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The English Works of Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury; Now First Collected and Edited by Sir William Molesworth, Bart., (London: Bohn, 1839-45). 11 vols. Vol. 10.

Author: Homer
Translator: Thomas Hobbes
Editor: Sir William Molesworth

Part of: The English Works of Thomas Hobbes, 11 vols.

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LIB. XII.

His passage by the Syrens, and by Scylla and Charybdis. The sacrilege committed by his men in the isle Thrinacia. The destruction of his ship and men. How he swam on a plank nine days together, and came to Ogygia, where he stayed seven years.

Thence over th’ ocean back we come away,
And at the isle Ææa we arrive.
There are the bowers of Aurora gay;
There ’tis that Phœbus doth the day revive:
5And there we disembark upon the sand,

And having slept awhile, attend the day.
When day was come, my fellows I command
To fetch Elpenor’s body dead away.
With wood from off a promontory near,
10Weeping, his body we to ashes burn,

Together with his arms, and th’ earth we rear,
To be a monument upon his urn;
And on the same we fix his oar upright.
These ceremonies done, came the divine
15Circe, that knew we landed were that night.

Her maids brought to us bread, and meat, and wine;
And standing in the midst, Poor men, said she,
That come from Hell, and thither must again;
Twice-mortals, take your food, and merry be
20With flesh and lusty wine, forget your pain.

To-morrow you shall sail again, and I
Will to you all your dangers open lay,
Lest you, by some malicious subtilty,
By land or sea, should perish by the way.
25This pleas’d us well, and all day long we sate

Eating and drinking wine, until ’twas dark.
And somewhat e’er we saw it evening late,
My mates lay down to sleep beside the bark.
Then Circe led me by the hand aside,
30And ask’d me all that I had seen in Hell;

Nor anything at all from her I hide.
’Tis well, said she. Now hear what I you tell:
First, you must pass the Sirens, who invite
All passengers that sail before the place
35To land. But whosoever lands, that wight

Of ’s wife and children ne’er more sees the face.
These Sirens in a meadow sit and sing,
Where dead men’s bones in heaps about them lie
Rotting, and rivel’d skins lie scattering.
40Pass on, and their enchanting music fly.

Command your mates to tie you to the mast;
And that, if you make signs to be set free,
They heed you not, but bind you still more fast.
That you alone may hear their melody,

His passage by the Syrens, and by Scylla and Charybdis.

45Dam up your fellows’ ears with chafed wax.

When you are gotten out of hearing quite,
And have the Sirens far off at your backs,
Another danger soon will come in sight.
Two ways there are; but which of them to take
50I’ll not advise you, both of them are naught.

Yourself upon the place your judgment make,
Of which I’ll give you only a short draught.
Two rocks there be, that, with inclining brow,
Hang o’er the sea, which roaring runs between;
55By th’ name of Wanderers the Gods them know,

Because in changed posture they are seen.
Whereof the one does to such height ascend,
That never any birds that way take wing,
Nor fearful doves when they to Heaven tend,
60Ambrosia to th’ immortal Gods to bring.

One of these rocks doth vanish now and then,
But Jove still sets another in its stead.
This way, ne’er ship did safely carry men,
But dash’d was ’gainst the rocks, and perished.
65The good ship Argo only pass’d that way

To and from Colchos safely; yet that, too,
Had perish’d, but that Juno did convey
The same, for love she bare to Jason, through.
The other rock unmov’d, with pointed head,
70Pierceth the clouds, and reaches to the sky

In winter, and in summer ’s covered
And wrapped up in mists perpetually.
Nor could a mortal man climb up unto’t,
Although he were indued with twenty hands,
75And with as many nimble feet to boot,

So smooth it is, and so upright it stands.
I’ th’ midst o’ th’ rock you ’ll see a cavern dark
That looketh westward. That way you must row.
The mouth o’ th’ cave is more above your bark
80Than th’ youngest man can shoot to with a bow.

There ’tis that Scylla dwells and barks: her voice
Like to a lion’s whelp’s voice is; but she
A mighty monster is; ’twould not rejoice
A God, much less a man, her shape to see.
85Twelve feet she has in all, and ugly ones.

Six huge long necks; and to each neck a head;
And in each head for teeth sh’ has rows of bones,
And every row of them envenomed.
Half of her body in the cave she hides;
90But all her heads she putteth out, and watches

For dog-fish, dolphins, and what fish besides
The sea affords, and whales she sometimes catches.
Ne’er did bold sailor boast, that pass’d that way,
That he had ’scaped safely by her den;
95Or that a mouth of her’s did want its prey,

But from him snatch’d away some of his men.
The rock that’s opposite is not so high,
But there the passage is exceeding narrow.
For you, Ulysses, if you please to try,
100From side to side can eas’ly shoot an arrow.

Out of this rock grows a great sycamore,
Under the which Charybdis hidden lies,
And suddenly the water does devour,
And suddenly again she makes it rise.
105Thrice in a day the water rises high,

And thrice a day again the same doth fall.
But when it falls, take heed you be not nigh;
Keep Scylla side; better lose six than all.
When she had made an end, Goddess, said I,
110Tell me, I pray you, when I have got free

From th’evil which Charybdis means me, why
On Scylla I may not avenged be?
Fie, fie, quoth she, are you at fighting still?
Dare you against the Gods oppose your might?
115For Scylla is an everlasting ill.

Row on apace, and save yourselves by flight.
’Gainst such a monster, remedy there’s none,
But row as fast as e’er you can away.
For if you stay to put your armour on,
120She’ll stoop again, and take another prey.

Row swiftly on, and to Cratais cry,
That in her belly the foul monster bore,
And she will keep her in as you go by,
That she shall not assault you any more.
125Next at Thrinacia isle you shall arrive,

Where feed the Sun’s broad-horned kine and sheep,
Sev’n herds there be, in each one ten times five,
As many flocks, which Sol’s two daughters keep,
Phætusa and Lampetio divine;
130Their mother was Neæra, that did bear

And bring them up, and to them did assign
The keeping of their father’s cattle there.
These if you suffer quietly to feed,
You shall get home again, though with some pain;
135But if you hurt them, know it is decreed

Your ship and men shall perish in the main;
And though yourself you save, your ship you’ll lose,
And mates, and in your passage find delay.
This said, the rosy-finger’d Morning rose,
140And Circe up the island went her way.

But I went to my ship, and call’d my crew
To come aboard. Aboard they quickly come,
And sitting each man in his order due,
With stroke of oars they make the grey sea foam.
145The Goddess Circe also was so kind,

As when we were gone off, and sails had spread,
To fill them with a favourable wind.
So sate we while the steersman governed.
Then to my mates with heavy heart I spake:
150Not one or two of you alone must hear

What Circe said, but all, that you may take
Your own advice, since ’tis a common fear.
You must not hear the Sirens’ melody,
But row with all your might till we be pass’d.
155To me alone, she gives that liberty,

But so as first you bind me to the mast.
Bind me you must upright both hand and foot,
And so as I may not the knot unknit:
And if I wink upon you to undo’t,
160Then take more cord and bind me faster yet.

Whilst I my fellows thus informing stood,
The island of the Sirens came in sight:
For nimble was our ship, and the wind good.
But suddenly we were becalmed quite;
165Some demon sure had laid the waves asleep.

Then took we in our sails, and laid them by,
And with our oars in hand provok’d the deep,
And in a milky path we forward ply.
Then from a ball of wax I pinch a bit,
170Chafe it, and into th’ ears of one it put;

And so to all in order as they sit.
Which soon was done, the weather being hot.
Then straight they rise and bind me to the mast
At th’ arms and feet: the knot behind they tie;
175And then upon their seats themselves they plac’d,

And row’d till to the island we were nigh.
When to the island we were come so nigh,
As that a man that holloes may be heard,
The Sirens, knowing when we should come by,
180Had tun’d themselves, and had their song prepar’d.

Come, come, much prais’d Ulysses, come away;
The brightest glory of the Greeks, come near:
No mortal man did ever come this way,
That did not to our music lend an ear;
185Delight they found, and wisdom carried hence.

Stay, stay your good black ship, forbear awhile
To beat the sea; please and inform your sense.
Come disembark yourselves upon our isle.
We know what feats of arms were done at Troy
190Between the Greeks and Trojans all along:

We know what’s done on th’ whole earth everyday.
Come, come a’land, and listen to our song.
And this they sung with so much harmony
And sweetness in their voices, that I fain

The passage by Scylla and Charybdis.

195Would have recovered my liberty,

And to them wink’d, to be set loose again.
But ’twould not be. My mates regard my words,
And not my winks, and sit still at the oar.
Eurylochus and Perimede bring cords,
200And bind me harder than they did before.

When we had left the Sirens at our backs,
So far as not to hear them any more,
My fellows from their ears pull out the wax,
And me unto my liberty restore.
205We had not sailed far, when there appear’d

An angry sea before us all in smoke;
And thumping of the mighty waves we heard
Upon the stubborn rocks at every stroke.
Besides, the sea so mighty loud did roar,
210As with one dismal hum it fill’d the ear,

And made my mates each one let fall his oar,
So much their senses were benumb’d with fear.
Still stood the bark. Then I among them go
With gentle words, new courage to convey
215Into their failing hearts, to make them row;

And passing by, to every one I say:
My friends, we all have many dangers pass’d,
And greater much than what we now do fear.
Remember how from Polyphemus vast,
220By my good conduct, we deliver’d were.

I do not doubt but you remember it:
My counsel, therefore, also now obey.
Row close along the shore, the Gods may yet
Deliver us, but by no other way.
225But you that have the guiding of the ship,

Steersman, to you I speak, mark what I say;
Steer her without the smoke; for if she slip
Aside, though little, we are cast away.
This said, my fellows speedily obey’d.
230Of th’ monster Scylla not a word I told;

Lest they should throw away their oars, dismay’d,
And for their shelter run into the hold.
But Circe’s counsel I had quite forgot.
I arm’d myself, and took into my hand
235Two spears, though she expressly had said not;

And looking upwards, at the head I stand.
But she appeared not. I look’d so high
And long upon the hideous rock, my sight
Began to fail, and now we were close by
240That dismal straight, which doth us all affright.

Here Scylla stands, and there Charybids dire
Lies vomiting the sea, which sings and dances
Like water in a kettle o’er the fire,
And vapours to the highest rocks advances.

The sacrilege committed in the isle Thrinacia.

245But when the sea it sucketh in again,

It sounds like thunder in the hollow stone,
And we could see the bottom very plain;
Sandy it was, and black to look upon.
Whilst we our eyes upon Charybdis fix,
250And stand amazed at the horrid sight,

Suddenly Scylla stoop’d, and snatch’d up six
Of the best men I had to row or fight.
I from the ship that never stirr’d my eye,
Soon saw their sprawling arms and legs i’ th’ air,
255And heard them lamentably to me cry,

And name me in their uttermost despair.
As fishers in a horn mix fraud and food,
And from the bank at th’ end of a long wand,
To catch the fry cast it into the flood,
260Then pluck them up, and throw them on the land:

So lifted were my mates. Of my mishaps
This was the saddest I did ever see,
When she my men cham’d in her ugly chaps,
Roaring and holding out their hands to me.
265From Scylla we unto the island row,

Where feeding were Sol’s sacred sheep and kine.
Before we landed I could hear them low;
Which brought into my mind the prophesy
Of old Tiresias the Theban bard,
270That counsel’d me this island for to shun.

Of Circe also I like counsel heard,
And not to land i’ th’ Island of the Sun.
Then speaking to my fellows, Friends, said I,
This island sacred is to Sol; this place
275Tiresias and Circe both bid fly,

And not to disembark in any case.
For if we do, for certain they declare
The greatest mischief that e’er men befel:
Therefore keep out to seaward, and beware
280Of landing here, and then we shall be well.

But then Eurylochus to me began:
You have, Ulysses, a hard heart, quoth he;
There is no labour but you bear it can;
Your limbs of stubborn steel composed be.
285But you consider not your mates are tir’d

With their continual tugging at the oar,
And that refreshment is and sleep requir’d,
Which is not to be had but on the shore.
But you would have us wander in the night,
290When in the night the greatest winds arise,

The bane of ships; and when depriv’d of light,
To save ourselves we can no way devise.
What if great winds should blow from south or west,
Which often happens, though their king not know,
295Or not consent? Therefore I think it best

To-night to sup ashore,—to-morrow row.
So said Eurylochus, and was commended
By all my mates: and presently I knew
One demon or another had intended
300To ruin me, together with my crew.

Then said I to Eurylochus, ’Twere vain
To strive against so many men alone.
But you shall take an oath that you ’ll abstain
From hurting of the cattle of the Sun.
305Of Circe’s meat there’s left us yet good store.

This said, they took the oath; which having done,
They put into the harbour, and ashore
They sup. And when their hunger now was gone,
Their mates remembering, that in th’ hollow rock
310By th’ monster Scylla were devour’d, they weep

And wail, and with their hands they knock
Their breasts, and in that posture fell asleep.
The stars had climb’d a third part of the sky,
When with a whirlwind Jove together fetch’d
315The clouds from ev’ry part, and suddenly

On sea and land a dismal night was stretch’d.
And when the rosy-finger’d Morning came,
Our ship we to a hollow cave advance,
Wherein the sea-nymphs seats and couches have,
320And where they are accustomed to dance.

Thither I call’d my mates, and said again:
Friends, we have meat and drink aboard, be wise,
And from the herds and flocks of Sol abstain,
Who heareth all we say, and all espies.
325To this did my companions all assent.

But for a month there blew no other wind
Than south and east; so that we there were pent
I’ th’ island longer than we had design’d.
My mates, whilst they had bread and meat aboard,
330Forbore to meddle with the sacred kine,

And fetch’d in what the island did afford
Of fish and fowl, to have wherewith to dine.
Up I into the island went aside,
The conduct of th’ immortal Gods t’ implore,
335That some of them t’ would please to be my guide,

And me unto my country to restore.
And in a place defended from the wind
I wash’d my hands; and then with tears and sighs
Before the Gods I poured out my mind,
340And they a sweet sleep poured on my eyes.

Meantime Eurylochus bad counsel gives
To his companions. All deaths, quoth he,
Are hateful to what thing soever lives;
But death by hunger is the worst can be.
345Let’s kill some of the fattest of these cows,

And sacrifice unto the Gods on high;
And to appease the Sun, let’s all make vows
To build a temple to his Deity,
Enrich’d with gifts. If not content with this,
350For a few cows displeas’d, he seek our death,

For once to gape and die, far better ’tis
Than strive with hunger till we lose our breath.
This said, my fellows all his counsel take,
And chase Sol’s sacred herds, that graz’d hard by;
355And then for recompense their vows they make

To build a temple to his Deity.
But when they made their vows, chaplets they wear
Of tender leaves pluck’d from the spreading oak.
White barley they had none, the which men bear,
360When in their danger they the Gods invoke.

After the vow perform’d, the kine they flay,
And take their thighs and cover them with fat,
And one of them upon the other lay,
To burn upon the altar. After that,
365Their offering of drink they pour’d upon

The altar, as the sacrifice they burn;
It ought t’ have been of wine, but having none,
They pour’d on water fair, which serv’d the turn.
When th’ entrails by my fellows eaten were,
370And fire consumed had the sacrifice,

The rest they roast on spits and made good cheer.
Just then it was that sleep forsook my eyes,
And back again I walk’d down tow’rds the shore;
But coming near, perceiv’d the vapour rise
375Of roasted meat. Then to the Gods I roar:

You give me sleep, and take away my life;
So strange a thing my mates the while have done.
Swiftly Lampetio to heav’n flies,
And carries up the news unto the Sun.
380The Sun in choler all the Gods defies,

Unless they right him of his injury.
Jove, father, and you other powers divine,
Revenge me of Ulysses’ company,
That have so insolently slain my kine.
385It was my joy to see them in the morn,

And in the evening e’er I went to bed.
Revenge me, oh ye Gods! of this their scorn,
Or I’ll go down to Hell and light the dead.
No, Phœbus, answer’d Jove, hold up your light,
390For Gods and mortal men to see their way.

As for the men that did you this despite,
Their ship at sea with lightning I’ll destroy.
At this discourse in heaven was Hermes by,
And heard his father make this sad decree;

The destruction of the ship, &c.

395And he again told all this history

To the fair Calypso, and she told it me.
When to my fellows I was come, I rate
Them all full bitterly, and one by one;
But all in vain, for now it was too late:
400The Gods by signs detested what was done.

The skins did creep, the flesh o’ th’ spits did low,
Both raw and roast. Six days in th’ isle we staid,
Feasting on Phœbus’ kine, the seventh we row;
For then the fury of the wind was laid.
405When we were out at sea we fix our mast,

And up into the wind our sails we draw,
And had the isle so far behind us cast,
That nothing else but sky and sea we saw.
Then Jove, when far from land he saw our ship,
410Just over it a dismal black cloud hung,

Which made it dark as night upon the deep,
And then our good ship run not very long.
For presently from west a sudden blast
Came roaring in, and vehemently strains
415And breaks the cordage that upheld the mast,

Which falling down, beats out the steerer’s brains:
He drops into the sea. The mast hangs o’er
At stern. The yards lie cross the sink:
And all the while both heaven and sea did roar
420With thunder loud, which made our hearts to shrink.

And by and by into the ship Jove threw
His thunder-bolt, which whirl’d it round about.
It smelt of sulphur rank; and all my crew
Into the sea it suddenly threw out.
425They like to gulls from wave to wave were borne,

But I kept still aboard, till at the last
The rudder from astern the ship was torn,
And fell into the sea, and with’t the mast.
The mast had hanging on it broken ropes,
430Wherewith I bound them both together fast,

And sate upon them as my latest hopes,
Until the fury of the storm was past.
The storm now laid, th’ wind came about to th’ south,
And carried me before it, till the sun
435Next morning rose; and then we were i’ th’ mouth

Of dire Charybdis, just when she begun
To swallow up the sea. Then up leap’d I,
And on a spreading sycamore laid hold,
But to’t I could not climb; the boughs so high
440I could not reach, and far off was the root.

There by the hands I hung, expecting when
Charybdis should cast up the sea, and bring
The rudder and the mast to th’ top agen.
Meanwhile, in th’ air I patiently swing.
445What time the judge ariseth from his seat,

Ending the brabbles of contentious men,
And all come weary home to take their meat,
Then came my mast and rudder up agen;
And I into the sea close by them drop.
450Then having soon recovered them, again

I place myself astride, once more, a-top,
And with my hands I rowed on the main.
If Scylla this had seen, undoubtedly
I had been lost. But ’twas the grace of Jove,
455That all this while she did not me espy,

But kept herself retir’d i’ th’ rock above.
Thus wander’d I at sea nine days outright;
O’ th’ tenth at night the Gods brought me to land
In th’ isle Ogygia, where Calypso bright
460Receiv’d me with a charitable hand.

But how she treated me, I need not say;
You and the queen already know it well,
From the relation I made yesterday;
Nor do I love the same tale twice to tell.

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LIB. XII. - Homer, The English Works, vol. X (Iliad and Odyssey) [1839]

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Part of: The English Works of Thomas Hobbes, 11 vols.

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LIB. XII.