And cloath’d him in sweet-scented garments new.
Two skins the Goddess also placed on board,
One charg’d with crimson wine, and ampler one
With water, nor a bag with food replete
Forgot, nutritious, grateful to the taste,
Nor yet, her latest gift, a gentle gale
And manageable, which Ulysses spread,
Exulting, all his canvas to receive.
Beside the helm he sat, steering expert,
Nor sleep fell ever on his eyes that watch’d
Intent the Pleiads, tardy in decline
Bootes, and the Bear, call’d else the Wain,
Which, in his polar prison circling, looks
Direct toward Orion, and alone
Of these sinks never to the briny Deep.
That star the lovely Goddess bade him hold
Continual on his left through all his course.
Ten days and sev’n, he, navigating, cleav’d
The brine, and on the eighteenth day, at length,
The shadowy mountains of Phæacia’s land
Descried, where nearest to his course it lay
Like a broad buckler on the waves afloat.
Of Ethiopia, mark’d him on his raft
Skimming the billows, from the mountain-tops
Of distant Solyma. With tenfold wrath
Inflamed that sight he view’d, his brows he shook,
And thus within himself, indignant, spake.
Propitious to Ulysses, have prevail’d
Since Æthiopia hath been my abode.
He sees Phæacia nigh, where he must leap
The bound’ry of his woes; but ere that hour
Arrive, I will ensure him many a groan.
The clouds and troubled ocean; ev’ry storm
From ev’ry point he summon’d, earth and sea
Darkening, and the night fell black from heav’n.
The East, the South, the heavy-blowing West,
And the cold North-wind clear, assail’d at once
His raft, and heaved on high the billowy flood.
All hope, all courage, in that moment, lost,
The Hero thus within himself complain’d.
Attends me! much I fear the Goddess’ words
All true, which threaten’d me with num’rous ills
On the wide sea, ere I should reach my home.
Behold them all fulfill’d! with what a storm
Jove hangs the heav’ns, and agitates the Deep!
The winds combined beat on me. Now I sink!
Thrice blest, and more than thrice, Achaia’s sons
At Ilium slain for the Atridæ’ sake!
Ah, would to heav’n that, dying, I had felt
That day the stroke of fate, when me the dead
Achilles guarding, with a thousand spears
Troy’s furious host assail’d! Funereal rites
I then had shared, and praise from ev’ry Greek,
Whom now the most inglorious death awaits.
While thus he spake, a billow on his head
Bursting impetuous, whirl’d the raft around,
And, dashing from his grasp the helm, himself
Plunged far remote. Then came a sudden gust
Of mingling winds, that in the middle snapp’d
His mast, and, hurried o’er the waves afar,
Both sail and sail- yard fell into the flood.
Long time submerged he lay, nor could with ease
The violence of that dread shock surmount,
Or rise to air again, so burthensome
His drench’d apparel proved; but, at the last,
He rose, and, rising, sputter’d from his lips
The brine that trickled copious from his brows.
Nor, harass’d as he was, resign’d he yet
His raft, but buffetting the waves aside
With desp’rate efforts, seized it, and again
Fast seated on the middle deck, escaped.
Then roll’d the raft at random in the flood,
Wallowing unwieldy, toss’d from wave to wave.
As when in autumn, Boreas o’er the plain
Conglomerated thorns before him drives,
They, tangled, to each other close adhere,
So her the winds drove wild about the Deep.
By turns the South consign’d her to be sport
For the rude North-wind, and, by turns, the East
Yielded her to the worrying West a prey.
But Cadmus’ beauteous daughter (Ino once,
Now named Leucothea) saw him; mortal erst
Was she, and trod the earth, but nymph become
Of Ocean since, in honours shares divine.
She mark’d his anguish, and, while toss’d he roam’d,
Pitied Ulysses; from the flood, in form
A cormorant, she flew, and on the raft
Close-corded perching, thus the Chief address’d.
So terribly the Shaker of the shores,
That he pursues thee with such num’rous ills?
Sink thee he cannot, wish it as he may.
Thus do (for I account thee not unwise)
Thy garments putting off, let drive thy raft
As the winds will, then, swimming, strive to reach
Phæacia, where thy doom is to escape.
Take this. This ribbon bind beneath thy breast,
Celestial texture. Thenceforth ev’ry fear
Of death dismiss, and, laying once thy hands
On the firm continent, unbind the zone,
Which thou shalt cast far distant from the shore
Into the Deep, turning thy face away.
| Previous chapter/page | Back | Home | Email this | Search | Discuss | Bookmark | Next chapter/page |