The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems · Homer
THE END OF THE HYMN TO APOLLO.
This said, he took the infant in his arms, And with him the remembrance of his harms, This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft: “Be evermore the miserably-soft Slave of the belly, pursuivant of all, And author of all mischiefs capital.” He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s face Most forcibly; which hearing, his embrace He loathed and hurl’d him ’gainst the ground; yet still Took seat before him, though, with all the ill He bore by him, he would have left full fain That hewer of his heart so into twain. Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing! Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King! Be confident, I shall hereafter find My broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mind So far from blaming this thy course, that I Foresee thee in it to posterity The guide of all men, always, to their ends.” This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends, Starting aloft, and as in study went, Wrapping himself in his integument, And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me, Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity? I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wroth About your oxen, and suspect my troth. O Jupiter! I wish the general race Of all earth’s oxen rooted from her face. I steal your oxen!
I again profess That neither I have stol’n them, nor can guess Who else should steal them. What strange beasts are these Your so-loved oxen? I must say, to please Your humour thus far, that even my few hours Have heard their fame. But be the sentence yours Of the debate betwixt us, or to Jove (For more indifferency) the cause remove.” Thus when the solitude-affecting God, And the Latonian seed, had laid abroad All things betwixt them; though not yet agreed, Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceed Nothing unjustly, to charge Mercury With stealing of the cows he does deny. But his profession was, with filed speech, And craft’s fair compliments, to overreach All, and even Phœbus. Who because he knew His trade of subtlety, he still at view Hunted his foe through all the sandy way Up to Olympus. Nor would let him stray From out his sight, but kept behind him still. And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hill Of high Olympus, to their Father Jove, To arbitrate the cause in which they strove. Where, before both, talents of justice were Propos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear, In cause of their contention. And now About Olympus, ever crown’d with snow, The rumour of their controversy flew.
All the Incorruptible, to their view, On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair. Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air, Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begun To question thus far his illustrious Son: “Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive here Him in whom my mind puts delights so dear? This new-born infant, that the place supplies Of Herald yet to all the Deities? This serious business, you may witness, draws The Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.” Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy is The cause of all the Court of Deities, For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weight Of devastation, and the very height Of spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights. Yet you, as if myself loved such delights, Use words that wound my heart. I bring you here An infant, that, even now, admits no peer In rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place, After my measure of an infinite space, In the Cyllenian mountain, such a one In all the art of opprobration, As not in all the Deities I have seen, Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men.
In night he drave my oxen from their leas, Along the lofty roar-resounding seas, From out the road-way quite; the steps of them So quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beam Of any mind’s eye, being so infinite much Involv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touch Went to the work’s performance; all the way, Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey, Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and he So past all measure wrapt in subtilty. For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps, In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps, But used another counsel to keep hid His monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slid On oak or other boughs, that swept out still The footsteps of his oxen, and did fill Their prints up ever, to the daffodill (Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod, Driven by this cautelous and infant God. A mortal man, yet, saw him driving on His prey to Pylos.
Which when he had done, And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire, In peace, and freely (though to his desire, Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of these My ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies, Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den, All hid in darkness; and in clouts again Wrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eye Of your own eagle could not see him lie. For with his hands the air he rarified (This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glide About his being, that, if any eye Should dare the darkness, light appos’d so nigh Might blind it quite with her antipathy. Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illude Th’ extreme of any eye that could intrude. On which relying, he outrageously (When I accus’d him) trebled his reply: ‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor I Will tell at all, that any other stole Your broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soul Would soon have done, and any author fain Of purpose only a reward to gain.’ And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.” This said, Apollo sat; and Mercury The Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply: “Father!
I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true, And far from art to lie): He did pursue Even to my cave his oxen this self day, The sun new-raising his illustrious ray; But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued, Nor any ocular witness, to conclude His bare assertion; but his own command Laid on with strong and necessary hand, To show his oxen; using threats to cast My poor and infant powers into the vast Of ghastly Tartarus; because he bears Of strength-sustaining youth the flaming years, And I but yesterday produced to light. By which it fell into his own free sight, That I in no similitude appear’d Of power to be the forcer of a herd. And credit me, O Father, since the grace Of that name, in your style, you please to place, I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prest Past mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest, I reverence with my soul the Sun, and all The knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall, Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clear In your own knowledge, that my merits bear No least guilt of his blame. To all which I Dare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing by All these so well-built entries of the Blest.
And therefore when I saw myself so prest With his reproaches, I confess I burn’d In my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d. Add your aid to your younger then, and free The scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.” This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and still His swathbands held beneath his arm; no will Discern’d in him to hide, but have them shown. Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son, Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought, As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought; Commanding both to bear atoned minds And seek out th’ oxen; in which search he binds Hermes to play the guide, and show the Sun (All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he won His fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’d For sign it must be so; and Hermes show’d His free obedience; so soon he inclined To his persuasion and command his mind. Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood, But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan flood Reach’d instantly, and made as quick a fall On those rich-feeding fields and lofty stall Where Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept, Driven in by night. When suddenly he stept Up to the stony cave, and into light Drave forth the oxen.
Phœbus at first sight Knew them the same, and saw apart dispread Upon a high-rais’d rock the hides new flead Of th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said: “O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid! How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth, Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth, And a mere infant? I admire thy force, And will, behind thy back. But this swift course Of growing into strength thou hadst not need Continue any long date, O thou Seed Of honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show how He did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bow Strong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straight One of his hugest oxen, all his weight Lay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet, All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greet Each other upwards, all together brought. In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought, To rise, and stand; when all the herd about The mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help out Their fellow from his fetters.
Phœbus’ view Of all this up to admiration drew Even his high forces; and stern looks he threw At Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the place To which he had retir’d them, being in grace And fruitful riches of it so entire; All which set all his force on envious fire. All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames, Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames, Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with ease Hermes could calm them, and his humours please. Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so great In force and fortitude, and high in heat, In all which he his lute took, and assay’d A song upon him, and so strangely play’d, That from his hand a ravishing horror flew. Which Phœbus into laughter turn’d, and grew Pleasant past measure; tunes so artful clear Strook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear.
His lute so powerful was in forcing love, As his hand rul’d it, that from him it drove All fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him still The upper hand; and, to advance his skill To utmost miracle, he play’d sometimes Single awhile; in which, when all the climes Of rapture he had reach’d, to make the Sun Admire enough, O then his voice would run Such points upon his play, and did so move, They took Apollo prisoner to his love. And now the deathless Gods and deathful Earth He sung, beginning at their either’s birth To full extent of all their empery. And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne, The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess states He gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates. And then (as it did in priority fall Of age and birth) he celebrated all. And with such elegance and order sung (His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue) That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat. Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat: “Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast! Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest, That all things thou canst do in anyone! Worth fifty oxen is th’ invention Of this one lute. We both shall now, I hope, In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope.
Inform me (thou that every way canst wind, And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind) Together with thy birth came all thy skill? Or did some God, or God-like man, instill This heavenly song to thee? Methink I hear A new voice, such as never yet came near The breast of any, either man or God, Till in thee it had prime and period. What art, what Muse that med’cine can produce For cares most cureless, what inveterate use Or practice of a virtue so profuse (Which three do all the contribution keep That Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.) Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all? I of the Muses am the capital Consort, or follower; and to these belong The grace of dance, all worthy ways of song, And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate set And sound of instruments. But never yet Did anything so much affect my mind With joy and care to compass, as this kind Of song and play, that for the spritely feast Of flourishing assemblies are the best And aptest works that ever worth gave act. My powers with admiration stand distract, To hear with what a hand to make in love Thou rul’st thy lute.
And (though thy yong’st hours move At full art in old councils) here I vow (Even by this cornel dart I use to throw) To thee, and to thy mother, I’ll make thee Amongst the Gods of glorious degree, Guide of men’s ways and theirs; and will impart To thee the mighty imperatory art, Bestow rich gifts on thee, and in the end Never deceive thee.” Hermes (as a friend That wrought on all advantage, and made gain His capital object) thus did entertain Phœbus Apollo: “Do thy dignities, Far-working God and circularly wise, Demand my virtues? Without envy I Will teach thee to ascend my faculty. And this day thou shalt reach it; finding me, In acts and counsels, all ways kind to thee, As one that all things knows, and first tak’st seat Amongst th’ Immortals, being good and great, And therefore to Jove’s love mak’st free access, Even out of his accomplisht holiness. Great gifts he likewise gives thee; who, fame says, Hast won thy greatness by his will, his ways, By him know’st all the powers prophetical, O thou far-worker, and the fates of all! Yea, and I know thee rich, yet apt to learn, And even thy wish dost but discern and earn.
And since thy soul so burns to know the way So play and sing as I do, sing, and play; Play, and perfection in thy play employ; And be thy care, to learn things good, thy joy. Take thou my lute (my love) and give thou me The glory of so great a faculty. This sweet-tuned consort, held but in thy hand, Sing, and perfection in thy song command. For thou already hast the way to speak Fairly and elegantly, and to break All eloquence into thy utter’d mind. One gift from heaven found may another find. Use then securely this thy gift, and go To feasts and dances that enamour so, And to that covetous sport of getting glory, That day nor night will suffer to be sory. Whoever does but say in verse, sings still; Which he that can of any other skill Is capable, so he be taught by art And wisdom, and can speak at every part Things pleasing to an understanding mind; And such a one that seeks this lute shall find.
Him still it teaches eas’ly, though he plays Soft voluntaries only, and assays As wanton as the sports of children are, And (even when he aspires to singular In all the mast’ries he shall play or sing) Finds the whole work but an unhappy thing, He, I say, sure shall of this lute be king. But he, whoever rudely sets upon Of this lute’s skill th’ inquest or question Never so ardently and angrily, Without the aptness and ability Of art, and nature fitting, never shall Aspire to this, but utter trivial And idle accents, though sung ne’er so loud, And never so commended of the crowd. But thee I know, O eminent Son of Jove, The fiery learner of whatever Love Hath sharpen’d thy affections to achieve, And thee I give this lute. Let us now live Feeding upon the hill and horse-fed earth Our never-handled oxen; whose dear birth Their females, fellow’d with their males, let flow In store enough hereafter; nor must you (However cunning-hearted your wits are) Boil in your gall a grudge too circular.” Thus gave he him his lute, which he embrac’d, And gave again a goad, whose bright head cast Beams like the light forth; leaving to his care His oxen’s keeping. Which, with joyful fare, He took on him.
The lute Apollo took Into his left hand, and aloft he shook Delightsome sounds up, to which God did sing. Then were the oxen to their endless spring Turn’d; and Jove’s two illustrous Offsprings flew Up to Olympus where it ever snew, Delighted with their lute’s sound all the way. Whom Jove much joy’d to see, and endless stay Gave to their knot of friendship. From which date Hermes gave Phœbus an eternal state In his affection, whose sure pledge and sign His lute was, and the doctrine so divine Jointly conferr’d on him; which well might be True symbol of his love’s simplicity. On th’ other part, Apollo in his friend Form’d th’ art of wisdom, to the binding end Of his vow’d friendship; and (for further meed) Gave him the far-heard fistulary reed.
For all these forms of friendship, Phœbus yet Fear’d that both form and substance were not met In Mercury’s intentions; and, in plain, Said (since he saw him born to craft and gain, And that Jove’s will had him the honour done To change at his will the possession Of others’ goods) he fear’d his breach of vows In stealing both his lute and cunning bows, And therefore wish’d that what the Gods affect Himself would witness, and to his request His head bow, swearing by th’ impetuous flood Of Styx that of his whole possessions not a good He would diminish, but therein maintain The full content in which his mind did reign. And then did Maia’s son his forehead bow, Making, by all that he desired, his vow Never to prey more upon anything In just possession of the far-shot King, Nor ever to come near a house of his. Latonian Phœbus bow’d his brow to this, With his like promise, saying: “Not anyone Of all the Gods, nor any man, that son Is to Saturnius, is more dear to me, More trusted, nor more honour’d is than thee.
Which yet with greater gifts of Deity In future I’ll confirm, and give thy state A rod that riches shall accumulate, Nor leave the bearer thrall to death, or fate, Or any sickness. All of gold it is, Three-leaved, and full of all felicities. And, this shall be thy guardian, this shall give The Gods to thee in all the truth they live, And, finally, shall this the tut’ress be Of all the words and works informing me From Jove’s high counsels, making known to thee All my instructions. But to prophesy, Of best of Jove’s beloved, and that high skill Which to obtain lies burning in thy will, Nor thee, nor any God, will Fate let learn. Only Jove’s mind hath insight to discern What that importeth; yet am I allow’d (My known faith trusted, and my forehead bow’d, Our great oath taken, to resolve to none Of all th’ Immortals the restriction Of that deep knowledge) of it all the mind.
Since then it sits in such fast bounds confin’d, O brother, when the golden rod is held In thy strong hand, seek not to have reveal’d Any sure fate that Jove will have conceal’d. For no man shall, by know’ng, prevent his fate; And therefore will I hold in my free state The pow’r to hurt and help what man I will, Of all the greatest, or least touch’d with ill, That walk within the circle of mine eye, In all the tribes and sexes it shall try. Yet, truly, any man shall have his will To reap the fruits of my prophetic skill, Whoever seeks it by the voice or wing Of birds, born truly such events to sing. Nor will I falsely, nor with fallacies, Infringe the truth on which his faith relies, But he that truths in chattering plumes would find, Quite opposite to them that prompt my mind, And learn by natural forgers of vain lies The more-than-ever-certain Deities, That man shall sea-ways tread that leave no tracts, And false or no guide find for all his facts. And yet will I his gifts accept as well As his to whom the simple truth I tell.
One other thing to thee I’ll yet make known, Maia’s exceedingly renowned son, And Jove’s, and of the Gods’ whole session The most ingenious genius: There dwell Within a crooked cranny, in a dell Beneath Parnassus, certain Sisters born, Call’d Parcæ, whom extreme swift wings adorn, Their number three, that have upon their heads White barley-flour still sprinkled, and are maids; And these are schoolmistresses of things to come, Without the gift of prophecy. Of whom (Being but a boy, and keeping oxen near) I learn’d their skill, though my great Father were Careless of it, or them. These flying from home To others’ roofs, and fed with honeycomb, Command all skill, and (being enraged then) Will freely tell the truths of things to men. But if they give them not that Gods’ sweet meat, They then are apt to utter their deceit, And lead men from their way. And these will I Give thee hereafter, when their scrutiny And truth thou hast both made and learn’d; and then Please thyself with them, and the race of men (Wilt thou know any) with thy skill endear, Who will, be sure, afford it greedy ear, And hear it often if it prove sincere.
Take these, O Maia’s son, and in thy care Be horse and oxen, all such men as are Patient of labour, lions, white-tooth’d boars, Mastiffs, and flocks that feed the flow’ry shores, And every four-foot beast; all which shall stand In awe of thy high imperatory hand. Be thou to Dis, too, sole Ambassador, Who, though all gifts and bounties he abhor, On thee he will bestow a wealthy one.” Thus king Apollo honour’d Maia’s son With all the rites of friendship; all whose love Had imposition from the will of Jove. And thus with Gods and mortals Hermes lived, Who truly help’d but few, but all deceived With an undifferencing respect, and made Vain words and false persuasions his trade. His deeds were all associates of the night, In which his close wrongs cared for no man’s right. So all salutes to Hermes that are due, Of whom, and all Gods, shall my Muse sing true.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.