Deathless that in broad heav’n live,
And in particular vow, if we arrive
In natural Ithaca, to straight erect
A temple to the Haughty-in-aspect,
Rich and magnificent, and all within
Deck it with relics many and divine.
If yet he stands incens’d, since we have slain
His high-brow’d herd, and, therefore, will sustain
Desire to wrack our ship, he is but one,
And all the other Gods that we atone
With our divine rites will their suffrage give
To our design’d return, and let us live.
If not, and all take part, I rather crave
To serve with one sole death the yawning wave,
Than in a desert island lie and sterve,
And with one pin’d life many deaths observe.’
All cried ‘He counsels nobly,’ and all speed
Made to their resolute driving; for the feed
Of those coal-black, fair, broad-brow’d, sun-lov’d beeves
Had place close by our ships. They took the lives
Of sence, most eminent; about their fall
Stood round, and to the States Celestial
Made solemn vows; but other rites their ship
Could not afford them, they did, therefore, strip
The curl’d-head oak of fresh young leaves, to make
Supply of service for their barley-cake.
And on the sacredly-enflam’d, for wine,
Pour’d purest water, all the parts divine
Spitting and roasting; all the rites beside
Orderly using. Then did light divide
My low and upper lids; when, my repair
Made near my ship, I met the delicate air
Their roast exhal’d; out instantly I cried,
And said: ‘O Jove, and all ye Deified,
Ye have oppress’d me with a cruel sleep,
While ye conferr’d on me a loss as deep
As Death descends to. To themselves alone
My rude men left ungovern’d, they have done
A deed so impious, I stand well assur’d,
That you will not forgive though ye procur’d.’
Then flew Lampetié with the ample robe
Up to her father with the golden globe,
Ambassadress t’ inform him that my men
Had slain his oxen. Heart-incensed then,
He cried: ‘Revenge me, Father, and the rest
Both ever-living and for ever blest!
Ulysses’ impious men have drawn the blood
Of those my oxen that it did me good
To look on, walking all my starry round,
And when I trod earth all with meadows crown’d.
Without your full amends I’ll leave heav’n quite,
Dis and the dead adorning with my light.’
The Cloud-herd answer’d: ‘Son! Thou shalt be ours,
And light those mortals in that mine of flow’rs!
My red-hot fla
sh shall graze but on their ship,
And eat it, burning, in the boiling deep.’
This by Calypso I was told, and she
Inform’d it from the verger Mercury.
Come to our ship, I chid and told by name
Each man how impiously he was to blame.
But chiding got no peace, and beeves were slain!
When straight the Gods forewent their following pain
With dire ostents. The hides the flesh had lost
Crept all before them. As the flesh did roast,
It bellow’d like the ox itself alive.
And yet my soldiers did their dead beeves drive
Through all these prodigies in daily feasts.
Six days they banqueted and slew fresh beasts;
And when the sev’nth day Jove reduc’d the wind
That all the month rag’d, and so in did bind
Our ship and us, was turn’d and calm’d, and we
Launch’d, put up masts, sails hoised, and to sea.
The island left so far that land nowhere
But only sea and sky had pow’r t’ appear,
Jove fix’d a cloud above our ship, so black
That all the sea it darken’d. Yet from wrack
She ran a good free time, till from the West
Came Zephyr ruffling forth, and put his breast
Out in a singing tempest, so most vast
It burst the gables that made sure our mast.
Our masts came tumbling down, our cattle down
Rush’d to the pump, and by our pilot’s crown
The main-mast pass’d his fall, pash’d all his skull,
And all this wrack but one flaw made at full.
Off from the stern the sternsman diving fell,
And from his sinews flew his soul to hell.
Together all this time Jove’s thunder chid,
And through and through the ship his lightning glid,
Till it embrac’d her round; her bulk was fill’d
With nasty sulphur, and her men were kill’d,
Tumbled to sea, like sea-mews swum about,
And there the date of their return was out.
I toss’d from side to side still, till all-broke
Her ribs were with the storm, and she did choke
With let-in surges; for the mast torn down
Tore her up piecemeal, and for me to drown
Left little undissolv’d. But to the mast
There was a leather thong left, which I cast
About it and the keel, and so sat tost
With baneful weather, till the West had lost
His stormy tyranny. And then arose
The South, that bred me more abhorréd woes;
For back again his blasts expell’d me quite
On ravenous Charybdis. All that night
I totter’d up and down, till Light and I
At Scylla’s rock encounter’d, and the nigh
Dreadful Charybdis. As I drave on these,
I saw Charybdis supping up the seas,
And had gone up together, if the tree
That bore the wild figs had not rescued me;
To which I leap’d, and left my keel, and high
Chamb’ring upon it did as close imply
My breast about it as a reremouse could;
Yet might my feet on no stub fasten hold
To ease my hands, the roots were crept so low
Beneath the earth, and so aloft did grow
The far-spread arms that, though good height I gat,
I could not reach them. To the main bole flat
I, therefore, still must cling; till up again
She belch’d my mast, and after that amain
My keel came tumbling. So at length it chanc’d
To me, as to a judge that long advanc’d
To judge a sort of hot young fellows’ jars,
At length time frees him from their civil wars,
When glad he riseth and to dinner goes;
So time, at length, releas’d with joys my woes,
And from Charybdis’ mouth appear’d my keel.
To which, my hand now loos’d and now my heel,
I altogether with a huge noise dropp’d,
Just in her midst fell, where the mast was propp’d,
And there row’d off with owers of my hands.
God and man’s Father would not from her sands
Let Scylla see me, for I then had died
That bitter death that my poor friends supplied.
Nine days at sea I hover’d; the tenth night
In th’ isle Ogygia, where, about the bright
And right renown’d Calypso, I was cast
By pow’r of Deity; where I lived embrac’d
With love and feasts. But why should I relate
Those kind occurrents? I should iterate
What I in part to your chaste queen and you
So late imparted. And, for me to grow
A talker-over of my tale again,
Were past my free contentment to sustain.”
FINIS DUODECIMI LIBRI HOM. ODYSS.
Opus novem dierum.
Σὺν Θεᾳ.
ENDNOTES.
1 Πέλειαι τρήρωνες. Columbæ timidæ. What these doves were, and the whole mind of this place, the great Macedon asking Chiron Amphipolites, he answered: They were the Pleiades or seven Stars. One of which (besides his proper imperfection of being ἀμυδρὸς, i.e. adeo exilis, vel subobscurus, ut vix appareat) is utterly obscured or let by these rocks. Why then, or how, Jove still supplied the lost one, that the number might be full, Athenæus falls to it, and helps the other out, interpreting it to be affirmed of their perpetual septenary number, though there appeared but six. But how lame and loathsome these prosers show in their affected expositions of the poetical mind, this and an hundred others, spent in mere presumptuous guess at this inaccessible Poet, I hope will make plain enough to the most envious of any thing done, besides their own set censures and most arrogant over-weenings. In the 23 of the lliads (being ψ) at the games celebrated at Patroclus’ funerals, they tied to the top of a mast πέλειαν τρήρωνα, timidam columbam, to shoot at for a game, so that (by these great men’s abovesaid expositions) they shot at the Pleiades.
2 Νηυ̑ς πα̑σι μέλουσα, etc. Navis omnibus curæ: the ship that held the care of all men, or of all things: which our critics will needs restrain, omnibus heroibus, Poetis omnibus, vel Historicis, when the care of all men’s preservation is affirmed to be the freight of it; as if poets and historians comprehended all things, when I scarce know any that makes them any part of their care. But this likewise is garbage good enough for the monster. Nor will I tempt our spiced consciences with expressing the divine mind it includes. Being afraid to affirm any good of poor poesy, since no man gets any goods by it. And notwithstanding many of our bird-eyed starters at profanation are for nothing so afraid of it; as that lest their galled consciences (scarce believing the most real truth, in approbation of their lives) should be rubbed with the confirmation of it, even in these contemned vanities (as their impieties please to call them) which by much more learned and pious than themselves have ever been called the raptures of divine inspiration, by which, Homo supra humanam naturam erigitur, et in Deum transit. — Plat.
3 Δεινὸν λελακυι̑α, etc. Graviter vociferans; as all most untruly translate it. As they do in the next verse these words σκύλακος νεογιλη̑ς catuli leonis, no lion being here dreamed of, nor any vociferation. Δεινὸν λε
λακυι̑α signifying indignam, dissimilem, or horribilem vocem edens: but in what kind horribilem? Not for the gravity or greatness of her voice, but for the unworthy or disproportionable small whuling of it; she being in the vast frame of her body, as the very words πέλωρ κακὸν signify, monstrum ingens; whose disproportion and deformity is too poetically (and therein elegantly) ordered for fat and flat prosers to comprehend. Nor could they make the Poet’s words serve their comprehension; and therefore they add of their own, λάσκω, from whence λελακυι̑α is derived, signifying crepo, or stridulê clamo. And σκύλακος νεογιλη̑ς is to be expounded, catuli nuper or recens nati, not leonis. But thus they botch and abuse the incomparable expressor, because they knew not how otherwise to be monstrous enough themselves to help out the monster. Imagining so huge a great body must needs have a voice as huge; and then would not our Homer have likened it to a lion’s whelp’s voice, but to the lion’s own; and all had been much too little to make a voice answerable to her hugeness. And therefore found our inimitable master a new way to express her monstrous disproportion; performing it so, as there can be nihil suprâ. And I would fain learn of my learned detractor, that will needs have me only translate out of the Latin, what Latin translation tells me this? Or what Grecian hath ever found this and a hundred other such? Which may be some poor instance, or proof, of my Grecian faculty, as far as old Homer goes in his two simple Poems, but not a syllable further will my silly spirit presume.
THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEYS
THE ARGUMENT
Ulysses (shipp’d, but in the even,
With all the presents he was given,
And sleeping then) is set next morn
In full scope of his wish’d return,
And treads unknown his country-shore,
Whose search so many winters wore.
The ship (returning, and arriv’d
Against the city) is depriv’d
Of form, and, all her motion gone,
Transform’d by Neptune to a stone.
Ulysses (let to know the strand
Where the Phæacians made him land)
Consults with Pallas, for the life
Of ev’ry wooer of his wife.
His gifts she hides within a cave,
And him into a man more grave,
All hid in wrinkles, crookéd, gray,
Transform’d; who so goes on his way.
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 136