The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
THE END OF THE FIRST HYMN TO VENUS
A Hymn to Bacchus, or the Pirates Of Dionysus, noble Semele’s Son, I now intend to render mention, As on a prominent shore his person shone, Like to a youth whose flow’r was newly blown, Bright azure tresses play’d about his head, And on his bright broad shoulders was dispread A purple mantle. Strait he was descried By certain manly pirates, that applied Their utmost speed to prise him, being aboard A well-built bark, about whose broad sides roar’d The wine-black Tyrrhene billows; death as black Brought them upon him in their future wrack. For, soon as they had purchas’d but his view, Mutual signs past them, and ashore they flew, Took him, and brought him instantly aboard, Soothing their hopes to have obtain’d a hoard Of riches with him; and a Jove-kept king To such a flow’r must needs be natural spring. And therefore straight strong fetters they must fetch, To make him sure. But no such strength would stretch To his constrain’d pow’rs. Far flew all their bands From any least force done his feet or hands. But he sat casting smiles from his black eyes At all their worst. At which discoveries Made by the master, he did thus dehort All his associates: “Wretches! Of what sort Hold ye the person ye assay to bind?
Nay, which of all the Pow’r fully-divin’d Esteem ye him, whose worth yields so much weight That not our well-built bark will bear his freight? Or Jove himself he is, or He that bears The silver bow, or Neptune. Nor appears In him the least resemblance of a man, But of a strain at least Olympian. Come! Make we quick dismission of his state, And on the black-soil’d earth exonerate Our sinking vessel of his deified load, Nor dare the touch of an intangible God, Lest winds outrageous, and of wrackful scathe, And smoking tempests, blow his fiery wrath.” This well-spoke master the tall captain gave Hateful and horrible language; call’d him slave, And bade him mark the prosp’rous gale that blew, And how their vessel with her mainsail flew; Bade all take arms, and said, their works requir’d The cares of men, and not of an inspir’d Pure zealous master; his firm hopes being fir’d With this opinion, that they should arrive In Ægypt straight, or Cyprus, or where live Men whose brave breaths above the north wind blow; Yea, and perhaps beyond their region too.
And that he made no doubt but in the end To make his prisoner tell him every friend Of all his offspring, brothers, wealth, and all; Since that prise, certain, must some God let fall. This said, the mast and mainsail up he drew, And in the mainsail’s midst a frank gale blew; When all his ship took arms to brave their prise. But straight strange works appear’d to all their eyes: First, sweet wine through their swift-black bark did flow, Of which the odours did a little blow Their fiery spirits, making th’ air so fine That they in flood were there as well as wine. A mere immortal-making savour rose, Which on the air the Deity did impose. The seamen see’ng all, admiration seiz’d; Yet instantly their wonders were increas’d, For on the topsail there ran, here and there, A vine that grapes did in abundance bear, And in an instant was the ship’s mainmast With an obscure-green ivy’s arms embrac’d, That flourish’d straight, and were with berries grac’d; Of which did garlands circle every brow Of all the pirates, and no one knew how. Which when they saw, they made the master steer Out to the shore; whom Bacchus made forbear, With showing more wonders.
Mars, most-strong, gold-helm’d, making chariots crack; Never without a shield cast on thy back; Mind-master, town-guard, with darts never driven; Strong-handed, all arms, fort, and fence of heaven; Father of victory with fair strokes given; Joint surrogate of justice, lest she fall In unjust strifes a tyrant; general Only of just men justly; that dost bear Fortitude’s sceptre, to heaven’s fiery sphere Giver of circular motion, between That and the Pleiads that still wand’ring been, Where thy still-vehemently-flaming horse About the third heaven make their fiery course; Helper of mortals; hear!—As thy fires give The fair and present boldnesses that strive In youth for honour, being the sweet-beam’d light That darts into their lives, from all their height, The fortitudes and fortunes found in fight; So would I likewise wish to have the pow’r To keep off from my head thy bitter hour, And that false fire, cast from my soul’s low kind, Stoop to the fit rule of my highest mind, Controlling that so eager sting of wrath That stirs me on still to that horrid scathe Of war, that God still sends to wreak his spleen (Even by whole tribes) of proud injurious men. But O thou Ever-Blessed! give me still Presence of mind to put in act my will, Varied, as fits, to all occasion; And to live free, unforc’d, unwrought upon, Beneath those laws of peace that never are Affected with pollutions popular Of unjust hurt, or loss to anyone; And to bear safe the burthen undergone Of foes inflexive, and inhuman hates, Secure from violent and harmful fates.
A Hymn to Diana Diana praise, Muse, that in darts delights, Lives still a maid, and had nutritial rights With her born-brother, the far-shooting Sun. That doth her all-of-gold-made chariot run In chase of game, from Meles that abounds In black-brow’d bulrushes, and, where her hounds She first uncouples, joining there her horse, Through Smyrna carried in most fiery course To grape-rich Claros; where (ill his rich home, And constant expectation She will come) Sits Phœbus, that the silver bow doth bear, To meet with Phœbe, that doth darts transfer As far as He his shafts. As far then be Thy chaste fame shot, O Queen of archery! Sacring my song to every Deity. A Hymn to Venus (Third Hymn) To Cyprian Venus still my verses vow, Who gifts as sweet as honey doth bestow On all mortality; that ever smiles, And rules a face that all foes reconciles; Ever sustaining in her hand a flow’r That all desire keeps ever in her pow’r. Hail, then, O Queen of well-built Salamine, And all the state that Cyprus doth confine, Inform my song with that celestial fire That in thy beauties kindles all desire. So shall my Muse for ever honour thee, And any other thou commend’st to me. A Hymn to Pallas Pallas Minerva only I begin To give my song; that makes war’s terrible din, Is patroness of cities, and with Mars Marshall’d in all the care and cure of wars, And in everted cities, fights, and cries. But never doth herself set down or rise Before a city, but at both times She All injur’d people sets on foot and free. Give, with thy war’s force, fortune then to me, And, with thy wisdom’s force, felicity.
A Hymn to Juno Saturnia, and her throne of gold, I sing, That was of Rhea the eternal spring, And empress of a beauty never yet Equall’d in height of tincture. Of the great Saturnius (breaking air in awful noise) The far-fam’d wife and sister; whom in joys Of high Olympus all the Blessed love, And honour equal with unequall’d Jove. A Hymn to Ceres The rich-hair’d Ceres I assay to sing; A Goddess, in whose grace the natural spring Of serious majesty itself is seen; And of the wedded, yet in grace still green, Proserpina, her daughter, that displays A beauty casting every way her rays. All honour to thee, Goddess! Keep this town; And take thou chief charge of my song’s renown! A Hymn to the Mother of the Gods Mother of all, both Gods and men, commend, O Muse, whose fair form did from Jove descend; That doth with cymbal sounds delight her life, And tremulous divisions of the fife; Love’s dreadful lions’ roars, and wolves’ hoarse howls, Sylvan retreats, and hills, whose hollow knolls Raise repercussive sounds about her ears. And so may honour ever crown thy years With all-else Goddesses, and ever be Exalted in the Muses’ harmony! A Hymn to Lion-Hearted Hercules Alcides, forcefullest of all the brood Of men enforc’d with need of earthy food, My Muse shall memorise; the son of Jove, Whom, in fair-seated Thebes (commix’d in love With great heaven’s sable-cloud-assembling State) Alcmena bore to him; and who, in date Of days forepast, through all the sea was sent, And Earth’s inenarrable continent, To acts that king Eurystheus had decreed; Did many a petulant and imperious deed Himself, and therefore suffer’d many a toil; Yet now inhabits the illustrious soil Of white Olympus, and delights his life With still-young Hebe, his well-ankled wife. Hail, King, and Son of Jove! Vouchsafe me Virtue, and, her effect, felicity!
A Hymn to Æsculapius With Æsculapius, the physician, That cur’d all sickness, and was Phœbus’ son, My Muse makes entry; to whose life gave yield Divine Coronis in the Dotian field, (King Phlegius’ daughter) who much joy on men Conferr’d, in dear ease of their irksome pain. For which, my salutation, worthy king, And vows to thee paid, ever when I sing! A Hymn to Castor and Pollux Castor and Pollux, the Tyndarides, Sweet Muse illustrate; that their essences Fetch from the high forms of Olympian Jove, And were the fair fruits of bright Leda’s love, Which she produc’d beneath the sacred shade Of steep Taygetus, being subdu’d, and made To serve th’ affections of the Thunderer. And so all grace to you, whom all aver (For skill in horses, and their manage given) To be the bravest horsemen under heaven! A Hymn to Mercury Hermes I honour, the Cyllenian Spy, King of Cyllenia, and of Arcady With flocks abounding; and the Messenger Of all th’ Immortals, that doth still infer Profits of infinite value to their store; Whom to Saturnius bashful Maia bore, Daughter of Atlas, and did therefore fly Of all th’ Immortals the society, To that dark cave, where, in the dead of night, Jove join’d with her in love’s divine delight, When golden sleep shut Juno’s jealous eye, Whose arms had wrists as white as ivory, From whom, and all, both men and Gods beside, The fair-hair’d nymph had scape kept undescried. Joy to the Jove-got then, and Maia’s care, ’Twixt men and Gods the general Messenger, Giver of good grace, gladness, and the flood Of all that men or Gods account their good!
A Hymn to Pan Sing, Muse, this chief of Hermes’ love-got joys, Goat-footed, two-horn’d, amorous of noise, That through the fair greens, all adorn’d with trees, Together goes with Nymphs, whose nimble knees Can every dance foot, that affect to scale The most inaccessible tops of all Uprightest rocks, and ever use to call On Pan, the bright-hair’d God of pastoral; Who yet is lean and loveless, and doth owe By lot all loftiest mountains crown’d with snow; All tops of hills, and cliffy highnesses, All sylvan copses, and the fortresses Of thorniest queaches, here and there doth rove, And sometimes, by allurement of his love, Will wade the wat’ry softnesses. Sometimes (In quite oppos’d _capriccios_) he climbs The hardest rocks, and highest, every way Running their ridges. Often will convey Himself up to a watch-tow’r’s top, where sheep Have their observance. Oft through hills as steep His goats he runs upon, and never rests. Then turns he head, and flies on savage beasts, Mad of their slaughters; so most sharp an eye Setting upon them, as his beams let fly Through all their thickest tapistries. And then (When Hesp’rus calls to fold the flocks of men) From the green clossets of his loftiest reeds He rushes forth, and joy with song he feeds.
When, under shadow of their motions set, He plays a verse forth so profoundly sweet, As not the bird that in the flow’ry spring, Amidst the leaves set, makes the thickets ring Of her sour sorrows, sweeten’d with her song, Runs her divisions varied so and strong. And then the sweet-voic’d Nymphs that crown his mountains (Flock’d round about the deep-black-water’d fountains) Fall in with their contention of song. To which the echoes all the hills along Their repercussions add. Then here and there (Plac’d in the midst) the God the guide doth bear Of all their dances, winding in and out, A lynce’s hide, besprinkled round about With blood, cast on his shoulders. And thus He, With well-made songs, maintains th’ alacrity Of his free mind, in silken meadows crown’d With hyacinths and saffrons, that abound In sweet-breath’d odours, that th’ unnumber’d grass (Besides their scents) give as through all they pass. And these, in all their pleasures, ever raise The blessed Gods’ and long Olympus’ praise: Like zealous Hermes, who of all I said Most profits up to all the Gods convey’d. Who, likewise, came into th’ Arcadian state, (That’s rich in fountains, and all celebrate For nurse of flocks,) where He had vow’d a grove (Surnam’d Cyllenius) to his Godhead’s love.
Yet even himself (although a God he were) Clad in a squalid sheepskin, govern’d there A mortal’s sheep. For soft love ent’ring him Conform’d his state to his conceited trim, And made him long, in an extreme degree, T’ enjoy the fair-hair’d virgin Dryope. Which ere he could, she made consummate The flourishing rite of Hymen’s honour’d state; And brought him such a piece of progeny As show’d, at first sight, monstrous to the eye, Goat-footed, two-horn’d, full of noise even then, And (opposite quite to other childeren) Told, in sweet laughter, he ought death no tear. Yet straight his mother start, and fled, in fear, The sight of so unsatisfying a thing, In whose face put forth such a bristled spring. Yet the most useful Mercury embrac’d, And took into his arms, his homely-fac’d, Beyond all measure joyful with his sight; And up to heaven with him made instant flight, Wrapp’d in the warm skin of a mountain hare, Set him by Jove, and made most merry fare To all the Deities else with his son’s sight; Which most of all fill’d Bacchus with delight; And Pan they call’d him, since he brought to all Of mirth so rare and full a festival. And thus all honour to the shepherds’ King, For sacrifice to thee my Muse shall sing!
A Hymn to Vulcan Praise Vulcan, now Muse; whom fame gives the prize For depth and fracture of all forge-devise; Who, with the sky-ey’d Pallas, first did give Men rules of buildings, that before did live In caves and dens, and hills, like savage beasts; But now, by art-fam’d Vulcan’s interests In all their civil industries, ways clear Through th’ all-things-bringing-to-their-ends (the year) They work out to their ages’ ends, at ease Lodg’d in safe roofs from Winter’s utmost prease. But, Vulcan, stand propitious to me, Virtue safe granting, and felicity! A Hymn to Phœbus O Phœbus! Even the swan from forth her wings, Jumping her proyning-bank, thee sweetly sings, By bright Peneus’ whirl-pit-making streams. Thee, that thy lute mak’st sound so to thy beams, Thee, first and last, the sweet-voic’d singer still Sings, for thy song’s all-songs-transcending skill. Thy pleasure, then, shall my song still supply, And so salutes thee King of Poesy. A Hymn to Neptune Neptune, the mighty marine God, I sing, Earth’s mover, and the fruitless ocean’s King, That Helicon and th’ Ægean deeps dost hold. O thou Earth-shaker! Thy command two-fold The Gods have sorted; making thee of horses The awful tamer, and of naval forces The Sure preserver. Hail, O Saturn’s birth! Whose graceful green hair circles all the earth. Bear a benign mind; and thy helpful hand Lend all submitted to thy dread command.
A Hymn to Jove Jove now I sing, the greatest and the best Of all these Pow’rs that are with Deity blest, That far-off doth his dreadful voice diffuse, And, being King of all, doth all conduce To all their ends. Who (shut from all Gods else With Themis, that the laws of all things tells) Their fit composures to their times doth call, Weds them together, and preserves this all. Grace then, O far-heard Jove, the grace thou’st given, Most Glorious, and most Great of Earth and Heaven! A Hymn to Vesta Vesta, that as a servant oversees King Phœbus’ hallow’d house, in all degrees Of guide about it, on the sacred shore Of heavenly Pythos, and hast evermore Rich balms distilling from thy odorous hair, Grace this house with thy housewifely repair! Enter, and bring a mind that most may move, Conferring even, the great in counsels, Jove; And let my verse taste of your either’s love. A Hymn to the Muses and Apollo The Muses, Jove, and Phœbus, now I sing; For from the far-off-shooting Phœbus spring All poets and musicians, and from Jove Th’ ascents of kings. The man the Muses love, Felicity blesses; elocution’s choice In syrup lay’ng of sweetest breath his voice. Hail, Seed of Jove, my song your honours give, And so in mine shall yours and others’ live.
Diana, that the golden spindle moves, And lofty sounds as well as Bacchus loves, A bashful virgin, and of fearful hearts The death-affecter with delighted darts, By sire and mother Phœbus’ sister born, Whose thigh the golden falchion doth adorn, I sing; who likewise over hills of shade And promontories that vast winds invade, Amorous of hunting, bends her all-gold bow, And sigh-begetting arrows doth bestow In fates so dreadful that the hill-tops quake, And bristled woods their leafy foreheads shake, Horrors invade earth, and [the] fishy seas Impassion’d furies; nothing can appease The dying brays of beasts. And her delight In so much death affects so with affright Even all inanimate natures; for, while she Her sports applies, their general progeny She all ways turns upon to all their banes. Yet when her fiery pleasures find their wanes, Her yielding bow unbent, to th’ ample house, Seated in Delphos, rich and populous, Of her dear brother, her retreats advance. Where th’ instauration of delightsome dance Amongst the Muses and the Graces she Gives form; in which herself the regency (Her unbent bow hung up, and casting on A gracious robe) assumes, and first sets gone The dances’ entry; to which all send forth Their heavenly voices, and advance the worth Of her fair-ankled mother, since to light She children brought the far most exquisite In counsels and performances of all The Goddesses that grace the heavenly hall. Hail then, Latona’s fair-hair’d Seed, and Jove’s! My song shall ever call to mind your loves.
Mother of all things, the well-founded Earth, My Muse shall memorize; who all the birth Gives food that all her upper regions breed, All that in her divine diffusions feed In under continents, all those that live In all the seas, and all the air doth give Wing’d expeditions, of thy bounties eat; Fair children, and fair fruits, thy labour’s sweat, O great in reverence; and referr’d to thee, For life and death is all the pedigree Of mortal humans. Happy then is he Whom the innate propensions of thy mind Stand bent to honour. He shall all things find In all abundance; all his pastures yield Herds in all plenties; all his roofs are fill’d With rich possessions; he, in all the sway Of laws best order’d, cuts out his own way In cities shining with delicious dames, And takes his choice of all those striving flames; High happiness and riches, like his train, Follow his fortunes, with delights that reign In all their princes; glory invests his sons; His daughters, with their crown’d selections Of all the city, frolic through the meads, And everyone her call’d-for dances treads Along the soft-flow’r of the claver-grass. All this, with all those, ever comes to pass, That thy love blesses, Goddess full of grace, And treasurous Angel t’ all the human race. Hail, then, Great Mother of the Deified Kind, Wife to the cope of stars! Sustain a mind Propitious to me for my praise, and give (Answering my mind) my vows fit means to live.
A Hymn to the Sun The radiant Sun’s divine renown diffuse, Jove’s daughter, great Calliope, my Muse; Whom ox-ey’d Euryphaëssa gave birth To the bright Seed of starry Heaven and Earth. For the far-fam’d Hyperion took to wife His sister Euryphaëssa, that life Of his high race gave to these lovely three: Aurora, with the rosy-wrists; and She That owns th’ enamouring tresses, the bright Moon; Together with the never-wearied Sun, Who (his horse mounting) gives both mortals light And all th’ Immortals. Even to horror, bright A blaze burns from his golden burgonet, Which to behold exceeds the sharpest set Of any eye’s intention, beams so clear It all ways pours abroad. The glorious cheer Of his far-shining face up to his crown Casts circular radiance, that comes streaming down About his temples, his bright cheeks, and all, Retaining the refulgence of their fall. About his bosom flows so fine a weed As doth the thinness of the wind exceed In rich context; beneath whose deep folds fly His masculine horses round about the sky, Till in this hemisphere he renders stay T’ his gold-yok’d coach and coursers; and his way, Let down by heaven, the heavenly coachman makes Down to the ocean, where his rest he takes. My salutations then, fair King, receive, And in propitious returns relieve My life with mind-fit means; and then from thee, And all the race of complete Deity, My song shall celebrate those half-god States, That yet sad death’s condition circulates, And whose brave acts the Gods show men that they As brave may aim at, since they can but die.
A Hymn to the Moon The Moon, now, Muses, teach me to resound, Whose wide wings measure such a world of ground; Jove’s daughter, deck’d with the mellifluous tongue, And seen in all the sacred art of song. Whose deathless brows when she from heaven displays, All earth she wraps up in her orient rays. A heaven of ornament in earth is rais’d When her beams rise. The subtle air is sais’d Of delicate splendour from her crown of gold. And when her silver bosom is extoll’d, Wash’d in the ocean, in day’s equall’d noon Is midnight seated; but when she puts on Her far-off-sprinkling-lustre evening weeds, (The month is two cut; her high-breasted steeds Man’d all with curl’d flames, put in coach and all, Her huge orb fill’d,) her whole trims then exhale Unspeakable splendours from the glorious sky. And out of that state mortal men imply Many predictions. And with her then, In love mix’d, lay the King of Gods and men; By whom made fruitful, she Pandea bore, And added her state to th’ Immortal Store. Hail, Queen, and Goddess, th’ ivory-wristed Moon Divine, prompt, fair-hair’d! With thy grace begun, My Muse shall forth, and celebrate the praise Of men whose states the Deities did raise To semi-deities; whose deeds t’ endless date Muse-lov’d and sweet-sung poets celebrate.
A Hymn to Castor and Pollux Jove’s fair Sons, father’d by th’ Oebalian king, Muses well-worth-all men’s beholdings, sing! The dear birth that bright-ankl’d Leda bore; Horse-taming Castor, and, the conqueror Of tooth-tongu’d Momus, Pollux; whom beneath Steep-brow’d Taygetus she gave half-god breath, In love mix’d with the black-clouds King of Heaven; Who, both of men and ships, being tempest driven, When Winter’s wrathful empire is in force Upon th’ implacable seas, preserve the course. For when the gusts begin, if near the shore, The seamen leave their ship, and, evermore Bearing two milk-white lambs aboard, they now Kill them ashore, and to Jove’s issue vow, When though their ship, in height of all the roar The winds and waves confound, can live no more In all their hopes, then suddenly appear Jove’s saving Sons, who both their bodies bear ’Twixt yellow wings down from the sparkling pole, Who straight the rage of those rude winds control, And all the high-waves couch into the breast Of th’ hoary seas. All which sweet signs of rest To seamen’s labours their glad souls conceive, And end to all their irksome grievance give. So, once more, to the swift-horse-riding race Of royal Tyndarus, eternal grace! A Hymn to Men of Hospitality Reverence a man with use propitious That hospitable rites wants; and a house (You of this city with the seat of state To ox-ey’d Juno vow’d) yet situate Near Pluto’s region. At the extreme base Of whose so high-hair’d city, from the race Of blue-wav’d Hebrus lovely fluent, grac’d With Jove’s begetting, you divine cups taste.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.