The Odyssey: Book 10

Seated beside their dear father and doting mother,
with delicacies aplenty spread before them,
they feast on forever.

Seated beside their dear father and doting mother,
with delicacies aplenty spread before them,
they feast on forever.

'Heaps of lovely plunder he hauls home from Troy,
while we who went through slogging just as hard,
we go home empty-handed.'

'Back again, Odysseus—why? Some blustering god attacked you?
Surely we launched you well, we sped you on your way
to your own land and house, or any place you pleased.'

So I pleaded—gentle, humble appeals—
but our hosts turned silent, hushed...

I scaled its rock face to a lookout on its crest
but glimpsed no trace of the work of man or beast from there;
all I spied was a plume of smoke, drifting off the land.

They disembarked and set out on a beaten trail
the wagons used for hauling timber down to town
from the mountain heights above...
and before the walls they met a girl, drawing water,
Antiphates' strapping daughter—king of the Laestrygonians.

Down from the cliffs they flung great rocks a man could hardly hoist
and a ghastly shattering din rose up from all the ships—
men in their death-cries, hulls smashed to splinters—

I braided it tight, hand over hand, then lashed
the four hocks of that magnificent beast.

Deep in the wooded glens they came on Circe's palace
built of dressed stone on a cleared rise of land.

But they wouldn't attack my men; they just came pawing
up around them, fawning, swishing their long tails—
eager as hounds that fawn around their master,
coming home from a feast,
who always brings back scraps to calm them down.

So off they went to their pens, sobbing, squealing
as Circe flung them acorns, cornel nuts and mast,
common fodder for hogs that root and roll in mud.

And your men are all in there, in Circe's palace,
cooped like swine, hock by jowl in the sties.

Once they'd drained the bowls she filled, suddenly
she struck with her wand and 'Now,' she cried,
'off to your sty, you swine, and wallow with your friends!'

As soon as Circe saw me,
huddled, not touching my food, immersed in sorrow,
she sidled near with a coaxing, winged word...

Suspect me of still more treachery? Nothing to fear.
Haven't I just sworn my solemn, binding oath?

Nor did Eurylochus malinger by the hull;
he straggled behind the rest,
dreading the sharp blast of my rebuke.

Nor did Eurylochus malinger by the hull;
he straggled behind the rest,
dreading the sharp blast of my rebuke.

Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere,
always brooding over your wanderings long and hard,
your hearts never lifting with any joy—
you've suffered far too much.

Then when the sun had set and night came on
the men lay down to sleep in the shadowed halls
but I went up to that luxurious bed of Circe's,
hugged her by the knees
and the goddess heard my winging supplication:
'Circe, now make good a promise you gave me once—
it's time to help me home...'

Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, born for exploits,
let no lack of a pilot at the helm concern you, no,
just step your mast and spread your white sail wide—
sit back and the North Wind will speed you on your way.

Dig a trench of about a forearm's depth and length
and around it pour libations out to all the dead—
first with milk and honey, and then with mellow wine,
then water third and last, and sprinkle glistening barley
over it all, and vow again and again to all the dead,
to the drifting, listless spirits of their ghosts,
that once you return to Ithaca you will slaughter
a barren heifer m your halls, the best you have,
and load a pyre with treasures...

Dig a trench of about a forearm's depth and length
and around it pour libations out to all the dead—
first with milk and honey, and then with mellow wine,
then water third and last, and sprinkle glistening barley
over it all, and vow again and again to all the dead,
to the drifting, listless spirits of their ghosts,
that once you return to Ithaca you will slaughter
a barren heifer m your halls, the best you have,
and load a pyre with treasures...

And once your prayers
have invoked the nations of the dead in their dim glory,
slaughter a ram and a black ewe...

But you—draw your sharp sword from beside your hip,
sit down on alert there, and never let the ghosts
of the shambling, shiftless dead come near that blood
till you have questioned Tiresias yourself.