Book XII: The Sirens, Scylla, and Charybdis

“Now when our barque had left OcéanusAnd entered the great deep, we reached the isleAeaea, where the Morning, child of Dawn,Abides, and holds her dances, and the SunGoes up from earth. We landed there and drewOur galley up the beach; we disembarkedAnd laid us down to sleep beside the sea,And waited for the holy Morn to rise.

“Then when the rosy-fingered Morn appeared,The child of Dawn, I sent my comrades forthTo bring from Circè’s halls Elpenor’s corse.And where a headland stretched into the deepWe hewed down trees, and held the funeral ritesWith many tears; and having there consumedThe body and the arms with fire, we builtA tomb, and reared a column to the dead,And on its summit fixed a tapering oar.

“All this was duly done; yet was the newsOf our return from Hades not concealedFrom Circè. She attired herself in hasteAnd came; her maids came with her, bringing breadAnd store of meats and generous wine; and thusSpake the wise goddess, standing in the midst:—

“ ‘Ah, daring ones! who, yet alive, have goneDown to the abode of Pluto; twice to dieIs yours, while others die but once. Yet nowTake food, drink wine, and hold a feast today,And with the dawn of morning ye shall sail;And I will show the way, and teach you allIts dangers, so that ye may not lamentFalse counsels followed, either on the landOr on the water, to your grievous harm.’

“She spake, and our confiding minds were swayedEasily by her counsels. All that dayTill set of sun we sat and banquetedUpon the abundant meats and generous wines;And when the Sun went down, and darkness came,The crew beside the fastenings of our barqueLay down to sleep, while Circè took my hand,Led me apart, and made me sit, and tookHer seat before me, and inquired of allThat I had seen. I told her faithfully,And then the mighty goddess Circè said:—

“ ‘Thus far is well; now needfully attendTo what I say, and may some deityHelp thee remember it! Thou first wilt comeTo where the Sirens haunt. They throw a spellO’er all who pass that way. If unawaresOne finds himself so nigh that he can hearTheir voices, round him nevermore shall wifeAnd lisping children gather, welcomingHis safe return with joy. The Sirens sitIn a green field, and charm with mellow notesThe comer, while beside them lie in heapsThe bones of men decaying underneathThe shrivelled skins. Take heed and pass them by.First fill with wax well kneaded in the palmThe ears of thy companions, that no soundMay enter. Hear the music, if thou wilt,But let thy people bind thee, hand and foot,To the good ship, upright against the mast,And round it wind the cord, that thou mayst hearThe ravishing notes. But shouldst thou then entreatThy men, commanding them to set thee free,Let them be charged to bind thee yet more fastWith added bands. And when they shall have passedThe Sirens by, I will not judge for theeWhich way to take; consider for thyself;I tell thee of two ways. There is a pileOf beetling rocks, where roars the mighty surgeOf dark-eyed Amphitritè; these are calledThe Wanderers by the blessed gods. No birdsCan pass them safe, not even the timid doves,Which bear ambrosia to our father Jove,But ever doth the slippery rock take offSomeone, whose loss the God at once supplies,To keep their number full. To these no barqueGuided by man has ever come, and leftThe spot unwrecked; the billows of the deepAnd storms of fire in air have scattered wideTimbers of ships and bodies of drowned men.One only of the barques that plough the deepHas passed them safely—Argo, known to allBy fame, when coming from Aeaeta home—And her the billows would have dashed againstThe enormous rocks, if Juno, for the sakeOf Jason, had not come to guide it through.

“ ‘Two are the rocks; one lifts to the broad heavenIts pointed summit, where a dark gray cloudBroods, and withdraws not; never is the skyClear o’er that peak, not even in summer daysOr autumn; nor can man ascend its steeps,Or venture down—so smooth the sides, as ifMan’s art had polished them. There in the midstUpon the western side toward ErebusThere yawns a shadowy cavern; thither thou,Noble Ulysses, steer thy barque, yet keepSo far aloof that, standing on the deck,A youth might send an arrow from a bowJust to the cavern’s mouth. There Scylla dwells,And fills the air with fearful yells; her voiceThe cry of whelps just littered, but herselfA frightful prodigy—a sight which noneWould care to look on, though he were a god.Twelve feet are hers, all shapeless; six long necks,A hideous head on each, and triple rowsOf teeth, close set and many, threatening death.And half her form is in the cavern’s womb,And forth from that dark gulf her heads are thrust,To look abroad upon the rocks for prey—Dolphin, or dogfish, or the mightier whale,Such as the murmuring Amphitritè breedsIn multitudes. No mariner can boastThat he has passed by Scylla with a crewUnharmed; she snatches from the deck, and bearsAway in each grim mouth, a living man.

“ ‘Another rock, Ulysses, thou wilt see,Of lower height, so near her that a spear,Cast by the hand, might reach it. On it growsA huge wild fig-tree with luxuriant leaves.Below, Charybdis, of immortal birth,Draws the dark water down; for thrice a dayShe gives it forth, and thrice with fearful whirlShe draws it in. O, be it not thy lotTo come while the dark water rushes down!Even Neptune could not then deliver thee.Then turn thy course with speed toward Scylla’s rock,And pass that way; ’twere better far that sixShould perish from the ship than all be lost’

“She spake, and I replied: ‘O goddess, deignTo tell me truly, cannot I at onceEscape Charybdis and defend my friendsAgainst the rage of Scylla when she strikes?’

“I spake; the mighty goddess answered me:—‘Rash man! dost thou still think of warlike deeds,And feats of strength? And wilt thou not give wayEven to the deathless gods? That pest is notOf mortal mould; she cannot die, she isA thing to tremble and to shudder at,And fierce, and never to be overcome.There is no room for courage; flight is best.And if thou shouldst delay beside the rockTo take up arms, I fear lest once againShe fall on thee with all her heads, and seizeAs many men. Pass by the monster’s hauntWith all the speed that thou canst make, and callUpon Crataeis, who brought Scylla forthTo be the plague of men, and who will calmHer rage, that she assault thee not again.

“ ‘Then in thy voyage shalt thou reach the isleTrinacria, where, in pastures of the Sun,His many beeves and fading sheep are fed—Seven herds of oxen, and as many flocksOf sheep, and fifty in each flock and herd.They never multiply; they never die.Two shepherdesses tend them, goddesses,Nymphs with redundant locks—Lampelia one,The other Phaëthusa. These the nymphNaeëra to the overgoing SunBrought forth, and when their queenly mother’s careHad reared them, she appointed them to dwellIn far Trinacria, there to keep the flocksAnd oxen of their father. If thy thoughtsBe fixed on thy return, so that thou leaveThese flocks and herds unharmed, ye all will comeTo Ithaca, though after many toils.But if thou rashly harm them, I foretellDestruction to thy ship and all its crew;And if thyself escape, thou wilt returnLate and in sorrow, all thy comrades lost.’

“She spake; the Morning on her golden throneLooked forth; the glorious goddess went her wayInto the isle, I to my ship, and badeThe men embark and cast the hawsers loose.And straight they went on board, and duly mannedThe benches, smiting as they sat with oarsThe hoary waters. Circè, amber-haired,The mighty goddess of the musical voice,Sent a fair wind behind our dark-prowed shipThat gayly bore us company, and filledThe sails. When we had fairly ordered allOn board our galley, we sat down, and leftThe favoring wind and helm to bear us on,And thus in sadness I bespake the crew:—

“ ‘My friends! it were not well that one or twoAlone should know the oracles I heardFrom Circè, great among the goddesses;And now will I disclose them, that ye all,Whether we are to die or to escapeThe doom of death, may be forewarned. And firstAgainst the wicked Sirens and their songAnd flowery bank she warns us. I aloneMay hear their voice, but ye must bind me firstWith bands too strong to break, that I may standUpright against the mast; and let the cordsBe fastened round it. If I then entreatAnd bid you loose me, make the bands more strong.’

“Thus to my crew I spake, and told them allThat they should know, while our good ship drew nearThe island of the Sirens, prosperous galesWafting it gently onward. Then the breezeSank to a breathless calm; some deityHad hushed the winds to slumber. Straightway roseThe men and furled the sails and laid them downWithin the ship, and sat and made the seaWhite with the beating of their polished blades,Made of the fir-tree. Then I took a massOf wax and cut it into many parts,And kneaded each with a strong hand. It grewWarm with the pressure, and the beams of himWho journeys round the earth, the monarch Sun.With this I filled the ears of all my menFrom first to last. They bound me, in their turn,Upright against the mast-tree, hand and foot,And tied the cords around it. Then againThey sat and threshed with oars the hoary deep.And when, in running rapidly, we cameSo near the Sirens as to hear a voiceFrom where they sat, our galley flew not byUnseen by them, and sweetly thus they sang:—

“ ‘O world-renowned Ulysses! thou who artThe glory of the Achaians, turn thy barqueLandward, that thou mayst listen to our layNo man has passed us in his galley yet,Ere he has heard our warbled melodies.He goes delighted hence a wiser man;For all that in the spacious realm of TroyThe Greeks and Trojans by the will of HeavenEndured we know, and all that comes to passIn all the nations of the fruitful earth.’ ”

’Twas thus they sang, and sweet the strain. I longedTo listen, and with nods I gave the signTo set me free; they only plied their oarsThe faster. Then upsprang EurylochusAnd Perimedes, and with added cordsBound me, and drew the others still more tight.And when we now had passed the spot, and heardNo more the melody the Sirens sang,My comrades hastened from their ears to takeThe wax, and loosed the cords and set me free.

“As soon as we had left the isle, I sawMist and a mountain billow, and I heardThe thunder of the waters. From the handsOf my affrighted comrades flew the oars,The deep was all in uproar; but the shipStopped there, for all the rowers ceased their task.I went through all the ship exhorting themWith cheerful words, man after man, and said:—

“ ‘Reflect, my friends, that we are not untriedIn evil fortunes, nor in sadder plightAre we than when within his spacious caveThe brutal Cyclops held us prisoners;Yet through my valor we escaped, and throughMy counsels and devices, and I thinkThat ye will live to bear this day’s eventsIn memory like those. Now let us act.Do all as I advise; go to your seatsUpon the benches, smiting with your oarsThese mighty waves, and haply Jove will grantThat we escape the death which threatens us.Thee, helmsman, I adjure—and heed my words,Since to thy hands alone is given in chargeOur gallant vessel’s rudder—steer thou henceFrom mist and tumbling waves, and well observeThe rock, lest where it juts into the seaThou heed it not, and bring us all to wreck.’

“I spake, and quickly all obeyed my words.Yet said I naught of Scylla—whom we nowCould not avoid—lest all the crew in fearShould cease to row, and crowd into the hold.And then did I forget the stern commandWhich Circè gave me, not to arm myselfFor combat. In my shining arms I casedMy limbs, and took in hand two ponderous spears,And went on deck, and stood upon the prow—For there it seemed to me that Scylla firstWould show herself—that monster of the rocks—To seize my comrades. Yet I saw her not,Though weary grew my eyes with looking longAnd eagerly upon those dusky cliffs.

“Sadly we sailed into the strait, where stoodOn one hand Scylla, and the dreaded rockCharybdis on the other, drawing downInto her horrid gulf the briny flood;And as she threw it forth again, it tossedAnd murmured as upon a glowing fireThe water in a cauldron, while the spray,Thrown upward, fell on both the summit-rocks;And when once more she swallowed the salt sea,It whirled within the abyss, while far belowThe bottom of blue sand was seen. My menGrew pale with fear; we looked into the gulfAnd thought our end was nigh. Then Scylla snatchedSix of my comrades from our hollow barque,The best in valor and in strength of arm.I looked to my good ship; I looked to them,And saw their hands and feet still swung in airAbove me, while for the last time on earthThey called my name in agony of heart.As when an angler on a jutting rockSits with his taper rod, and casts his baitTo snare the smaller fish, he sends the hornOf a wild bull that guards his line afarInto the water, and jerks out a fish,And throws it gasping shoreward; so were theyUplifted gasping to the rocks, and thereScylla devoured them at her cavern’s mouth,Stretching their hands to me with piercing criesOf anguish. ’Twas in truth the saddest sight,Whatever I have suffered and where’erHave roamed the waters, that mine eyes have seen.

“Escaping thus the rocks, the dreaded hauntOf Scylla and Charybdis, we approachedThe pleasant island of the Sun, where grazedThe oxen with broad foreheads, beautiful,And flocks of sheep, the fatlings of the godWho makes the round of heaven. While yet at seaI heard from my black ship the low of herdsIn stables, and the bleatings of the flocks,And straightway came into my thought the wordsOf the blind seer Tiresias, him of Thebes,And of Aeaean Circè, who had oftWarned me to shun the island of the godWhose light is sweet to all. And then I saidTo my companions with a sorrowing heart:—

“ ‘My comrades, sufferers as ye are, give ear.I shall disclose the oracles which lateTiresias and Aeaean Circè gave.The goddess earnestly admonished meNot to approach the island of the Sun,Whose light is sweet to all, for there she saidSome great misfortune lay in wait for us.Now let us speed the ship and pass the isle.’

“I spake; their hearts were broken as they heard,And bitterly Eurylochus replied:—

“ ‘Austere art thou, Ulysses; thou art strongExceedingly; no labor tires thy limbs;They must be made of iron, since thy willDenies thy comrades, overcome with toilAnd sleeplessness, to tread the land again,And in that isle amid the waters makeA generous banquet. Thou wouldst have us sailInto the swiftly coming night, and strayFar from the island, through the misty sea.By night spring up the mighty winds that makeA wreck of ships, and how can one escapeDestruction, should a sudden hurricaneRise from the south or the hard-blowing west,Such as, in spite of all the sovereign gods,Will cause a ship to founder in the deep?Let us obey the dark-browed Night, and takeOur evening meal, remaining close besideOur gallant barque, and go on board againWhen morning breaks, and enter the wide sea.’

“So spake Eurylochus; the rest approved.And then I knew that some divinityWas meditating evil to our band,And I bespake him thus in winged words:—

“ ‘Eurylochus, ye force me to your will,Since I am only one. Now all of youBind yourselves to me firmly, by an oath,That if ye haply here shall meet a herdOf beeves or flock of sheep, ye will not dareTo slay a single ox or sheep, but feedContented on the stores that Circè gave.’

“I spake, and readily my comrades sworeAs I required; and when that solemn oathWas taken, to the land we brought and mooredOur galley in a winding creek, besideA fountain of sweet water. From the deckStepped my companions and made ready thereTheir evening cheer. They ate and drank till thirstAnd hunger were appeased, and then they thoughtOf those whom Scylla from our galley’s deckSnatched and devoured; they thought and wept till sleepStole softly over them amid their tears.Now came the third part of the night; the starsWere sinking when the Cloud-compeller JoveSent forth a violent wind with eddying gusts,And covered both the earth and sky with clouds,And darkness fell from heaven. When Morning came,The rosy-fingered daughter of the Dawn,We drew the ship into a spacious grot.There were the seats of nymphs, and there we sawThe smooth fair places where they danced. I calledA council of my men, and said to them:—

“ ‘My friends, in our good ship are food and drink;Abstain we from these beeves, lest we be madeTo suffer; for these herds and these fair flocksAre sacred to a dreaded god, the Sun—The all-beholding and all-hearing Sun.’

“I spake, and all were swayed by what I saidFull easily. A month entire the galesBlew from the south, and after that no windSave east and south. While yet we had our breadAnd ruddy wine, my comrades spared the beeves,Moved by the love of life. But when the storesOn board our galley were consumed, they roamedThe island in their need, and sought for prey,And snared with barbed hooks the fish and birds—Whatever came to hand—till they were gauntWith famine. Meantime I withdrew aloneInto the isle, to supplicate the gods,If haply one of them might yet revealThe way of my return. As thus I strayedInto the land, apart from all the rest,I found a sheltered nook where no wind came,And prayed with washen hands to all the godsWho dwell in heaven. At length they bathed my lidsIn a soft sleep. Meantime, EurylochusWith fatal counsels thus harangued my men:—

“ ‘Hear, my companions, sufferers as ye are,The words that I shall speak. All modes of deathAre hateful to the wretched race of men;But this of hunger, thus to meet our fate,Is the most fearful. Let us drive apartThe best of all the oxen of the Sun,And sacrifice them to the immortal onesWho dwell in the broad heaven. And if we comeTo Ithaca, our country, we will thereBuild to the Sun, whose path is o’er our heads,A sumptuous temple, and endow its shrineWith many gifts and rare. But if it beHis will, approved by all the other gods,To sink our barque in anger, for the sakeOf these his high-horned oxen, I should chooseSooner to gasp my life away amidThe billows of the deep, than pine to deathBy famine in this melancholy isle.’

“So spake Eurylochus; the crew approved.Then from the neighboring herd they drove the bestOf all the beeves; for near the dark-prowed shipThe fair broad-fronted herd with crooked hornsWere feeding. Round the victims stood my crew,And, offering their petitions to the gods,Held tender oak-leaves in their hands, just pluckedFrom a tall tree, for in our good ship’s holdWas no white barley now. When they had prayed,And slain and dressed the beeves, they hewed awayThe thighs and covered them with double foldsOf caul, and laid raw slices over these.Wine had they not to pour in sacrificeUpon the burning flesh; they poured insteadWater, and roasted all the entrails thus.Now when the thighs were thoroughly consumed,And entrails tasted, all the rest was carvedInto small portions, and transfixed with spits.

“Just then the gentle slumber left my lids.I hurried to the shore and my good ship,And, drawing near, perceived the savory steamFrom the burnt-offering. Sorrowfully thenI called upon the ever-living gods:—

“ ‘O Father Jove, and all ye blessed gods,Who live forever, ’twas a cruel sleepIn which ye lulled me to my grievous harm;My comrades here have done a fearful wrong.’

“Lampetia, of the trailing robes, in hasteFlew to the Sun, who journeys round the earth,To tell him that my crew had slain his beeves,And thus in anger he bespake the gods:—

“ ‘O Father Jove, and all ye blessed godsWho never die, avenge the wrong I bearUpon the comrades of Laertes’ son,Ulysses, who have foully slain my beeves,In which I took delight whene’er I roseInto the starry heaven, and when againI sank from heaven to earth. If for the wrongThey make not large amends, I shall go downTo Hades, there to shine among the dead.’

“The cloud-compelling Jupiter replied:—‘Still shine, O Sun! among the deathless godsAnd mortal men, upon the nourishing earth.Soon will I cleave, with a white thunderbolt,Their galley in the midst of the black sea.’

“This from Calypso of the radiant hairI heard thereafter; she herself, she said,Had heard it from the herald Mercury.

“When to the ship I came, beside the sea,I sternly chid them all, man after man,Yet could we think of no redress; the beevesWere dead; and now with prodigies the godsAmazed my comrades—the skins moved and crawled,The flesh both raw and roasted on the spitsLowed with the voice of oxen. Six whole daysMy comrades feasted, taking from the herdThe Sun’s best oxen. When Saturnian JoveBrought the seventh day, the tempest ceased; the windFell, and we straightway went on board. We setThe mast upright, and, spreading the white sails,We ventured on the great wide sea again.

“When we had left the isle, and now appearedNo other land, but only sea and sky,The son of Saturn caused a lurid cloudTo gather o’er the galley, and to castIts darkness on the deep. Not long our shipRan onward, ere the furious west-wind roseAnd blew a hurricane. A strong blast snappedBoth ropes that held the mast; the mast fell back;The tackle dropped entangled to the hold;The mast, in falling on the galley’s stern,Dashed on the pilot’s head and crushed the bones,And from the deck he plunged like one who divesInto the deep; his gallant spirit leftThe limbs at once. Jove thundered from on high,And sent a thunderbolt into the ship,That, quaking with the fearful blow, and filledWith stifling sulphur, shook my comrades offInto the deep. They floated round the shipLike seamews; Jupiter had cut them offFrom their return. I moved from place to place,Still in the ship, until the tempest’s forceParted the sides and keel. Before the wavesThe naked keel was swept. The mast had snappedJust at the base, but round it was a thongMade of a bullock’s hide; with this I boundThe mast and keel together, took my seatUpon them, and the wild winds bore me on.

“The west-wind ceased to rage; but in its steadThe south-wind blew, and brought me bitter grief.I feared lest I must measure back my wayTo grim Charybdis. All night long I rodeThe waves, and with the rising sun drew nearThe rock of Scylla and the terribleCharybdis as her gulf was drawing downThe waves of the salt sea. There as I cameI raised myself on high till I could graspThe lofty fig-tree, and I clung to itAs clings a bat—for I could neither findA place to plant my feet, nor could I climb,So distant were the roots, so far apartThe long huge branches overshadowingCharybdis. Yet I firmly kept my holdTill she should throw the keel and mast againUp from the gulf. They, as I waited long,Came up again, though late—as late as oneWho long has sat adjudging strifes betweenYoung suitors pleading in the marketplaceRises and goes to take his evening meal;So late the timbers of my barque returned,Thrown from Charybdis. Then I dropped amidThe dashing waves, and came with hands and feetOn those long timbers in the midst, that theyMight bear my weight. I sat on them and rowedWith both my hands. The father of the godsAnd mortals suffered not that I should lookOn Scylla’s rock again, else had I notEscaped a cruel death. For nine long daysI floated on the waters; on the tenthThe gods at nightfall bore me to an isle—Ogygia, where Calypso, amber-haired,A mighty goddess, skilled in song, abides,Who kindly welcomed me, and cherished me.Why should I speak of this? Here in these hallsI gave the history yesterday to theeAnd to thy gracious consort, and I hateTo tell again a tale once fully told.”