The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

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.