Book XI: Visit of Ulysses to the Land of the Dead

“Now, when we reached our galley by the shore,We drew it first into the mighty deep,And set the mast and sails, and led on boardThe sheep, and sorrowfully and in tearsEmbarked ourselves. The fair-haired and augustCircè, expert in music, sent with usA kindly fellow-voyager—a windThat breathed behind the dark-prowed barque, and swelledThe sails; and now, with all things in their placeThroughout the ship, we sat us down—the breezeAnd helmsman guiding us upon our way.All day our sails were stretched, as o’er the deepOur vessel ran; the sun went down; the pathsOf the great sea were darkened, and our barqueReached the far confines of Océanus.

“There lies the land, and there the people dwellOf the Cimmerians, in eternal cloudAnd darkness. Never does the glorious sunLook on them with his rays, when he goes upInto the starry sky, nor when againHe sinks from heaven to earth. Unwholesome nightO’erhangs the wretched race. We touched the land,And, drawing up our galley on the beach,Took from on board the sheep, and followed onBeside the ocean-stream until we reachedThe place of which the goddess Circè spake.

“Here Perimedes and EurylochusHeld in their grasp the victims, while I drewThe trusty sword upon my thigh, and scoopedA trench in earth, a cubit long and wide,Round which we stood, and poured to all the deadLibations—milk and honey first, and nextRich wine, and lastly water, scatteringWhite meal upon them. Then I offered prayerFervently to that troop of airy forms,And made a vow that I would sacrifice,When I at last should come to Ithaca,A heifer without blemish, barren yet,In my own courts, and heap the altar-pyreWith things of price, and to the seer alone,Tiresias, by himself, a ram whose fleeceWas wholly black, the best of all my flocks.

“When I had worshipped thus with prayer and vowsThe nations of the dead, I took the sheepAnd pierced their throats above the hollow trench.The blood flowed dark; and thronging round me cameSouls of the dead from Erebus—young wivesAnd maids unwedded, men worn out with yearsAnd toil, and virgins of a tender ageIn their new grief, and many a warrior slainIn battle, mangled by the spear, and cladIn bloody armor, who about the trenchFlitted on every side, now here, now there,With gibbering cries, and I grew pale with fear.Then calling to my friends, I bade them flayThe victims lying slaughtered by the knife,And, burning them with fire, invoke the gods—The mighty Pluto and dread Proserpine.Then from my thigh I drew the trusty sword,And sat me down, and suffered none of allThose airy phantoms to approach the bloodUntil I should bespeak the Theban seer.

“And first the soul of my companion came,Elpenor, for he was not buried yetIn earth’s broad bosom. We had left him deadIn Circè’s halls, unwept and unentombed.We had another task. But when I nowBeheld I pitied him, and, shedding tears,I said these winged words: ‘How earnest thou,Elpenor, hither into these abodesOf night and darkness? Thou hast made more speed,Although on foot, than I in my good ship.’

“I spake; the phantom sobbed and answered me:—‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise,Ulysses! ’twas the evil doom decreedBy some divinity, and too much wine,That wrought my death. I laid myself to sleepIn Circè’s palace, and, remembering notThe way to the long stairs that led below,Fell from the roof, and by the fall my neckWas broken at the spine; my soul went downTo Hades. I conjure thee now, by thoseWhom thou hast left behind and far away,Thy consort and thy father—him by whomThou when a boy wert reared—and by thy sonTelemachus, who in thy palace-hallsIs left alone—for well I know that thou,In going hence from Pluto’s realm, wilt moorThy gallant vessel in the Aeaean isle—That there, O king, thou wilt remember me,And leave me not when thou departest thenceUnwept, unburied, lest I bring on theeThe anger of the gods. But burn me thereWith all the armor that I wore, and pile,Close to the hoary deep, a mound for me—A hapless man of whom posterityShall hear. Do this for me, and plant uprightUpon my tomb the oar with which I rowed,While yet a living man, among thy friends.’

“He spake and I replied: ‘Unhappy youth,All this I duly will perform for thee.’

“And then the soul of Anticleia came—My own dead mother, daughter of the kingAutolycus, large-minded. Her I leftAlive, what time I sailed for Troy, and nowI wept to see her there, and pitied her,And yet forbade her, though with grief, to comeNear to the blood till I should first accostTiresias. He too came, the Theban seer,Tiresias, bearing in his hand a wandOf gold; he knew me and bespake me thus:—

“ ‘Why, O unhappy mortal, hast thou leftThe light of day to come among the deadAnd to this joyless land? Go from the trenchAnd turn thy sword away, that I may drinkThe blood, and speak the word of prophecy.’

“He spake; withdrawing from the trench, I thrustInto its sheath my silver-studded sword,And after drinking of the dark red bloodThe blameless prophet turned to me and said:—

“ ‘Illustrious chief Ulysses, thy desireIs for a happy passage to thy home,Yet will a god withstand thee. Not unmarkedBy Neptune shalt thou, as I deem, proceedUpon thy voyage. He hath laid up wrathAgainst thee in his heart, for that thy handDeprived his son of sight. Yet may ye stillReturn, though after many hardships borne,If thou but hold thy appetite in check,And that of thy companions, when thou bringThy gallant barque to the Trinacrian isle,Safe from the gloomy deep. There will ye findThe beeves and fading wethers of the Sun—The all-beholding and all-hearing Sun.If these ye leave unharmed, and keep in mindThe thought of your return, ye may go back,Though sufferers, to your home in Ithaca;But if thou do them harm, the event will beDestruction to thy ship and to its crew;And thou, if thou escape it, wilt returnLate to thy country, all thy comrades lost,And in a foreign barque, and thou shalt findWrong in thy household—arrogant men who wasteThy substance, wooers of thy noble wife,And offering bridal gifts. On thy returnThou shalt avenge thee of their violent deeds;And when thou shalt have slain them in thy halls,Whether by stratagem or by the swordIn open fight, then take a shapely oarAnd journey on, until thou meet with menWho have not known the sea nor eaten foodSeasoned with salt, nor ever have beheldGalleys with crimson prows, nor shapely oars,Which are the wings of ships. I will declareA sign by which to know them, nor canst thouMistake it. When a traveller, meeting thee,Shalt say that thou dost bear a winnowing-fanUpon thy sturdy shoulder, stop and plantThy shapely oar upright in earth, and therePay to King Neptune solemn sacrifice—A ram, a bull, and from his herd of swineA boar. And then returning to thy home,See that thou offer hallowed hecatombsTo all the ever-living ones who dwellIn the broad heaven, to each in order due.So at the last thy death shall come to theeFar from the sea, and gently take thee offIn a serene old age that ends amongA happy people. I have told thee true.’

“He spake, and thus I answered him: ‘The gods,Tiresias, have decreed as thou hast said.But tell, and tell me truly—I beholdThe soul of my dead mother; there she sitsIn silence by the blood, and will not deignTo look upon her son nor speak to him.Instruct me, mighty prophet, by what meansTo make my mother know me for her son.’

“I spake, and instantly the seer replied:—‘Easily that is told; I give it theeTo bear in mind. Whoever of the deadThou sufferest to approach and drink the bloodWill speak the truth; those whom thou dost forbidTo taste the blood will silently withdraw.’

“The soul of King Tiresias, saying this,Passed to the abode of Pluto; he had givenThe oracle I asked. I waited stillUntil my mother, drawing near again,Drank the dark blood; she knew me suddenly,And said in piteous tones these winged words:—

“ ‘How didst thou come, my child, a living man,Into this place of darkness? DifficultIt is for those who breathe the breath of lifeTo visit these abodes, through which are rolledGreat rivers, fearful floods—the first of theseOcéanus, whose waters none can crossOn foot, or save on board a trusty barque.Hast thou come hither on thy way from Troy,A weary wanderer with thy ship and friends?And hast thou not been yet at Ithaca,Nor in thine island palace seen thy wife?’

“She spake, I answered: ‘ ’Tis necessity,Dear mother, that has brought me to the abodeOf Pluto, to consult the Theban seer,Tiresias. Not to the Achaian coastHave I returned, nor reached our country, yetContinually I wander; everywhereI meet misfortune—even from the timeWhen, in the noble Agamemnon’s train,I came to Ilium, famed for steeds, and madeWar on its dwellers. Tell me now, I pray,And truly, how it was that fate on theeBrought the long sleep of death? by slow disease?Or, stealing on thee, did the archer-queen,Diana, slay thee with her silent shafts?And tell me of my father, and the sonLeft in my palace. Rests the sway I boreOn them, or has another taken it,Since men believe I shall return no more?And tell me of my wedded wife, her thoughtsAnd purposes, and whether she remainsYet with my son. Is she the guardian stillOf my estates, or has the noblest chiefOf those Achaians led her thence a bride?’

“I spake; my reverend mother answered thus:—‘Most certain is it that she sadly dwellsStill in thy palace. Weary days and nightsAnd tears are hers. No man has taken yetThy place as ruler, but TelemachusStill has the charge of thy domain, and givesThe liberal feasts which it befits a princeTo give, for all invite him. In the fieldsThy father dwells, and never in the townIs seen; nor beds nor cloaks has he, nor matsOf rich device, but, all the winter through,He sleeps where sleep the laborers, on the hearth,Amid the dust, and wears a wretched garb;And when the summer comes, or autumn daysRipen the fruit, his bed is on the ground,And made of leaves, that everywhere are shedIn the rich vineyards. There he lies and grieves,And, cherishing his sorrow, mourns thy fate,And keenly feels the miseries of age.And thus I underwent my fate and died;For not the goddess of the unerring bowStealing upon me smote me in thy hallsWith silent arrows, nor did slow diseaseCome o’er me, such as, wasting cruellyThe members, takes at last the life away;But constant longing for thee, anxious thoughtsOf thee, and memory of thy gentleness,Ulysses, made an end of my sweet life.’

“She spake; I longed to take into my armsThe soul of my dead mother. Thrice I tried,Moved by a strong desire, and thrice the formPassed through them like a shadow or a dream.And then did the great sorrow in my heartGrow sharper, and in winged words I said:—

“ ‘Beloved mother, why wilt thou not keepThy place, that I may clasp thee, so that here,In Pluto’s realm and in each other’s arms,We each might in the other soothe the senseOf misery? Hath mighty ProserpineSent but an empty shade to meet me here,That I might only grieve and sigh the more?’

“I spake, and then my reverend mother said:—‘Believe not that Jove’s daughter ProserpineDeceives thee. ’Tis the lot of all our raceWhen they are dead. No more the sinews bindThe bones and flesh, when once from the white bonesThe life departs. Then like a dream the soulFlies off, and flits about from place to place.But haste thou to the light again, and markWhat I have said, that thou in after daysMayst tell it to thy wife on thy return.’

“Thus we conferred. Meantime the women cameAround me, moved by mighty Proserpine;In throngs they gathered to the dark red blood.Then, as I pondered how to question each,This seemed the wisest—from my sturdy thighI plucked the trenchant sword, and suffered notAll that were there to taste the blood at once;So one by one they came, and each in turnDeclared her lineage. Thus I questioned all.

“Then saw I highborn Tyro first, who claimedTo be the daughter of that blameless manSalmoneus, and who called herself the wifeOf Cretheus, son of Aeolus. She lovedEnipeus, hallowed river, fairest streamOf all that flow on earth, and often walkedBeside its pleasant waters. He whose armsSurround the islands, Neptune, once put onThe river’s form, and at its gulfy mouthMet her; the purple waters stood uprightAround them like a wall, and formed an arch,And hid the god and woman. There he loosedThe virgin zone of Tyro, shedding sleepUpon her. Afterward he took her handAnd said: ‘Rejoice, O maiden, in our love,For with the year’s return shalt thou bring forthIllustrious sons; the embraces of the godsAre not unfruitful. Rear them carefully.And now return to thy abode, and watchThy words, and keep thy secret. Thou must knowThat I am Neptune, he who shakes the earth.’

“He spake, and plunged into the billowy deep.And she became a mother, and brought forthPelias and Neleus, valiant ministersOf mighty Jupiter. On the broad landsOf Iäolchos Pelias dwelt, and rearedVast flocks of sheep, while Neleus made his homeIn Pylos midst the sands. The queenly dame,His mother, meanwhile brought forth other sonsTo Cretheus—Aeson first, and Pheres next,And Amythaon, great in horsemanship.

“And after her I saw Antiopè,The daughter of Asopus—her who madeA boast that she had slumbered in the armsOf Jove. Two sons she bore—Amphion one,The other Zethus—and they founded ThebesWith its seven gates, and girt it round with towers;For, valiant as they were, they could not dwellSafely in that great town unfenced by towers.

“And after her I saw Amphitryon’s wife,Alcmena, her who brought forth Hercules,The dauntless hero of the lion-heart—For she had given herself into the armsOf mighty Jupiter. I also sawMegara there, a daughter of the houseOf haughty Creion. Her Amphitryon’s son,Unamable in strength, had made his wife.

“The mother, too, of Oedipus I saw,Beautiful Epicastè, who in lifeHad done unwittingly a heinous deed—Had married her own son, who, having slainHer father first, espoused her; but the godsPublished abroad the rumor of the crime.He in the pleasant town of Thebes bore swayO’er the Cadmeians; yet in miseryHe lived, for so the offended gods ordained.And she went down to Hades and the gatesThat stand forever barred; for, wild with grief,She slung a cord upon a lofty beamAnd perished by it, leaving him to bearWoes without measure, such as on a sonThe furies of a mother might inflict.

“And there I saw the dame supremely fair,Chloris, whom Neleus with large marriage-giftsWooed, and brought home a bride; the youngest sheAmong the daughters of Iäsus’ son,Amphion, ruler o’er Orchomenus,The Minyeian town, and o’er the realmOf Pylos. Three illustrious sons she boreTo Neleus—Nestor, Chromius, and a chiefOf lofty bearing, Periclymenus.She brought forth Pero also, marvellousIn beauty, wooed by all the region round;but Neleus would bestow the maid on noneSave him who should drive off from PhylacèThe beeves, broad-fronted and with crooked horns,Of valiant Iphicles—a difficult task.One man alone, a blameless prophet, daredAttempt it; but he found himself withstoodBy fate, and rigid fetters, and a forceOf rustic herdsmen. Months and days went by,And the full year, led by the hours, came round.The valiant Iphicles, who from the seerHad heard the oracles explained, took offThe shackles, and the will of Jove was done.

“Then saw I Leda, wife of Tyndarus,Who bore to Tyndarus two noble sons,Castor the horseman, Pollux skilled to wieldThe cestus. Both of them have still a placeUpon the fruitful earth; for JupiterGave them such honor that they live by turnsEach one a day, and then are with the deadEach one by turns; they rank among the gods.

“The wife of Aloëus next appeared,Iphidameia, who, as she declared,Had won the love of Neptune. She brought forthTwo short-lived sons—one like a god in form,Named Otus; and the other, far renowned,Named Ephialtes. These the bounteous earthNourished to be the tallest of mankind,And goodliest, save Orion. When the twainHad seen but nine years of their life, they stoodIn breadth of frame nine cubits, and in heightNine fathoms. They against the living godsThreatened to wage, upon the Olympian height,Fierce and tumultuous battle, and to flingOssa upon Olympus, and to pilePelion, with all its growth of leafy woods,On Ossa, that the heavens might thus be scaled.And they, if they had reached their prime of youth,Had made their menace good. The son of JoveAnd amber-haired Latona took their livesEre yet beneath their temples sprang the downAnd covered with its sprouting tufts the chin.

“Phaedra I saw, and Procris, and the childOf the wise Minos, Ariadne, famedFor beauty, whom the hero Theseus onceFrom Crete to hallowed Athens’ fertile coastLed, but possessed her not. Diana gaveEar to the tale which Bacchus brought to her,And in the isle of Dia slew the maid.

“And Maera I beheld, and Clymenè,And Eriphylè, hateful in her guilt,Who sold her husband for a price in gold.But vainly might I think to name them all—The wives and daughters of heroic menWhom I beheld—for first the ambrosial nightWould wear away. And now for me the hourOf sleep is come, at my good ship amongMy friends, or haply here. Meantime the careFor my return is with the gods and you.”

He spake, and all were silent: all withinThe shadows of those palace-halls were heldMotionless by the charm of what he said.And thus the white-armed Queen Aretè spake:—

“Phaeacians, how appears this man to youIn form, in stature, and well-judging mind?My guest he is, but each among you sharesThe honor of the occasion. Now, I pray,Dismiss him not in haste, nor sparinglyBestow your gifts on one in so much need;For in your dwellings is much wealth, bestowedUpon you by the bounty of the gods.”

Then also Echeneüs, aged chief,The oldest man of the Phaeacians, spake:—

“My friends, the word of our sagacious queenErrs not, nor is ill-timed, and yours it isTo hearken and obey: but all dependsUpon Alcinoüs—both the word and deed.”

And then in turn Alcinoüs spake: “That wordShall be fulfilled, if I am ruler hereO’er the Phaeacians, skilled in seamanship.But let the stranger, though he long for home,Bear to remain till morning, that his storeOf gifts may be complete. To send him homeShall be the charge of all, but mostly mine,Since mine it is to hold the sovereign power.”

And then the wise Ulysses said: “O KingAlcinoüs, eminent o’er all thy race!Shouldst thou command me to remain with theeEven for a twelvemonth, and at length provideFor my return, and give me princely gifts,Even that would please me; for with fuller hands,The happier were my lot on my returnTo my own land. I should be honored then,And meet a kinder welcome there from allWho see me in my Ithaca once more.”

And then again in turn Alcinoüs spake:—“Ulysses, when we look on thee, we feelNo fear that thou art false, or one of those,The many, whom the dark earth nourishes,Wandering at large, and forging lies, that weMay not suspect them. Thou hast grace of speechAnd noble thoughts, and fitly hast thou told,Even as a minstrel might, the historyOf all thy Argive brethren and thy own.Now say, and frankly, didst thou also seeAny of those heroic men who wentWith thee to Troy, and in that region metTheir fate? A night immeasurably longIs yet before us. Let us have thy taleOf wonders. I could listen till the breakOf hallowed morning, if thou canst endureSo long to speak of hardships thou hast borne.”

He spake, and wise Ulysses answered thus:—“O King Alcinoüs, eminent beyondAll others of thy people. For discourseThere is a time; there is a time for sleep.If more thou yet wouldst hear, I will not spareTo give the story of the greater woesOf my companions, who were afterwardCut off from life; and though they had escapedThe cruel Trojan war, on their returnThey perished by a woman’s fraud and guilt.

“When chaste Proserpina had made the ghostsOf women scatter right and left, there cameThe soul of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son.He came attended by a throng of thoseWho in the palace of Aegisthus metA fate like his and died. When he had drunkThe dark red blood, he knew me at a look,And wailed aloud, and, bursting into tears,Stretched out his hands to touch me; but no powerWas there of grasp or pressure, such as onceDwelt in those active limbs. I could not helpBut weep at sight of him, for from my heartI pitied him, and spake these winged words:—

“ ‘Most glorious son of Atreus, king of men!How, Agamemnon, has the fate that bringsTo man the everlasting sleep of deathO’ertaken thee? Did Neptune, calling upThe winds in all their fury, make thy fleetA wreck, or did thine enemies on landSmite thee, as thou wert driving off their beevesAnd their fair flocks, or fighting to defendSome city, and the helpless women there?’

“I spake, and Agamemnon thus replied:—‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise,’Twas not that Neptune calling up the windsIn all their fury wrecked me in my fleet,Nor hostile warriors smote me on the land,But that Aegisthus, bent upon my death,Plotted against me with my guilty wife,And bade me to his house and slew me there,Even at the banquet, as a hind might slayA bullock at the stall. With me they slewMy comrades, as a herd of white-toothed swineAre slaughtered for some man of large estates,Who makes a wedding or a solemn feast.Thou hast seen many perish by the swordIn the hard battle, one by one, and yetThou wouldst have pitied us, hadst thou beheldThe slain beside the wine-jar, and beneathThe loaded tables, while the pavement swamWith blood. I heard Cassandra’s piteous cry,The cry of Priam’s daughter, stricken downBy treacherous Clytemnestra at my side.And there I lay, and, dying, raised my handsTo grasp my sword. The shameless woman wentHer way, nor stayed to close my eyes, nor pressMy mouth into its place, although my soulWas on its way to Hades. There is naughtThat lives more horrible, more lost to shame,Than is the woman who has brought her mindTo compass deeds like these—the wretch who plansSo foul a crime—the murder of the manWhom she a virgin wedded. I had lookedFor a warm welcome from my children here,And all my household in my ancient home.This woman, deep in wickedness, hath broughtDisgrace upon herself and all her sex,Even those who give their thoughts to doing good.’

“He spake, and I replied: ‘O, how the GodWho wields the thunder, Jupiter, must hateThe house of Atreus for the women’s sake!At first we fell by myriads in the causeOf Helen; Clytemnestra now hath plannedThis guile against thee while thou wert afar.’

“I spake, and instantly his answer came:—‘Therefore be not compliant to thy wife,Nor let her hear from thee whatever liesWithin thy knowledge. Tell her but a part,And keep the rest concealed. Yet is thy life,Ulysses, in no danger from thy spouse;For wise and well instructed in the rulesOf virtuous conduct is Penelope,The daughter of Icarius. When we wentTo war, we left her a young bride; a babeWas at her breast, a boy, who now must sitAmong grown men; and fortunate is he,For certainly his father will beholdThe youth on his return, and he embraceHis father, as is meet. But as for me,My consort suffered not my eyes to feedUpon the sight of my own son; for firstShe slew me. This, then, I admonish thee—Heed thou my words. Bring not thy ship to landOpenly in thy country, but by stealth,Since now no longer can we put our trustIn woman. Meantime, tell me of my son,And faithfully, if thou hast heard of himAs living, whether in Orchomenus,Or sandy Pylos, or in the broad realmOf Menelaus, Sparta; for not yetHas my Orestes passed from earth and life.’

“He spake, and I replied: ‘Why ask of meThat question, O Atrides? I know notWhether thy son be living or be dead,And this is not a time for idle words.’

“Thus in sad talk we stood, and freely flowedOur tears. Meanwhile the ghosts of Peleus’ sonAchilles, and Patroclus, excellentAntilochus, and Ajax, all drew near—Ajax for form and stature eminentO’er all the Greeks save Peleus’ faultless son.Then did the soul of fleet AeacidesKnow me, and thus in winged words he said:—

“ ‘Ulysses! what hath moved thee to attemptThis greatest of thy labors? How is itThat thou hast found the courage to descendTo Hades, where the dead, the bodiless formsOf those whose work is done on earth, abide?’

“He spake; I answered: ‘Greatest of the Greeks!Achilles, son of Peleus! ’Twas to hearThe counsel of Tiresias that I came,If haply he might tell me by what meansTo reach my rugged Ithaca again;For yet have I not trod my native coast,Nor even have drawn nigh to Greece. I meetMisfortunes everywhere. But as for thee,Achilles, no man lived before thy time,Nor will hereafter live, more fortunateThan thou—for while alive we honored theeAs if thou wert a god, and now againIn these abodes thou rulest o’er the dead;Therefore, Achilles, shouldst thou not be sad.’

“I spake; Achilles quickly answered me:—‘Noble Ulysses, speak not thus of death,As if thou couldst console me. I would beA laborer on earth, and serve for hireSome man of mean estate, who makes scant cheer,Rather than reign o’er all who have gone downTo death. Speak rather of my noble son,Whether or not he yet has joined the warsTo fight among the foremost of the host.And tell me also if thou aught hast heardOf blameless Peleus—whether he be yetHonored among his many Myrmidons,Or do they hold him now in small esteemIn Hellas and in Phthia, since old ageUnnerves his hands and feet, and I no moreAm there, beneath the sun, to give him aid,Strong as I was on the wide plain of Troy,When warring for the Achaian cause I smoteThat valiant people. Could I come again,But for a moment, with my former strength,Into my father’s palace, I would makeThat strength and these unconquerable handsA terror to the men who do him wrong,And rob him of the honor due a king.’

“He spake; I answered: ‘Nothing have I heardOf blameless Peleus, but I will relateThe truth concerning Neoptolemus,Thy son, as thou requirest. Him I tookFrom Scyros in a gallant barque to joinThe well-armed Greeks. Know, then, that when we satIn council, planning to conduct the warAgainst the city of Troy, he always roseThe first to speak, nor were his words unwise.The godlike Nestor and myself aloneRivalled him in debate. And when we foughtAbout the city walls, he loitered notAmong the others in the numerous host,But hastened on before them, giving placeTo no man there in valor. Many menHe slew in desperate combat, whom to nameWere past my power, so many were they allWhom in the cause of Greece he struck to earth.Yet one I name, Eurypylus, the sonOf Telephus, who perished by his swordWith many of his band, Citeians, ledTo war because of liberal gifts bestowedUpon their chieftain’s wife; the noblest heOf men, in form, whom I have ever seen,Save Memnon. When into the wooden steed,Framed by Epeius, we the chiefs of GreeceAscended, and to me was given the chargeOf all things there, to open and to shutThe close-built fraud, while others of high rankAmong the Greeks were wiping off their tears,And their limbs shook, I never saw thy sonTurn pale in his fine face, or brush awayA tear, but he besought me earnestlyThat he might leave our hiding-place, and graspedHis falchion’s hilt, and lifted up his spearHeavy with brass, for in his mind he smoteThe Trojan crowd already. When at lastWe had o’erthrown and sacked the lofty townOf Priam, he embarked upon a ship,With all his share of spoil—a large reward—Unhurt, not touched in combat hand to hand,Nor wounded from afar, as oftentimesMust be the fortune of a fight, for MarsIs wont to rage without regard to men.’

“I spake. The soul of swift AeacidesOver the meadows thick with asphodelDeparted with long strides, well pleased to hearFrom me the story of his son’s renown.

“The other ghosts of those who lay in deathStood sorrowing by, and each one told his griefs;But that of Ajax, son of Telamon,Kept far aloof, displeased that I had wonThe victory contending at the fleetWhich should possess the arms of Peleus’ son.His goddess-mother laid them as a prizeBefore us, and the captive sons of TroyAnd Pallas were the umpires to awardThe victory. And now how much I wishI had not conquered in a strife like that,Since for that cause the dark earth hath receivedThe hero Ajax, who in noblenessOf form and greatness of exploits excelledAll other Greeks, except the blameless sonOf Peleus. Then I spake in soothing words:—

“ ‘O Ajax, son of blameless Telamon!Wilt thou not even in death forget the wrathCaused by the strife for those accursed arms?The gods have made them fatal to the Greeks,For thou, the bulwark of our host, didst fall,And we lamented thee as bitterlyWhen thou wert dead as we had mourned the sonOf Peleus. Nor was any man to blame;’Twas Jupiter who held in vehement hateThe army of the warlike Greeks, and laidThis doom upon thee. Now, O king, draw near,And hear our voice and words, and check, I pray,The anger rising in thy generous breast.’

“I spake; he answered not, but moved awayTo Erebus, among the other soulsOf the departed. Yet would I have hadSpeech of him, angry as he was, or elseHave spoken to him further, but my wishWas strong to see yet others of the dead.

“Then I beheld the illustrious son of Jove,Minos, a golden sceptre in his hand,Sitting to judge the dead, who round the kingPleaded their causes. There they stood or satIn Pluto’s halls—a pile with ample gates.

“And next I saw the huge Orion drive,Across the meadows green with asphodel,The savage beast whom he had slain; he boreThe brazen mace, which no man’s power could break.

“And Tityus there I saw—the mighty earthHis mother—overspreading, as he lay,Nine acres, with two vultures at his side,That, plucking at his liver, plunged their beaksInto the flesh; nor did his hands availTo drive them off, for he had offered forceTo Jove’s proud wife Latona, as she wentTo Pytho, through the pleasant Panopeus.

“And next I looked on Tantalus, a preyTo grievous torments, standing in a lakeThat reached his chin. Though painfully athirst,He could not drink; as often as he bowedHis aged head to take into his lipsThe water, it was drawn away, and sankInto the earth, and the dark soil appearedAround his feet; a god had dried it up.And lofty trees drooped o’er him, hung with fruit—Pears and pomegranates, apples fair to sight,And luscious figs, and olives green of hue.And when that ancient man put forth his handsTo pluck them from their stems, the wind aroseAnd whirled them far among the shadowy clouds.

“There I beheld the shade of SisyphusAmid his sufferings. With both hands he rolledA huge stone up a hill. To force it up,He leaned against the mass with hands and feet;But, ere it crossed the summit of the hillA power was felt that sent it rolling back,And downward plunged the unmanageable rockBefore him to the plain. Again he toiledTo heave it upward, while the sweat in streamsRan down his limbs, and dust begrimed his brow.

“Then I beheld the mighty Hercules—The hero’s image—for he sits himselfAmong the deathless gods, well pleased to shareTheir feasts, and Hebe of the dainty feet—A daughter of the mighty JupiterAnd golden-sandalled Juno—is his wife.Around his image flitted to and froThe ghosts with noise, like fear-bewildered birds.His look was dark as night. He held in handA naked bow, a shaft upon the string,And fiercely gazed, like one about to sendThe arrow forth. Upon his breast he woreThe formidable baldric, on whose bandOf gold were sculptured marvels—forms of bears,Wild boars, grim lions, battles, skirmishings,And death by wounds, and slaughter. He who wroughtThat band had never done the like before,Nor could thereafter. As I met his eye,The hero knew me, and, beholding meWith pity, said to me in winged words:—

“ ‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise,And yet unhappy; surely thou dost bearA cruel fate, like that which I enduredWhile yet I saw the brightness of the sun.The offspring of Saturnian JupiterAm I, and yet was I compelled to serveOne of a meaner race than I, who setDifficult tasks. He sent me hither onceTo bring away the guardian hound; he deemedNo harder task might be. I brought him hence,I led him up from Hades, with such aidAs Hermes and the blue-eyed Pallas gave.’

“Thus having spoken, he withdrew againInto the abode of Pluto. I remainedAnd kept my place, in hope there yet might comeHeroes who perished in the early time,And haply I might look on some of those—The ancients, whom I greatly longed to see—On Theseus and Pirithoüs, glorious men,The children of the gods. But now there flockedAlready round me, with a mighty noise,The innumerable nations of the dead;And I grew pale with fear, lest from the hallsOf Pluto the stern Proserpine should sendThe frightful visage of the monster-maid,The Gorgon. Hastening to my ship, I badeThe crew embark, and cast the hawsers loose.Quickly they went on board, and took their seatsUpon the benches. Through OcéanusThe current bore my galley, aided firstBy oars and then by favorable gales.”