Odysseus and Circe – Homer Odyssey Book X

Translated by Robert Fitzgerald


my men slept in the shadowy hall, but I      
went through the dark to Kirkê’s flawless bed                                              530
and took the goddess’ knees in supplication,            
urging, as she bent to hear:

                                                                                     ‘O Kirkê,     
now you must keep your promise; it is time.                                               
Help me make sail for home. Day after day
my longing quickens, and my company      
give me no peace, but wear my heart away            
pleading when you are not at hand to hear.’

The loveliest of goddesses replied:

‘Son of Laërtês and the gods of old,                                                                540
Odysseus, master mariner and soldier,         
you shall not stay here longer against your will;  
but home you may not go          
unless you take a strange way round and come                                           
to the cold homes of Death and pale Perséphonê.    
You shall hear prophecy from the rapt shade         
of blind Teirêsias of Thebes, forever    
charged with reason even among the dead;            
to him alone, of all the flitting ghosts,           
Perséphonê has given a mind undarkened.’                                                  550

At this I felt a weight like stone within me, 
and, moaning, pressed my length against the bed,           
with no desire to see the daylight more.       
But when I had wept and tossed and had my fill    
of this despair, at last I answered her:

‘Kirkê, who pilots me upon this journey?      
No man has ever sailed to the land of Death.’

That loveliest of goddesses replied:

‘Son of Laërtês and the gods of old,      
Odysseus, master of land ways and sea ways,                                              560
feel no dismay because you lack a pilot;        
only set up your mast and haul your canvas          
to the fresh blowing North; sit down and steer,      
and hold that wind, even to the bourne of Ocean,
Perséphonê’s deserted strand and grove,      
dusky with poplars and the drooping willow.          
Run through the tide-rip, bring your ship to shore,          
land there, and find the crumbling homes of Death.        
Here, toward the Sorrowing Water, run the streams       
of Wailing, out of Styx, and quenchless Burning—                                     570
torrents that join in thunder at the Rock.    
Here then, great soldier, setting foot obey me:       
dig a well shaft a forearm square; pour out 
libations round it to the unnumbered dead:
sweet milk and honey, then sweet wine, and last  
clear water, scattering handfulls of white barley.
Pray now, with all your heart, to the faint dead;  
swear you will sacrifice your finest heifer,  
at home in Ithaka, and burn for them           
her tenderest parts in sacrifice; and vow                                                       580
to the lord Teirêsias, apart from all,   
a black lamb, handsomest of all your flock—           
thus to appease the nations of the dead.        
Then slash a black ewe’s throat, and a black ram,            
facing the gloom of Erebos; but turn  
your head away toward Ocean. You shall see, now           
souls of the buried dead in shadowy hosts,   
and now you must call out to your companions     
to flay those sheep the bronze knife has cut down, 
for offerings, burnt flesh to those below,                                                        590
to sovereign Death and pale Perséphonê.      
Meanwhile draw sword from hip, crouch down, ward off
the surging phantoms from the bloody pit   
until you know the presence of Teirêsias.     
He will come soon, great captain; be it he    
who gives you course and distance for your sailing          
homeward across the cold fish-breeding sea.’          

As the goddess ended, Dawn came stitched in gold.           
Now Kirkê dressed me in my shirt and cloak,         
put on a gown of subtle tissue, silvery,                                                           600
then wound a golden belt about her waist    
and veiled her head in linen,    
while I went through the hall to rouse my crew.   
I bent above each one, and gently said:         
‘Wake from your sleep: no more sweet slumber.    
Come, we sail: the Lady Kirkê so ordains it.’

They were soon up, and ready at that word;           
but I was not to take my men unharmed     
from this place, even from this. Among them all  
the youngest was Elpênor—                                                                                610
no mainstay in a fight nor very clever—      
and this one, having climbed on Kirkê’s roof           
to taste the cool night, fell asleep with wine.           
Waked by our morning voices, and the tramp 600          
of men below, he started up, but missed       
his footing on the long steep backward ladder         
and fell that height headlong. The blow smashed  
the nape cord, and his ghost fled to the dark.          
But I was outside, walking with the rest,      
saying:                                                                                                                        620

                        ‘Homeward you think we must be sailing    
to our own land; no, elsewhere is the voyage          
Kirkê has laid upon me. We must go  
to the cold homes of Death and pale Perséphonê     
to hear Teirêsias tell of time to come.’

They felt so stricken, upon hearing this,      
they sat down wailing loud, and tore their hair.   
But nothing came of giving way to grief.     
Down to the shore and ship at last we went,            
bowed with anguish, cheeks all wet with tears,                                                 630
to find that Kirkê had been there before us  
and tied nearby a black ewe and a ram:       
she had gone by like air.
For who could see the passage of a goddess    
unless she wished his mortal eyes aware?



Homer. The Odyssey. Book X: 529-635. Trans. Robert Fitzgerald. 1961. New York: Farrar Straus & Giroux, 1998. 


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