The Iliad and the Odyssey (Classics of World Literature)

by Homer

  That saw, acknowledg’d, and saluted me,

  Was Thetis’ conquering son, who (heavily

  His state here taking) said: ‘Unworthy breath!

  What act yet mightier imagineth

  Thy vent’rous spirit? How dost thou descend

  These under regions, where the dead man’s end

  Is to be look’d on, and his foolish shade?’

  I answer’d him: ‘I was induced t’ invade

  These under parts, most excellent of Greece,

  To visit wise Tiresias, for advice

  Of virtue to direct my voyage home

  To rugged Ithaca; since I could come

  To note in no place where Achaia stood,

  And so lived ever, tortur’d with the blood

  In man’s vain veins. Thou therefore, Thetis’ son,

  Hast equall’d all, that ever yet have won

  The bliss the earth yields, or hereafter shall.

  In life thy eminence was ador’d of all,

  Ev’n with the gods; and now, ev’n dead, I see

  Thy virtues propagate thy empery

  To a renew’d life of command beneath;

  So great Achilles triumphs over death.’

  This comfort of him this encounter found:

  ‘Urge not my death to me, nor rub that wound.

  I rather wish to live in earth a swain,

  Or serve a swain for hire, that scarce can gain

  Bread to sustain him, than, that life once gone,

  Of all the dead sway the imperial throne.

  But say, and of my son some comfort yield,

  If he goes on in first fights of the field,

  Or lurks for safety in the obscure rear?

  Or of my father if thy royal ear

  Hath been advertis’d, that the Phthian throne

  He still commands, as greatest Myrmidon?

  Or that the Phthian and Thessalian rage

  (Now feet and hands are in the hold of age)

  Despise his empire? Under those bright rays,

  In which heav’n’s fervour hurls about the days,

  Must I no more shine his revenger now,

  Such as of old the Ilion overthrow

  Witness’d my anger, th’ universal host

  Sending before me to this shady coast,

  In fight for Grecia. Could I now resort

  (But for some small time) to my father’s court,

  In spirit and power as then, those men should find

  My hands inaccessible, and of fire my mind,

  That durst with all the numbers they are strong

  Unseat his honour, and suborn his wrong.’

  This pitch still flew his spirit, though so low,

  And this I answer’d thus: ‘I do not know

  Of blameless Peleus any least report,

  But of your son, in all the utmost sort,

  I can inform your care with truth, and thus:

  From Scyros princely Neoptolemus

  By fleet I convey’d to the Greeks, where he

  Was chief at both parts, when our gravity

  Retir’d to council, and our youth to fight.

  In council still so fiery was conceit

  In his quick apprehension of a cause,

  That first he ever spake, nor pass’d the laws

  Of any grave stay, in his greatest haste.

  None would contend with him, that counsell’d last,

  Unless illustrious Nestor, he and I

  Would sometimes put a friendly contrary

  On his opinion. In our fights, the prease

  Of great or common, he would never cease,

  But far before fight ever. No man there,

  For force, he forced. He was slaughterer

  Of many a brave man in most dreadful fight.

  But one and other whom he reft of light,

  In Grecian succour, I can neither name,

  Nor give in number. The particular fame

  Of one man’s slaughter yet I must not pass:

  Eurypylus Telephides he was,

  That fell beneath him, and with him the falls

  Of such huge men went, that they show’d like whales

  Rampired about him. Neoptolemus

  Set him so sharply, for the sumptuous

  Favours of mistresses he saw him wear;

  For past all doubt his beauties had no peer

  Of all that mine eyes noted, next to one,

  And that was Memnon, Tithon’s Sun-like son.

  Thus far, for fight in public, may a taste

  Give of his eminence. How far surpass’d

  His spirit in private, where he was not seen,

  Nor glory could be said to praise his spleen,

  This close note I excerpted. When we sat

  Hid in Epeus’ horse, no optimate

  Of all the Greeks there had the charge to ope

  And shut the stratagem but I. My scope

  To note then each man’s spirit in a strait

  Of so much danger, much the better might

  Be hit by me than others, as, provok’d,

  I shifted place still, when in some I smok’d

  Both privy tremblings and close vent of tears,

  In him yet not a soft conceit of theirs

  Could all my search see, either his wet eyes

  Ply’d still with wipings, or the goodly guise

  His person all ways put forth, in least part,

  By any tremblings, show’d his touch’d-at heart.

  But ever he was urging me to make

  Way to their sally, by his sign to shake

  His sword hid in his scabbard, or his lance

  Loaded with iron, at me. No good chance

  His thoughts to Troy intended. In th’ event,

  High Troy depopulate, he made ascent

  To his fair ship, with prise and treasure store,

  Safe, and no touch away with him he bore

  Of far-off-hurl’d lance, or of close-fought sword,

  Whose wounds for favours war doth oft afford,

  Which he (though sought) miss’d in war’s closest wage.

  In close fights Mars doth never fight, but rage.’

  This made the soul of swift Achilles tread

  A march of glory through the herby mead,

  For joy to hear me so renown his son;

  And vanish’d stalking. But with passion

  Stood th’ other souls struck, and each told his bane.

  Only the spirit Telamonian

  Kept far off, angry for the victory

  I won from him at fleet, though arbitry

  Of all a court of war pronounced it mine,

  And Pallas’ self. Our prise were th’ arms divine

  Of great Aeacides, propos’d t’ our fames

  By his bright mother, at his funeral games.

  I wish to heav’n I ought not to have won,

  Since for those arms so high a head so soon

  The base earth cover’d: Ajax, that of all

  The host of Greece had person capital,

  And acts as eminent, excepting his

  Whose arms those were, in whom was nought amiss.

  I tried the great soul with soft words, and said:

  ‘Ajax! Great son of Telamon, array’d

  In all our glories! What! Not dead resign

  Thy wrath for those curst arms? The pow’rs divine

  In them forg’d all our banes in thine own one;

  In thy grave fall our tow’r was ov
erthrown.

  We mourn, for ever maim’d, for thee as much

  As for Achilles; nor thy wrong doth touch,

  In sentence, any but Saturnius’ doom,

  In whose hate was the host of Greece become

  A very horror; who express’d it well

  In signing thy fate with this timeless hell.

  Approach then, king of all the Grecian merit,

  Repress thy great mind, and thy flamy spirit,

  And give the words I give thee worthy ear.’

  All this no word drew from him, but less near

  The stern soul kept; to other souls he fled,

  And glid along the river of the dead.

  Though anger mov’d him, yet he might have spoke,

  Since I to him. But my desires were strook

  With sight of other souls. And then I saw

  Minos, that minister’d to Death a law,

  And Jove’s bright son was. He was set, and sway’d

  A golden sceptre; and to him did plead

  A sort of others, set about his throne,

  In Pluto’s wide-door’d house; when straight came on

  Mighty Orion, who was hunting there

  The herds of those beasts he had slaughter’d here

  In desert hills on earth. A club he bore,

  Entirely steel, whose virtues never wore.

  Tityus I saw, to whom the glorious earth

  Open’d her womb, and gave unhappy birth.

  Upwards, and flat upon the pavement, lay

  His ample limbs, that spread in their display

  Nine acres’ compass. On his bosom sat

  Two vultures, digging, through his caul of fat,

  Into his liver with their crooked beaks;

  And each by turns the concrete entrail breaks,

  As smiths their steel beat, set on either side.

  Nor doth he ever labour to divide

  His liver and their beaks, nor with his hand

  Offer them off, but suffers by command

  Of th’ angry Thund’rer, off’ring to enforce

  His love Latona, in the close recourse

  She used to Pytho through the dancing land,

  Smooth Panopaeus. I saw likewise stand,

  Up to the chin amidst a liquid lake,

  Tormented Tantalus, yet could not slake

  His burning thirst. Oft as his scornful cup

  Th’ old man would taste, so oft ’twas swallow’d up,

  And all the black earth to his feet descried

  (Divine pow’r plaguing him) the lake still dried.

  About his head, on high trees clust’ring hung

  Pears, apples, granates, olives ever young,

  Delicious figs, and many fruit trees more

  Of other burden; whose alluring store

  When th’ old soul striv’d to pluck, the winds from sight,

  In gloomy vapours made them vanish quite.

  There saw I Sisyphus in infinite moan,

  With both hands heaving up a massy stone,

  And on his tip-toes racking all his height,

  To wrest up to a mountain-top his freight;

  When prest to rest it there, his nerves quite spent,

  Down rush’d the deadly quarry, the event

  Of all his torture new to raise again;

  To which straight set his never-rested pain.

  The sweat came gushing out from every pore,

  And on his head a standing mist he wore,

  Reeking from thence, as if a cloud of dust

  Were rais’d about it. Down with these was thrust

  The idol of the force of Hercules;

  But his firm self did no such fate oppress,

  He feasting lives amongst th’ immortal states,

  White-ankled Hebe and himself made mates

  In heavenly nuptials – Hebe, Jove’s dear race

  And Juno’s whom the golden sandals grace.

  About him flew the clamours of the dead

  Like fowls, and still stoop’d cuffing at his head.

  He with his bow, like Night, stalk’d up and down,

  His shaft still nock’d, and hurling round his frown

  At those vex’d hoverers, aiming at them still,

  And still, as shooting out desire to still.

  A horrid bawdrick wore he thwart his breast,

  The thong all gold, in which were forms impress’d,

  Where art and miracle drew equal breaths,

  In bears, boars, lions, battles, combats, deaths.

  Who wrought that work did never such before,

  Nor so divinely will do ever more.

  Soon as he saw, he knew me, and gave speech:

  ‘Son of Laertes, high in wisdom’s reach,

  And yet unhappy wretch, for in this heart,

  Of all exploits achiev’d by thy desert,

  Thy worth but works out some sinister fate,

  As I in earth did. I was generate

  By Jove himself, and yet past mean oppress’d

  By one my far inferior, whose proud hest

  Impos’d abhorred labours on my hand.

  Of all which one was, to descend this strand,

  And hale the dog from thence. He could not think

  An act that danger could make deeper sink.

  And yet this depth I drew, and fetch’d as high,

  As this was low, the dog. The deity

  Of sleight and wisdom, as of downright pow’r,

  Both stoop’d and raised, and made me conqueror.’

  This said, he made descent again as low

  As Pluto’s court; when I stood firm, for show

  Of more heroës of the times before,

  And might perhaps have seen my wish of more

  (As Theseus and Pirithous, deriv’d

  From roots of deity) but before th’ achiev’d

  Rare sight of these, the rank-soul’d multitude

  In infinite flocks rose, venting sounds so rude

  That pale fear took me, lest the gorgon’s head

  Rush’d in amongst them, thrust up, in my dread,

  By grim Persephone. I therefore sent

  My men before to ship, and after went.

  Where, boarded, set, and launch’d, th’ ocean wave

  Our oars and forewinds speedy passage gave.

  The end of the eleventh book

  Book 12

  The Argument

  He shows from Hell his safe retreat

  To th’ isle Aeaea, Circe’s seat;

  And how he scap’d the Sirens’ calls,

  With th’ erring rocks, and waters’ falls,

  That Scylla and Charybdis break;

  The Sun’s stol’n herds, and his sad wreak

  Both of Ulysses’ ship and men,

  His own head ’scaping scarce the pain.

  Another Argument

  Mu

  The rocks that err’d;

  The Sirens’ call;

  The Sun’s stol’n herd;

  The soldiers’ fall.

  Book 12

  Our ship now past the straits of th’ ocean flood,

  She plow’d the broad sea’s billows, and made good

  The isle Aeaea, where the palace stands

  Of th’ early riser with the rosy hands,

  Active Aurora, where she loves to dance,

  And where the Sun doth his prime beams advance.

  When here arrived, we drew her up to land,

  And trod ourselves the re-saluted sand
,

  Found on the shore fit resting for the night,

  Slept, and expected the celestial light.

  Soon as the white-and-red-mix’d-finger’d dame

  Had gilt the mountains with her saffron flame,

  I sent my men to Circe’s house before,

  To fetch deceas’d Elpenor to the shore.

  Straight swell’d the high banks with fell’d heaps of trees,

  And, full of tears, we did due exsequies

  To our dead friend. Whose corse consum’d with fire

  And honour’d arms, whose sepulchre entire

  And over that a column rais’d, his oar,

  Curiously carv’d to his desire before,

  Upon the top of all his tomb we fix’d.

  Of all rites fit his funeral pile was mix’d.

  Nor was our safe ascent from hell conceal’d

  From Circe’s knowledge; nor so soon reveal’d

  But she was with us, with her bread and food,

  And ruddy wine, brought by her sacred brood

  Of woods and fountains. In the midst she stood,

  And thus saluted us: ‘Unhappy men,

  That have, inform’d with all your senses, been

  In Pluto’s dismal mansion! You shall die

  Twice now, where others, that mortality

  In her fair arms holds, shall but once decease.

  But eat and drink out all conceit of these,

  And this day dedicate to food and wine,

  The following night to sleep. When next shall shine

  The cheerful morning, you shall prove the seas.

  Your way, and every act ye must address,

  My knowledge of their order shall design,

  Lest with your own bad counsels ye incline

  Events as bad against ye, and sustain,

  By sea and shore, the woeful ends that reign

  In wilful actions.’ Thus did she advise,

  And, for the time, our fortunes were so wise

  To follow wise directions. All that day

  We sat and feasted. When his lower way

  The sun had enter’d, and the ev’n the high,

  My friends slept on their cables; she and I

  (Led by her fair hand to a place apart,

  By her well-sorted) did to sleep convert

  Our timid powers; when all things fate let fall

  In our affair she ask’d; I told her all.

  To which she answer’d: ‘These things thus took end.

  And now to those that I inform attend,

  Which you rememb’ring, god himself shall be

  The blessed author of your memory.

  First to the Sirens ye shall come, that taint