Book IX: The Ciconians, Lotus-Eaters, and Cyclops

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered thus:—“O King Alcinoüs, most renowned of men!A pleasant thing it is to hear a bardLike this, endowed with such a voice, so likeThe voices of the gods. Nor can I deemAught more delightful than the general joyOf a whole people when the assembled guestsSeated in order in the royal hallsAre listening to the minstrel, while the boardIs spread with bread and meats, and from the jarsThe cupbearer draws wine and fills the cups.To me there is no more delightful sight.

“But now thy mind is moved to ask of meThe story of the sufferings I have borne,And that will wake my grief anew. What first,What next, shall I relate? what last of all?For manifold are the misfortunes castUpon me by the immortals. Let me firstDeclare my name, that ye may know, and IPerchance, before my day of death shall come,May be your host, though dwelling far away.I am Ulysses, and my father’s nameLaertes; widely am I known to menAs quick in shrewd devices, and my fameHath reached to heaven. In sunny IthacaI dwell, where high Neritus, seen afar,Rustles with woods. Around are many isles,Well peopled, near each other. Samos thereLies, with Dulichium, and Zacynthus darkWith forests. Ithaca, with its low shores,Lies highest toward the setting sun; the restAre on the side where first the morning breaks.A rugged region ’tis, but nourishesNobly its youths, nor have I ever seenA sweeter spot on earth. Calypso late,That glorious goddess, in her grotto longDetained me from it, and desired that IShould be her husband; in her royal homeAeëan Circè, mistress of strange arts,Detained me also, and desired that IShould be her husband—yet they could not moveThe purpose of my heart. For there is naughtMore sweet and dear than our own native landAnd parents, though perchance our lot be castIn a rich home, yet far from our own kinAnd in a foreign land. Now let me speakOf the calamitous voyage which the willOf Jove ordained on my return from Troy.

“The wind that blew me from the Trojan shoreBore me to the Ciconians, who abodeIn Ismarus. I laid the city wasteAnd slew its dwellers, carried off their wivesAnd all their wealth and parted them amongMy men, that none might want an equal share.And then I warned them with all haste to leaveThe region. Madmen! they obeyed me not.

“And there they drank much wine, and on the beachSlew many sheep and many slow-paced steersWith crumpled horns. Then the Ciconians calledTo their Ciconian neighbors, braver menThan they, and more in number, whose abodeWas on the mainland, trained to fight from steeds,Or, if need were, on foot. In swarms they came,Thick as new leaves or morning flowers in spring.Then fell on our unhappy companyAn evil fate from Jove, and many griefs.They formed their lines, and fought at our good ships,Where man encountered man with brazen spears.While yet ’twas morning, and the holy lightOf day waxed brighter, we withstood the assaultAnd kept our ground, although more numerous they.But when the sun was sloping toward the westThe enemy prevailed; the Achaian bandWas routed, and was made to flee. That dayThere perished from each galley of our fleetSix valiant men; the rest escaped with life.

“Onward we sailed, lamenting bitterlyOur comrades slain, yet happy to escapeFrom death ourselves. Nor did we put to seaIn our good ships until we thrice had calledAloud by name each one of our poor friendsWho fell in battle by Ciconian hands.The Cloud-compeller, Jove, against us sentThe north-wind in a hurricane, and wrappedThe earth and heaven in clouds, and from the skiesFell suddenly the night. With stooping mastsOur galleys scudded; the strong tempest splitAnd tore the sails; we drew and laid them downWithin the ships, in fear of utter wreck,And toward the mainland eagerly we turnedThe rudders. There we lay two days and nights,Worn out with grief and hardship. When at lengthThe fair-haired Morning brought the third day round,We raised the masts, and, spreading the white sailsTo take the wind, we sat us down. The windCarried us forward with the pilot’s aid;And then should I have reached my native landSafely, had not the currents and the wavesOf ocean and the north-wind driven me back,What time I strove to pass Maleia’s cape,And swept me to Cytherae from my course.

“Still onward driven before those baleful windsAcross the fishy deep for nine whole days,On the tenth day we reached the land where dwellThe Lotus-eaters, men whose food is flowers.We landed on the mainland, and our crewsNear the fleet galleys took their evening meal.And when we all had eaten and had drunkI sent explorers forth—two chosen men,A herald was the third—to learn what raceOf mortals nourished by the fruits of earthPossessed the land. They went and found themselvesAmong the Lotus-eaters soon, who usedNo violence against their lives, but gaveInto their hands the lotus plant to taste.Whoever tasted once of that sweet foodWished not to see his native country more,Nor give his friends the knowledge of his fate.And then my messengers desired to dwellAmong the Lotus-eaters, and to feedUpon the lotus, never to return.By force I led them weeping to the fleet,And bound them in the hollow ships beneathThe benches. Then I ordered all the restOf my beloved comrades to embarkIn haste, lest, tasting of the lotus, theyShould think no more of home. All straightway wentOn board, and on the benches took their place,And smote the hoary ocean with their oars.

“Onward we sailed with sorrowing hearts, and reachedThe country of the Cyclops, an untamedAnd lawless race, who, trusting to the gods,Plant not, nor plough the fields, but all things springFor them untended—barley, wheat, and vinesYielding large clusters filled with wine, and nursedBy showers from Jove. No laws have they; they holdNo councils. On the mountain heights they dwellIn vaulted caves, where each one rules his wivesAnd children as he pleases; none give heedTo what the others do. Before the portOf that Cyclopean land there is an isle,Low-lying, neither near nor yet remote—A woodland region, where the wild goats breedInnumerable; for the foot of manDisturbs them not, and huntsmen toiling throughThick woods, or wandering over mountain heights,Enter not here. The fields are never grazedBy sheep, nor furrowed by the plough, but lieUntilled, unsown, and uninhabitedBy man, and only feed the bleating goats.The Cyclops have no barques with crimson prows,Nor shipwrights skilled to frame a galley’s deckWith benches for the rowers, and equippedFor any service, voyaging by turnsTo all the cities, as is often doneBy men who cross the deep from place to place,And make a prosperous region of an isle.No meagre soil is there; it well might bearAll fruits in their due time. Along the shoreOf the gray deep are meadows smooth and moist.The vine would flourish long; the ploughman’s taskIs easy, and the husbandman would reapLarge harvests, for the mould is rich below.And there is a safe haven, where no needOf cable is; no anchor there is cast,Nor hawsers fastened to the strand, but theyWho enter there remain until it pleaseThe mariners, with favorable wind,To put to sea again. A limpid streamFlows from a fount beneath a hollow rockInto that harbor at its further end,And poplars grow around it. Thither wentOur fleet; some deity had guided usThrough the dark night, for nothing had we seen.Thick was the gloom around our barques; the moonShone not in heaven, the clouds had quenched her light.No eye discerned the isle, nor the long wavesThat rolled against the shore, till our good shipsTouched land, and, disembarking there, we gaveOurselves to sleep upon the watersideAnd waited for the holy Morn to rise.

“And when at length the daughter of the Dawn,The rosy-fingered Morn, appeared, we walkedAround the isle, admiring as we went.Meanwhile the nymphs, the daughters of the GodWho bears the aegis, roused the mountain goats,That so our crews might make their morning meal.And straightway from our ships we took in handOur crooked bows and our long-bladed spears.

“ ‘Let all the rest of my beloved friendsRemain, while I, with my own barque and crew,Go forth to learn what race of men are these,Whether ill-mannered, savage, and unjust,Or kind to guests and reverent toward the gods.’“I spake, and, having ordered all my crewTo go on board and cast the hawsers loose,Embarked on my own ship. They all obeyed,And manned the benches, sitting there in rows,And smote the hoary ocean with their oars.But when we came upon that neighboring coast,We saw upon its verge beside the seaA cave high vaulted, overbrowed with shrubsOf laurel. There much cattle lay at rest,Both sheep and goats. Around it was a court,A high enclosure of hewn stone, and pinesTall stemmed, and towering oaks. Here dwelt a manOf giant bulk, who by himself, alone,Was wont to tend his flocks. He never heldConverse with others, but devised apartHis wicked deeds. A frightful prodigyWas he, and like no man who lives by bread,But more like a huge mountain summit, roughWith woods, that towers alone above the rest.

“Then, bidding all the others stay and guardThe ship, I chose among my bravest menTwelve whom I took with me. I had on boardA goatskin of dark wine—a pleasant sort,Which Maron late, Evanthes’ son, a priestOf Phoebus, guardian god of Ismarus,Gave me, when, moved with reverence, we savedHim and his children and his wife from death.For his abode was in the thick-grown groveOf Phoebus. Costly were the gifts he gave—Seven talents of wrought gold; a chalice allOf silver; and he drew for me, besides,Into twelve jars, a choice rich wine, unspoiledBy mixtures, and a beverage for gods.No one within his dwellings, maids or men,Knew of it, save the master and his wife,And matron of the household. Whensoe’erThey drank this rich red wine, he only filledA single cup with wine, and tempered thatWith twenty more of water. From the cupArose a fragrance that might please the gods,And hard it was to put the draught aside.Of this I took a skin well filled, besidesFood in a hamper—for my thoughtful mindMisgave me, lest I should encounter oneOf formidable strength and savage mood,And with no sense of justice or of right.

“Soon were we at the cave, but found not himWithin it; he was in the fertile meads,Tending his flocks. We entered, wondering muchAt all we saw. Around were baskets heapedWith cheeses; pens were thronged with lambs and kids,Each in a separate fold; the elder ones,The younger, and the newly yeaned, had eachTheir place apart. The vessels swam with whey—Pails smoothly wrought, and buckets into whichHe milked the cattle. My companions thenBegged me with many pressing words to takePart of the cheeses, and, returning, driveWith speed to our good galley lambs and kidsFrom where they stabled, and set sail againOn the salt sea. I granted not their wish;Far better if I had. ’Twas my intentTo see the owner of the flocks and proveHis hospitality. No pleasant sightWas that to be for those with whom I came.

“And then we lit a fire, and sacrificed,And ate the cheeses, and within the caveSat waiting, till from pasturing his flocksHe came; a heavy load of well-dried woodHe bore, to make a blaze at suppertime.Without the den he flung his burden downWith such a crash that we in terror slunkInto a corner of the cave. He droveHis well-fed flock, all those whose milk he drew,Under that spacious vault of rock, but leftThe males, both goats and rams, without the court.And then he lifted a huge barrier up,A mighty weight; not two-and-twenty wains,Four-wheeled and strong, could move it from the ground:Such was the enormous rock he raised, and placedAgainst the entrance. Then he sat and milkedThe ewes and bleating goats each one in turn,And gave to each its young. Next, half the milkHe caused to curdle, and disposed the curdIn woven baskets; and the other halfHe kept in bowls to be his evening drink.His tasks all ended thus, he lit a fire,And saw us where we lurked, and questioned us:—

“ ‘Who are ye, strangers? Tell me whence ye cameAcross the ocean. Are ye men of trade,Or wanderers at will, like those who roamThe sea for plunder, and, with their own livesIn peril, carry death to distant shores?’

“He spake, and we who heard with sinking heartsTrembled at that deep voice and frightful form,And thus I answered: ‘We are Greeks who comeFrom Ilium, driven across the mighty deepBy changing winds, and while we sought our homeHave made a different voyage, and been forcedUpon another course; such was the willOf Jupiter. We boast ourselves to beSoldiers of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son,Whose fame is now the greatest under heaven,So mighty was the city which he sacked,So many were the warriors whom he slew;And now we come as suppliants to thy knees,And ask thee to receive us as thy guests,Or else bestow the gifts which custom makesThe stranger’s due. Great as thou art, revereThe gods; for suitors to thy grace are we,And hospitable Jove, whose presence goesWith every worthy stranger, will avengeSuppliants and strangers when they suffer wrong.’

“I spake, and savagely he answered me:—‘Thou art a fool, O stranger, or art comeFrom some far country—thou who biddest meFear or regard the gods. We little care—We Cyclops—for the Aegis-bearer, Jove,Or any other of the blessed gods;We are their betters. Think not I would spareThee or thy comrades to avoid the wrathOf Jupiter, unless it were my choice;But say—for I would know—where hast thou leftThy gallant barque in landing? was it near,Or in some distant corner of the isle?’

“He spake to tempt me, but I well perceivedHis craft, and answered with dissembling words:—

“ ‘Neptune, who shakes the shores, hath wrecked my barqueOn rocks that edge thine island, hurling itAgainst the headland. From the open seaThe tempest swept it hitherward, and I,With these, escaped the bitter doom of death.’

“I spake; the savage answered not, but sprang,And, laying hands on my companions, seizedTwo, whom he dashed like whelps against the ground.Their brains flowed out, and weltered where they fell.He hewed them limb from limb for his repast,And, like a lion of the mountain wilds,Devoured them as they were, and left no part—Entrails nor flesh nor marrowy bones. We weptTo see his cruelties, and raised our handsTo Jove, and hopeless misery filled our hearts.And when the Cyclops now had filled himself,Devouring human flesh, and drinking milkUnmingled, in his cave he laid him down,Stretched out amid his flocks. The thought aroseIn my courageous heart to go to him,And draw the trenchant sword upon my thigh,And where the midriff joins the liver dealA stroke to pierce his breast. A second thoughtRestrained me—that a miserable deathWould overtake us, since we had no powerTo move the mighty rock which he had laidAt the high opening. So all night we grieved,Waiting the holy Morn; and when at lengthThat rosy-fingered daughter of the DawnAppeared, the Cyclops lit a fire, and milkedHis fair flock one by one, and brought their youngEach to its mother’s side. When he had thusPerformed his household tasks, he seized againTwo of our number for his morning meal.These he devoured, and then he moved awayWith ease the massive rock that closed the cave,And, driving forth his well-fed flock, he laidThe massive barrier back, as one would fitThe lid upon a quiver. With loud noiseThe Cyclops drove that well-fed flock afield,While I was left to think of many a planTo do him mischief and avenge our wrongs,If haply Pallas should confer on meThat glory. To my mind, as I revolvedThe plans, this seemed the wisest of them all.

“Beside the stalls there lay a massive clubOf olive-wood, yet green, which from its stockThe Cyclops hewed, that he might carry itWhen seasoned. As it lay it seemed to usThe mast of some black galley, broad of beam,With twenty oarsmen, built to carry freightAcross the mighty deep—such was its lengthAnd thickness. Standing by it, I cut offA fathom’s length, and gave it to my men,And bade them smooth its sides, and they obeyedWhile I made sharp the smaller end, and broughtThe point to hardness in the glowing fire;And then I hid the weapon in a heapOf litter, which lay thick about the cave.I bade my comrades now decide by lotWhich of them all should dare, along with me,To lift the stake, and with its point bore outOur enemy’s eye, when softly wrapped in sleep.The lot was cast, and fell on those whom mostI wished with me—four men, and I the fifth.

“At eve the keeper of these fair-woolled flocksReturned, and brought his well-fed sheep and goatsInto the spacious cavern, leaving noneWithout it, whether through some doubt of usOr through the ordering of some god. He raisedThe massive rock again, and laid it closeAgainst the opening. Then he sat and milkedThe ewes and bleating goats, each one in turn,And gave to each her young. When he had thusPerformed his household tasks, he seized againTwo of our number for his evening meal.Then drew I near, and bearing in my handA wooden cup of dark red wine I said:—

“ ‘Take this, O Cyclops, after thy repastOf human flesh, and drink, that thou mayst knowWhat liquor was concealed within our ship.I brought it as an offering to thee,For I had hope that thou wouldst pity us,And send us home. Yet are thy crueltiesBeyond all limit. Wicked as thou art,Hereafter who, of all the human race,Will dare approach thee, guilty of such wrong?’

“As thus I spake, he took the cup and drank.The luscious wine delighted mightilyHis palate, and he asked a second draught.

“ ‘Give me to drink again, and generously,And tell thy name, that I may make a giftSuch as becomes a host. The fertile landIn which the Cyclops dwell yields wine, ’tis true,And the large grapes are nursed by rains from Jove,But nectar and ambrosia are in this.’

“He spake; I gave him of the generous juiceAgain, and thrice I filled and brought the cup,And thrice the Cyclops in his folly drank.But when I saw the wine begin to cloudHis senses, I bespake him blandly thus:—

“ ‘Thou hast inquired, O Cyclops, by what nameMen know me. I will tell thee, but do thouBestow in turn some hospitable gift,As thou hast promised. Noman is my name,My father and my mother gave it me,And Noman am I called by all my friends.’

“I ended, and he answered savagely:—‘Noman shall be the last of all his bandWhom I will eat, the rest will I devourBefore him. Let that respite be my gift.’

“He spake, and, sinking backward at full length,Lay on the ground, with his huge neck aside;All-powerful sleep had overtaken him.Then from his mouth came bits of human fleshMingled with wine, and from his drunken throatRejected noisily. I put the stakeAmong the glowing coals to gather heat,And uttered cheerful words, encouragingMy men, that none might fail me through their fears.And when the olive-wood began to blaze—For though yet green it freely took the lire—I drew it from the embers. Round me stoodMy comrades, whom some deity inspiredWith calm, high courage. In their hands they tookAnd thrust into his eye the pointed bar,While perched upon a higher stand than theyI twirled it round. As when a workman boresSome timber of a ship, the men who standBelow him with a strap, on either sideTwirl it, and round it spins unceasingly,So, thrusting in his eye that pointed bar,We made it turn. The blood came streaming forthOn the hot wood; the eyelids and the browWere scalded by the vapor, and the rootsOf the scorched eyeball crackled with the fire.As when a smith, in forging axe or adze,Plunges, to temper it, the hissing bladeInto cold water, strengthening thus the steel,So hissed the eyeball of the Cyclops roundThat olive stake. He raised a fearful howl;The rocks rang with it, and we fled from himIn terror. Plucking from his eye the stakeAll foul and dripping with the abundant blood,He flung it madly from him with both hands.Then called he to the Cyclops who in grotsDwelt on that breezy height. They heard his voiceAnd came by various ways, and stood besideThe cave, and asked the occasion of his grief.

“ ‘What hurts thee, Polyphemus, that thou thusDost break our slumbers in the ambrosial nightWith cries? Hath any of the sons of menDriven off thy flocks in spite of thee, or triedBy treachery or force to take thy life?’

“Huge Polyphemus answered from his den:—‘O friends! ’tis Noman who is killing me;By treachery Noman kills me; none by force’

“Then thus with winged words they spake again:—‘If no man does thee violence, and thouArt quite alone, reflect that none escapeDiseases; they are sent by Jove. But makeThy prayer to Father Neptune, ocean’s king.’

“So spake they and departed. In my heartI laughed to think that by the name I took,And by my shrewd device, I had deceivedThe Cyclops. Meantime, groaning and in pain,And groping with his hands, he moved awayThe rock that barred the entrance. There he sat,With arms outstretched, to seize whoever soughtTo issue from the cavern with the flock,So dull of thought he deemed me. Then I plannedHow best to save my comrades and myselfFrom death. I framed a thousand stratagemsAnd arts—for here was life at stake, and greatThe danger was. At last I fixed on this.

“The rams were plump and beautiful, and largeWith thick dark fleeces. These I silentlyBound to each other, three and three, with twigsOf which that prodigy of lawless guilt,The Cyclops, made his bed. The middle ramOf every three conveyed a man; the two,One on each side, were there to make him safe.Thus each of us was borne by three; but IChose for myself the finest one of all,And seized him by the back, and, slipping downBeneath his shaggy belly, stretched myselfAt length, and clung with resolute heart, and handsThat firmly clenched the rich abundant fleece.Then sighed we for the holy Morn to rise.

“And when again the daughter of the Dawn,The rosy-fingered Morn, looked forth, the malesWent forth to pasture, while the ewes remainedWithin the stables, bleating, yet unmilked,For heavy were their udders. CarefullyThe master handled, though in grievous pain,The back of everyone that rose and passed,Yet, slow of thought, perceived not that my menWere clinging hid beneath their woolly breasts.As the last ram of all the flock went out,His thick fleece heavy with my weight, and IIn agitated thought, he felt his back,And thus the giant Polyphemus spake:—

“ ‘My favorite ram, how art thou now the lastTo leave the cave? It hath not been thy wontTo let the sheep go first, but thou didst comeEarliest to feed among the flowery grass,Walking with stately strides, and thou wert firstAt the fresh stream, and first at eve to seekThe stable; now thou art the last of all.Grievest thou for thy master, who has lostHis eye, put out by a deceitful wretchAnd his vile crew, who stupefied me firstWith wine—this Noman—who, if right I deem,Has not escaped from death. O, didst thou thinkAs I do, and hadst but the power of speechTo tell me where he hides from my strong arm,Then should his brains, dashed out against the ground,Be scattered here and there; then should my heartBe somewhat lighter, even amid the woesWhich Noman, worthless wretch, has brought on me!’

“He spake, and sent him forth among the rest;And when we were a little way beyondThe cavern and the court, I loosed my holdUpon the animal and unbound my men.Then quickly we surrounded and drove off,Fat sheep and stately paced, a numerous flock,And brought them to our ship, where joyfullyOur friends received us, though with grief and tearsFor those who perished. Yet I suffered notThat they should weep, but, frowning, gave commandBy signs to lift with speed the fair-woolled sheepOn board, and launch our ship on the salt sea.They went on board, where each one took his placeUpon the benches, and with diligent oarsSmote the gray deep; and when we were as farAs one upon the shore could hear a shout,Thus to the Cyclops tauntingly I called:—“ ‘Ha! Cyclops! those whom in thy rocky caveThou, in thy brutal fury, hast devoured,Were friends of one not unexpert in war;Amply have thy own guilty deeds returnedUpon thee. Cruel one! who didst not fearTo eat the strangers sheltered by thy roof,Jove and the other gods avenge them thus.’

“I spake; the anger in his bosom ragedMore fiercely. From a mountain peak he wrenchedIts summit, hurling it to fall besideOur galley, where it almost touched the helm.The rock dashed high the water where it fell,And the returning billow swept us backAnd toward the shore. I seized a long-stemmed pikeAnd pushed it from the shore, encouragingThe men to bend with vigor to their oarsAnd so escape. With nods I gave the sign.Forward to vigorous strokes the oarsmen leanedTill we were out at sea as far from landAs when I spake before, and then againI shouted to the Cyclops, though my crewStrove to prevent it with beseeching words,And one man first and then another said:—

“ ‘O most unwise! why chafe that savage manTo fury—him who just has cast his boltInto the sea, and forced us toward the landWhere we had well-nigh perished? Should he hearA cry from us, or even a word of speech,Then would he fling a rock to crush our headsAnd wreck our ship, so fatal is his cast.’

“He spake, but moved not my courageous heart;And then I spake again, and angrily:—“ ‘Cyclops, if any man of mortal birthNote thine unseemly blindness, and inquireThe occasion, tell him that Laertes’ son,Ulysses, the destroyer of walled towns,Whose home is Ithaca, put out thine eye.’

“I spake; he answered with a wailing voice:—‘Now, woe is me! the ancient oraclesConcerning me have come to pass. Here dweltA seer named Telemus Eurymides,Great, good, and eminent in prophecy,And prophesying he grew old amongThe Cyclops. He foretold my coming fate—That I should lose my sight, and by the handAnd cunning of Ulysses. Yet I lookedFor one of noble presence, mighty strength,And giant stature landing on our coast.Now a mere weakling, insignificantAnd small of stature, has put out my eye,First stupefying me with wine. Yet comeHither, I pray, Ulysses, and receiveThe hospitable gifts which are thy due;And I will pray to Neptune, and entreatThe mighty god to guide thee safely home.His son am I, and he declares himselfMy father. He can heal me if he will,And no one else of all the immortal godsOr mortal men can give me back my sight.’

“He spake; I answered: ‘Rather would I takeThy life and breath, and send thee to the abodeOf Hades, where thou wouldst be past the powerOf even Neptune to restore thine eye.’

“As thus I said, the Cyclops raised his hands,And spread them toward the starry heaven, and thusPrayed to the deity who rules the deep:—

“ ‘Hear, dark-haired Neptune, who dost swathe the earth!If I am thine, and thou dost own thyselfMy father, grant that this Ulysses ne’erMay reach his native land! But if it beThe will of fate that he behold againHis friends, and enter his own palace-hallsIn his own country, late and sorrowfulBe his return, with all his comrades lost,And in a borrowed ship, and may he findIn his own home new griefs awaiting him.’

“He prayed, and Neptune hearkened to his prayer.And then the Cyclops seized another stone,Far larger than the last, and swung it round,And cast it with vast strength. It fell behindOur black-prowed galley, where it almost struckThe rudder’s end. The sea was dashed on highBeneath the falling rock, and bore our shipOn toward the shore we sought. When we reachedThe island where together in a fleetOur other galleys lay, we found our friendsSitting where they had waited long in grief.We touched the shore and drew our galley upOn the smooth sand, and stepped upon the beach;And taking from on board the sheep that formedPart of the Cyclops’ flock, divided them,That none might be without an equal share.When all the rest were shared, my warrior friendsDecreed the ram to me. Of him I madeUpon the beach a sacrifice to JoveThe Cloud-compeller, Saturn’s son, whose ruleIs over all; to him I burned the thighs.He heeded not the offering; even thenHe planned the wreck of all my gallant ships,And death of my dear comrades. All that dayTill set of sun we sat and feasted highUpon the abundant meats and delicate wine.But when the sun went down, and darkness creptOver the earth, we slumbered on the shore;And when again the daughter of the Dawn,The rosy-fingered Morn, looked forth, I calledMy men with cheerful words to climb the decksAnd cast the hawsers loose. With speed they wentOn board and manned the benches, took in handThe oars and smote with them the hoary deep.Onward in sadness, glad to have escaped,We sailed, yet sorrowing for our comrades lost.”