The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
THE END OF THE HYMN TO APOLLO.
A Hymn to Hermes Hermes, the son of Jove and Maia, sing, O Muse, th’ Arcadian and Cyllenian king, They rich in flocks, he heaven enriching still In messages return’d with all his will. Whom glorious Maia, the nymph rich in hair, Mixing with Jove in amorous affair, Brought forth to him, sustaining a retreat From all th’ Immortals of the blessed seat, And living in the same dark cave, where Jove Inform’d at midnight the effect of love, Unknown to either man or Deity, Sweet sleep once having seized the jealous eye Of Juno deck’d with wrists of ivory. But when great Jove’s high mind was consummate, The tenth month had in heaven confined the date Of Maia’s labour, and into the sight She brought in one birth labours infinite; For then she bore a son, that all tried ways Could turn and wind to wish’d events assays, A fair-tongu’d, but false-hearted, counsellor, Rector of ox-stealers, and for all stealths bore A varied finger; speeder of night’s spies, And guide of all her dreams’ obscurities; Guard of door-guardians; and was born to be, Amongst th’ Immortals, that wing’d Deity That in an instant should do acts would ask The powers of others an eternal task.
Born in the morn, he form’d his lute at noon, At night stole all the oxen of the Sun; And all this in his birth’s first day was done, Which was the fourth of the increasing moon. Because celestial limbs sustain’d his strains, His sacred swath-bands must not be his chains, So, starting up, to Phœbus’ herd he stept, Found straight the high-roof’d cave where they were kept, And th’ entry passing, he th’ invention found Of making lutes; and did in wealth abound By that invention, since he first of all Was author of that engine musical, By this means moved to the ingenious work: Near the cave’s inmost overture did lurk A tortoise, tasting th’ odoriferous grass, Leisurely moving; and this object was The motive to Jove’s son (who could convert To profitable uses all desert That nature had in any work convey’d) To form the lute; when, smiling, thus he said: “Thou mov’st in me a note of excellent use, Which thy ill form shall never so seduce T’ avert the good to be inform’d by it, In pliant force, of my form-forging wit.”
Then the slow tortoise, wrought on by his mind, He thus saluted: “All joy to the kind Instinct of nature in thee, born to be The spiriter of dances, company For feasts, and following banquets, graced and blest For bearing light to all the interest Claim’d in this instrument! From whence shall spring Play fair and sweet, to which may Graces sing. A pretty painted coat thou putt’st on here, O Tortoise, while thy ill-bred vital sphere Confines thy fashion; but, surprised by me, I’ll bear thee home, where thou shalt ever be A profit to me; and yet nothing more Will I contemn thee in my merited store. Goods with good parts got worth and honour gave, Left goods and honours every fool may have, And since thou first shall give me means to live, I’ll love thee ever. Virtuous qualities give To live at home with them enough content, Where those that want such inward ornament Fly out for outward, their life made their load. _Tis best to be at home, harm lurks abroad._ And certainly thy virtue shall be known, ’Gainst great-ill-causing incantation To serve as for a lance or amulet.
And where, in comfort of thy vital heat, Thou now breath’st but a sound confus’d for song, Expos’d by nature, after death, more strong Thou shalt in sounds of art be, and command Song infinite sweeter.” Thus with either hand He took it up, and instantly took flight Back to his cave with that his home delight. Where (giving to the mountain tortoise vents Of life and motion) with fit instruments Forged of bright steel he straight inform’d a lute, Put neck and frets to it, of which a suit He made of splitted quills, in equal space Impos’d upon the neck, and did embrace Both back and bosom. At whose height (as gins T’ extend and ease the string) he put in pins. Seven strings of several tunes he then applied, Made of the entrails of a sheep well-dried, And throughly twisted. Next he did provide A case for all, made of an ox’s hide, Out of his counsels to preserve as well As to create. And all this action fell Into an instant consequence. His word And work had individual accord, All being as swiftly to perfection brought As any worldly man’s most ravish’d thought, Whose mind care cuts in an infinity Of varied parts or passions instantly, Or as the frequent twinklings of an eye.
And thus his house-delight given absolute end, He touch’d it, and did every string extend (With an exploratory spirit assay’d) To all the parts that could on it be play’d. It sounded dreadfully; to which he sung, As if from thence the first and true force sprung That fashions virtue. God in him did sing. His play was likewise an unspeakable thing, Yet, but as an extemporal assay, Of what show it would make being the first way, It tried his hand; or a tumultuous noise, Such as at feasts the first-flower’d spirits of boys Pour out in mutual contumelies still, As little squaring with his curious will, Or was as wanton and untaught a store. Of Jove, and Maia that rich shoes still wore, He sung; who suffer’d ill reports before, And foul stains under her fair titles bore. But Hermes sung her nation, and her name Did iterate ever; all her high-flown fame Of being Jove’s mistress; celebrating all Her train of servants, and collateral Sumpture of houses; all her tripods there, And caldrons huge, increasing every year. All which she knew, yet felt her knowledge stung With her fame’s loss, which (found) she more wish’d sung.
But now he in his sacred cradle laid His lute so absolute, and straight convey’d Himself up to a watch-tow’r forth his house, Rich, and divinely odoriferous, A lofty wile at work in his conceit, Thirsting the practice of his empire’s height. And where impostors rule (since sable night Must serve their deeds) he did his deeds their right. For now the never-resting Sun was turn’d For th’ under earth, and in the ocean burn’d His coach and coursers; when th’ ingenious spy Pieria’s shady hill had in his eye, Where the immortal oxen of the Gods In air’s flood solaced their select abodes, And earth’s sweet green flow’r, that was never shorn, Fed ever down. And these the witty-born, Argicides, set serious spy upon, Severing from all the rest, and setting gone Full fifty of the violent bellowers. Which driving through the sands, he did reverse (His birth’s-craft straight rememb’ring) all their hoves, And them transpos’d in opposite removes, The fore behind set, the behind before, T’ employ the eyes of such as should explore.
And he himself, as sly-pac’d, cast away His sandals on the sea sands; past display And unexcogitable thoughts in act Putting, to shun of his stol’n steps the tract, Mixing both tamrisk and like-tamrisk sprays In a most rare confusion, to raise His footsteps up from earth. Of which sprays he (His armful gathering fresh from off the tree) Made for his sandals ties, both leaves and ties Holding together; and then fear’d no eyes That could affect his feet’s discoveries. The tamrisk boughs he gather’d, making way Back from Pieria, but as to convey Provision in them for his journey fit, It being long and, therefore, needing it. An old man, now at labour near the field Of green Onchestus, knew the verdant yield Of his fair armful; whom th’ ingenious son Of Maia, therefore, salutation Did thus begin to: “Ho, old man! that now Art crooked grown with making plants to grow, Thy nerves will far be spent, when these boughs shall To these their leaves confer me fruit and all. But see not thou whatever thou dost see, Nor hear though hear, but all as touching me Conceal, since nought it can endamage thee.” This, and no more, he said, and on drave still His broad-brow’d oxen.
Many a shady hill, And many an echoing valley, many a field Pleasant and wishful, did his passage yield Their safe transcension. But now the divine And black-brow’d Night, his mistress, did decline Exceeding swiftly; Day’s most early light Fast hasting to her first point, to excite Worldlings to work; and in her watch-tow’r shone King Pallas-Megamedes’ seed (the Moon); When through th’ Alphæan flood Jove’s powerful son Phœbus-Apollo’s ample-foreheaded herd (Whose necks the lab’ring yoke had never sphered) Drave swiftly on; and then into a stall (Hilly, yet pass’d to through an humble vale And hollow dells, in a most lovely mead) He gather’d all, and them divinely fed With odorous cypress, and the ravishing tree That makes his eaters lose the memory Of name and country. Then he brought withal Much wood, whose sight into his search let fall The art of making fire; which thus he tried: He took a branch of laurel, amplified Past others both in beauty and in size, Yet lay next hand, rubb’d it, and straight did rise A warm fume from it; steel being that did raise (As agent) the attenuated bays To that hot vapour.
So that Hermes found Both fire first, and of it the seed close bound In other substances; and then the seed He multiplied, of sere-wood making feed The apt heat of it, in a pile combined Laid in a low pit, that in flames straight shined, And cast a sparkling crack up to the sky, All the dry parts so fervent were, and high In their combustion. And how long the force Of glorious Vulcan kept the fire in course, So long was he in dragging from their stall Two of the crook-haunch’d herd, that roar’d withal, And raged for fear, t’ approach the sacred fire, To which did all his dreadful pow’rs aspire. When, blust’ring forth their breath, he on the soil Cast both at length, though with a world of toil, For long he was in getting them to ground After their through-thrust and most mortal wound. But work to work he join’d, the flesh and cut, Cover’d with fat, and, on treen broches put, In pieces roasted; but in th’ intestines The black blood, and the honorary chines, Together with the carcases, lay there, Cast on the cold earth, as no Deities’ cheer; The hides upon a rugged rock he spread.
And thus were these now all in pieces shred, And undistinguish’d from earth’s common herd, Though born for long date, and to heaven endear’d, And now must ever live in dead event. But Hermes, here hence having his content, Cared for no more, but drew to places even The fat-works, that, of force, must have for heaven Their capital ends, though stol’n, and therefore were In twelve parts cut, for twelve choice Deities’ cheer, By this devotion. To all which he gave Their several honours, and did wish to have His equal part thereof, as free and well As th’ other Deities; but the fatty smell Afflicted him, though he Immortal were, Playing mortal parts, and being like mortals here Yet his proud mind nothing the more obey’d For being a God himself, and his own aid Having to cause his due, and though in heart He highly wish’d it; but the weaker part Subdued the stronger, and went on in ill. Even heavenly pow’r had rather have his will Than have his right; and will’s the worst of all, When but in least sort it is criminal, One taint being author of a number still.
And thus, resolved to leave his hallow’d hill, First both the fat parts and the fleshy all Taking away, at the steep-entried stall He laid all, all the feet and heads entire, And all the sere-wood, making clear with fire. And now, he leaving there then all things done, And finish’d in their fit perfection, The coals put out, and their black ashes thrown From all discovery by the lovely light The cheerful moon cast, shining all the night, He straight assumed a novel voice’s note, And in the whirl-pit-eating flood afloat He set his sandals. When now, once again The that-morn-born Cyllenius did attain His home’s divine height; all the far-stretch’d way No one bless’d God encount’ring his assay, Nor mortal man; nor any dog durst spend His born-to-bark mouth at him; till in th’ end He reach’d his cave, and at the gate went in Crooked, and wrapt into a fold so thin That no eye could discover his repair, But as a darkness of th’ autumnal air. When, going on fore-right, he straight arrived At his rich fane; his soft feet quite deprived Of all least noise of one that trod the earth, They trod so swift to reach his room of birth.
Where, in his swath-bands he his shoulders wrapt, And (like an infant, newly having scap’t The teeming straits) as in the palms he lay Of his loved nurse. Yet instantly would play (Freeing his right hand) with his bearing cloth About his knees wrapt, and straight (loosing both His right and left hand) with his left he caught His much-loved lute. His mother yet was taught His wanton wiles, nor could a God’s wit lie Hid from a Goddess, who did therefore try His answer thus: “Why, thou made-all-of-sleight, And whence arriv’st thou in this rest of night? Improvident impudent! In my conceit Thou rather shouldst be getting forth thy gate, With all flight fit for thy endanger’d state, (In merit of th’ inevitable bands To be impos’d by vex’d Latona’s hands, Justly incens’d for her Apollo’s harms) Than lie thus wrapt, as ready for her arms, To take thee up and kiss thee. Would to heaven, In cross of that high grace, thou hadst been given Up to perdition, ere poor mortals bear Those black banes, that thy Father Thunderer Hath planted thee of purpose to confer On them and Deities!”
He returned reply: “As master of the feats of policy, Mother, why aim you thus amiss at me, As if I were a son that infancy Could keep from all the skill that age can teach, Or had in cheating but a childish reach, And of a mother’s mandates fear’d the breach? I mount that art at first, that will be best When all times consummate their cunningest, Able to counsel now myself and thee, In all things best, to all eternity. We cannot live like Gods here without gifts, No, nor without corruption and shifts, And, much less, without eating; as we must In keeping thy rules, and in being just, Of which we cannot undergo the loads. ’Tis better here to imitate the Gods, And wine or wench out all time’s periods, To that end growing rich in ready heaps, Stored with revenues, being in corn-field reaps Of infinite acres, than to live enclosed In caves, to all earth’s sweetest air exposed. I as much honour hold as Phœbus does; And if my Father please not to dispose Possessions to me, I myself will see If I can force them in; for I can be Prince of all thieves.
And, if Latona’s son Make after my stealth indignation, I’ll have a scape as well as he a search, And overtake him with a greater lurch; For I can post to Pythos, and break through His huge house there, where harbours wealth enough, Most precious tripods, caldrons, steel, and gold, Garments rich wrought, and full of liberal fold. All which will I at pleasure own, and thou Shalt see all, wilt thou but thy sight bestow.” Thus changed great words the Goat-hide-wearer’s son, And Maia of majestic fashion. And now the air-begot Aurora rose From out the Ocean great-in-ebbs-and-flows, When, at the never-shorn pure-and-fair grove (Onchestus) consecrated to the love Of round-and-long-neck’d Neptune, Phœbus found A man whom heavy years had press’d half round, And yet at work in plashing of a fence About a vineyard, that had residence Hard by the highway; whom Latona’s son Made it not strange, but first did question, And first saluted: “Ho you! aged sire, That here are hewing from the vine the briar, For certain oxen I come here t’ inquire Out of Pieria; females all, and rear’d All with horns wreath’d, unlike the common herd; A coal-black bull fed by them all alone; And all observ’d, for preservation, Through all their foody and delicious fen With four fierce mastiffs, like one-minded men.
These left their dogs and bull (which I admire) And, when was near set day’s eternal fire, From their fierce guardians, from their delicate fare, Made clear departure. To me then declare, O old man, long since born, if thy grave ray Hath any man seen making steathful way With all those oxen.” Th’ old man made reply: “’Tis hard, O friend, to render readily Account of all that may invade mine eye, For many a traveller this highway treads, Some in much ills search, some in noble threads, Leading their lives out; but I this young day, Even from her first point, have made good display Of all men passing this abundant hill Planted with vines, and no such stealthful ill Her light hath shown me; but last evening, late, I saw a thing that show’d of childish state To my old lights, and seem’d as he pursued A herd of oxen with brave heads endued, Yet but an infant, and retain’d a rod; Who wearily both this and that way trod, His head still backwards turn’d.” This th’ old man spake; Which he well thought upon, and swiftly brake Into his pursuit with abundant wing, That strook but one plain, ere he knew the thing That was the thief to be th’ impostor born; Whom Jove yet with his son’s name did adorn. In study and with ardour then the King (Jove’s dazzling son) placed his exploring wing On sacred Pylos, for his forced herd, His ample shoulders in a cloud enspher’d Of fiery crimson.
Straight the steps he found Of his stol’n herd, and said: “Strange sights confound My apprehensive powers, for here I see The tracks of oxen, but aversively Converted towards the Pierian hills, As treading to their mead of daffodils: But nor mine eye men’s feet nor women’s draws, Nor hoary wolves’, nor bears’, nor lions’, paws, Nor thick-neck’d bulls, they show. But he that does These monstrous deeds, with never so swift shoes Hath pass’d from that hour hither, but from hence His foul course may meet fouler consequence.” With this took Phœbus wing; and Hermes still, For all his threats, secure lay in his hill Wall’d with a wood; and more, a rock, beside, Where a retreat ran, deeply multiplied In blinding shadows, and where th’ endless Bride Bore to Saturnius his ingenious son; An odour, worth a heart’s desire, being thrown Along the heaven-sweet hill, on whose herb fed Rich flocks of sheep, that bow not where they tread Their horny pasterns. There the Light of men (Jove’s son, Apollo) straight descended then The marble pavement, in that gloomy den.
On whom when Jove and Maia’s son set eye, Wroth for his oxen, on then, instantly, His odorous swath-bands flew; in which as close Th’ impostor lay, as in the cool repose Of cast-on ashes hearths of burning coals Lie in the woods hid, under the controls Of skilful colliers; even so close did lie Inscrutable Hermes in Apollo’s eye, Contracting his great Godhead to a small And infant likeness, feet, hands, head, and all. And as a hunter hath been often view’d, From chase retired, with both his hands embrued In his game’s blood, that doth for water call To cleanse his hands, and to provoke withal Delightsome sleep, new-wash’d and laid to rest; So now lay Hermes in the close-compress’d Chace of his oxen, his new-found-out lute Beneath his arm held, as if no pursuit But that prise, and the virtue of his play, His heart affected. But to Phœbus lay His close heart open; and he likewise knew The brave hill-nymph there, and her dear son, new- Born, and as well wrapt in his wiles as weeds.
All the close shrouds too, for his rapinous deeds, In all the cave he knew; and with his key He open’d three of them, in which there lay Silver and gold-heaps, nectar infinite store, And dear ambrosia; and of weeds she wore, Pure white and purple, a rich wardrobe shined. Fit for the bless’d states of Pow’rs so divined. All which discover’d, thus to Mercury He offer’d conference: “Infant! You that lie Wrapt so in swath-bands, instantly unfold In what conceal’d retreats of yours you hold My oxen stol’n by you; or straight we shall Jar, as beseems not Pow’rs Celestial. For I will take and hurl thee to the deeps Of dismal Tartarus, where ill Death keeps His gloomy and inextricable fates, And to no eye that light illuminates Mother nor Father shall return thee free, But under earth shall sorrow fetter thee, And few repute thee their superior.” On him replied craft’s subtlest Counsellor: “What cruel speech hath past Latona’s care! Seeks he his stol‘n wild-cows where Deities are? I have nor seen nor heard, nor can report From others’ mouths one word of their resort To any stranger. Nor will I, to gain A base reward, a false relation feign. Nor would I, could I tell. Resemble I An ox-thief, or a man?
Especially A man of such a courage, such a force As to that labour goes, that violent course? No infant’s work is that. My pow’rs aspire To sleep, and quenching of my hunger’s fire With mother’s milk, and, ’gainst cold shades, to arm With cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm, That no man may conceive the war you threat Can spring in cause from my so peaceful heat. And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bear Event of absolute miracle, to hear A new-born infant’s forces should transcend The limits of his doors; much less contend With untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seems To savour the decorum of the beams Cast round about the air Apollo breaks, Where his divine mind her intention speaks. I brake but yesterday the blessed womb, My feet are tender, and the common tomb Of men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread. But, if you please, even by my Father’s head I’ll take the great oath, that nor I protest Myself to author on your interest Any such usurpation, nor have I Seen any other that feloniously Hath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are those Oxen of yours? Or what are oxen? Knows My rude mind, think you? My ears only touch At their renown, and hear that there are such.”
This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake, Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake, His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eye Every way look’d askance and carelessly, And he into a lofty whistling fell, As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell. Apollo, gently smiling, made reply: “O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lie In labour with deceit! For certain, I Retain opinion, that thou (even thus soon) Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in one Night’s-work alone, nor in one country neither, Hast been besieging house and man together, Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noise Made with thy soft feet, where it all destroys. Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st call The feet that thy stealths go and fly withal, For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still) Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill, Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears, When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears, And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep, Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleep Thy last nap in thy cradle, but come down, Companion of black night, and, for this crown Of thy young rapines, bear from all the state And style of Prince Thief, into endless date.”
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.