by Homer
With some associates, and explor’d what men
The neighbour isle held: if of rude disdain,
Churlish and tyrannous, or minds bewray’d
Pious and hospitable. Thus much said,
I boarded, and commanded to ascend
My friends and soldiers; to put off, and lend
Way to our ship. They boarded, sat, and beat
The old sea forth, till we might see the seat
The greatest Cyclop held for his abode,
Which was a deep cave, near the common road
Of ships that touch’d there, thick with laurels spread,
Where many sheep and goats lay shadowed;
And, near to this, a hall of torn-up stone,
High built with pines, that heav’n and earth attone,
And lofty-fronted oaks; in which kept house
A man in shape immane, and monsterous,
Fed all his flocks alone, nor would afford
Commerce with men, but had a wit abhorr’d,
His mind his body answ’ring. Nor was he
Like any man that food could possibly
Enhance so hugely, but, beheld alone,
Show’d like a steep hill’s top, all overgrown
With trees and brambles; little thought had I
Of such vast objects. When, arriv’d so nigh,
Some of my lov’d friends I made stay aboard,
To guard my ship, and twelve with me I shor’d,
The choice of all. I took besides along
A goat-skin flagon of wine, black and strong,
That Maro did present, Evantheus’ son,
And priest to Phoebus, who had mansion
In Thracian Ismarus (the town I took);
He gave it me, since I (with reverence strook
Of his grave place), his wife and children’s good
Freed all of violence. Amidst a wood,
Sacred to Phoebus, stood his house; from whence
He fetch’d me gifts of varied excellence;
Seven talents of fine gold; a bowl all fram’d
Of massy silver; but his gift most fam’d
Was twelve great vessels, fill’d with such rich wine
As was incorruptible and divine.
He kept it as his jewel, which none knew
But he himself, his wife, and he that drew.
It was so strong, that never any fill’d
A cup, where that was but by drops instill’d,
And drunk it off, but ’twas before allay’d
With twenty parts in water; yet so sway’d
The spirit of that little, that the whole
A sacred odour breath’d about the bowl.
Had you the odour smelt and scent it cast,
It would have vex’d you to forbear the taste.
But then, the taste gain’d too, the spirit it wrought
To dare things high set up an end my thought.
Of this a huge great flagon full I bore,
And in a good large knapsack victuals’ store,
And long’d to see this heap of fortitude,
That so illiterate was and upland rude
That laws divine nor human he had learn’d.
With speed we reach’d the cavern; nor discern’d
His presence there, his flocks he fed at field.
Ent’ring his den, each thing beheld did yield
Our admiration; shelves with cheeses heap’d;
Sheds stuff’d with lambs and goats, distinctly kept,
Distinct the biggest, the more mean distinct,
Distinct the youngest. And in their precinct,
Proper and placeful, stood the troughs and pails
In which he milk’d; and what was giv’n at meals,
Set up a-creaming, in the evening still
All scouring bright as dew upon the hill.
Then were my fellows instant to convey
Kids, cheeses, lambs a-shipboard, 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 innards 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
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, forced 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.
Reverence 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 observed love!
We Cyclops care not for your goat-fed Jove,
&n
bsp; 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 saved, 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-stuffed bones he eat,
And even th’ uncleans’d 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 layer on layer,
Till near chok’d up was all the pass for air,
Along his den, amongst his cattle, down
He rush’d, and streak’d him; when my mind was grown
Desperate 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 pass’d
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 houswif’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 issu’d everywhere.
Then made I lots cast by my friends to try
Whose fortune served to dare the bored-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 ev’n, and he came from the feast
Of his fat cattle, drave in all, nor kept
One male abroad; if or his memory slept,
By god’s 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 generous 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 thee 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,
Subdu’d 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 hardening, 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 inspiration, 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 every 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.