The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
ANOTHER ARGUMENT
And then, look how to good sons that esteem Their father’s life dear, (after pains extreme, Felt in some sickness, that hath held him long Down to his bed, and with affections strong Wasted his body, made his life his load, As being inflicted by some angry God) When on their pray’rs they see descend at length Health from the heav’ns, clad all in spirit and strength, The sight is precious; so, since here should end Ulysses’ toils, which therein should extend Health to his country, held to him his sire And on which long for him disease did tire, And then, besides, for his own sake to see The shores, the woods so near, such joy had he, As those good sons for their recover’d sire. Then labour’d feet and all parts to aspire To that wish’d continent; which when as near He came, as Clamour might inform an ear, He heard a sound beat from the sea-bred rocks, Against which gave a huge sea horrid shocks, That belch’d upon the firm land weeds and foam, With which were all things hid there, where no room Of fit capacity was for any port, Nor from the sea for any man’s resort, The shores, the rocks, the cliff’s, so prominent were.
“O,” said Ulysses then, “now Jupiter Hath giv’n me sight of an unhop’d for shore, Though I have wrought these seas so long, so sore. Of rest yet no place shows the slend’rest prints, The rugged shore so bristled is with flints, Against which ev’ry way the waves so flock, And all the shore shows as one eminent rock, So near which ’tis so deep, that not a sand Is there for any tired foot to stand, Nor fly his death-fast-following miseries, Lest, if he land, upon him foreright flies A churlish wave, to crush him ’gainst a cliff, Worse than vain rend’ring all his landing strife. And should I swim to seek a hav’n elsewhere, Or land less way-beat, I may justly fear I shall be taken with a gale again, And cast a huge way off into the main; And there the great Earth-shaker (having seen My so near landing, and again his spleen Forcing me to him) will some whale send out, (Of which a horrid number here about His Amphitrite breeds) to swallow me. I well have prov’d, with what malignity He treads my steps.”
While this discourse he held, A curs’d surge ’gainst a cutting rock impell’d His naked body, which it gash’d and tore, And had his bones broke, if but one sea more Had cast him on it. But She prompted him, That never fail’d, and bade him no more swim Still off and on, but boldly force the shore, And hug the rock that him so rudely tore; Which he with both hands sigh’d and clasp’d, till past The billow’s rage was; when ’scap’d, back so fast The rock repuls’d it, that it reft his hold, Sucking him from it, and far back he roll’d And as the polypus that (forc’d from home Amidst the soft sea, and near rough land come For shelter ’gainst the storms that beat on her At open sea, as she abroad doth err) A deal of gravel, and sharp little stones, Needfully gathers in her hollow bones; So he forc’d hither by the sharper ill, Shunning the smoother, where he best hop’d, still The worst succeeded; for the cruel friend, To which he cling’d for succour, off did rend From his broad hands the soaken flesh so sore That off he fell, and could sustain no more.
Quite under water fell he; and, past fate, Hapless Ulysses there had lost the state He held in life, if, still the grey-eyed Maid His wisdom prompting, he had not assay’d Another course, and ceas’d t’ attempt that shore, Swimming, and casting round his eye t’ explore Some other shelter. Then the mouth he found Of fair Callicoe’s flood, whose shores were crown’d With most apt succours: rocks so smooth they seem’d Polish’d of purpose; land that quite redeem’d With breathless coverts th’ others’ blasted shores. The flood he knew, and thus in heart implores: “King of this river, hear! Whatever name Makes thee invok’d, to thee I humbly frame My flight from Neptune’s furies. Rev’rend is To all the ever-living Deities What erring man soever seeks their aid. To thy both flood and knees a man dismay’d With varied suff’rance sues. Yield then some rest To him that is thy suppliant profest.” This, though but spoke in thought, the Godhead heard, Her current straight stay’d, and her thick waves clear’d Before him, smooth’d her waters, and, just where He pray’d half-drown’d, entirely sav’d him there.
Then forth he came, his both knees falt’ring, both His strong hands hanging down, and all with froth His cheeks and nosthrils flowing, voice and breath Spent to all use, and down he sunk to death. The sea had soak’d his heart through; all his veins His toils had rack’d t’ a labouring woman’s pains.[5] Dead weary was he. But when breath did find A pass reciprocal, and in his mind His spirit was recollected, up he rose, And from his neck did th’ amulet unloose, That Ino gave him; which he hurl’d from him To sea. It sounding fell, and back did swim With th’ ebbing waters, till it straight arriv’d Where Ino’s fair hand it again receiv’d. Then kiss’d he th’ humble earth; and on he goes, Till bulrushes show’d place for his repose, Where laid, he sigh’d, and thus said to his soul: “O me, what strange perplexities control The whole skill of thy pow’rs in this event! What feel I? If till care-nurse night be spent I watch amidst the flood, the sea’s chill breath, And vegetant dews, I fear will be my death, So low brought with my labours. Towards day A passing sharp air ever breathes at sea.
If I the pitch of this next mountain scale, And shady wood, and in some thicket fall Into the hands of Sleep, though there the cold May well be check’d, and healthful slumbers hold Her sweet hand on my pow’rs, all care allay’d, Yet there will beasts devour me. Best appaid Doth that course make me yet; for there, some strife, Strength, and my spirit, may make me make for life; Which, though impair’d, may yet be fresh applied, Where peril possible of escape is tried. But he that fights with heav’n, or with the sea, To indiscretion adds impiety.” Thus to the woods he hasted; which he found Not far from sea, but on far-seeing ground, Where two twin underwoods he enter’d on, With olive-trees and oil-trees overgrown; Through which the moist force of the loud-voic’d wind Did never beat, nor ever Phœbus shin’d, Nor show’r beat through, they grew so one in one, And had, by turns, their pow’r t’ exclude the sun. Here enter’d our Ulysses; and a bed Of leaves huge, and of huge abundance, spread With all his speed.
Large he made it, for there For two or three men ample cov’rings were, Such as might shield them from the winter’s worst, Though steel it breathed, and blew as it would burst.[6] Patient Ulysses joy’d, that ever day Show’d such a shelter. In the midst he lay, Store of leaves heaping high on ev’ry side. And as in some out-field a man doth hide A kindled brand, to keep the seed of fire, No neighbour dwelling near, and his desire Serv’d with self store, he else would ask of none, But of his fore-spent sparks rakes th’ ashes on; So this out-place Ulysses thus receives, And thus nak’d virtue’s seed lies hid in leaves. Yet Pallas made him sleep as soon as men Whom delicacies all their flatt’ries deign, And all that all his labours could comprise Quickly concluded in his closed eyes. [1] _᾽Επἱ σχεδἰης πογυδἐσμον, in rate multis vinculis ligatus._ [2] The piner—Hunger. [3] This four day days’ work (you will say) is too much for one man: and Pliny affirms, that Hiero (a king of Sicily) in five-and forty days built two hundred and twenty ships, rigged them, and put to sea with them. [4] _Συναγεἰρω—Mendicando colligo._ [5] _Ὤιδεε_ of _ὠδἰνω ἁ partu doleo._ [6] A metaphorical hyperbole, expressing the winter’s extremity of sharpness. Minerva in a vision stands Before Nausicaa: and commands She to the flood her weeds should bear; For now her nuptial day was near. Nausicaa her charge obeys, And then with other virgins plays. Their sports make wak’d Ulysses rise; Walk to them, and beseech supplies Of food and clothes. His naked sight Puts th’ other maids, afraid, to flight; Nausicaa only boldly stays, And gladly his desire obeys. He, furnish’d with her favour’s shown, Attends her and the rest to town.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.