The Odyssey

to the one which he is relating. Sometimes, after one simile is minutely given, a second suggests itself, and is given with equal minuteness, and there is one instance at least of a third. It is curious to mark what a fascination the picturesque resemblance of objects and incidents has for the poet, and how one set of these images draws after it another, passing in magnificent procession across the mirror of his imagination. In the Odyssey are comparatively few examples of this mode of illustration; the poet is too much occupied with his narrative to think of them. How far this point of difference between the two poems tends to support the view of those who maintain that they could not have proceeded from the same author, is a question on which it is not my purpose to enter.
In the Preface to my version of the Iliad, I gave very briefly my reason for preserving the names derived from the Latin, by which the deities of the Grecian mythology have hitherto been known to English readers⁠—that is to say, Jupiter, Juno, Neptune, Pluto, Mars, Venus, and the rest, instead of Zeus, Herè, and the other names which are properly Greek. As the propriety of doing this is questioned by some persons of exact scholarship, I will state the argument a little more at large. The names I have employed have been given to the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece from the very beginnings of our language. Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, and the rest, down to Proctor and Keats⁠—a list whose chronology extends through six hundred years⁠—have followed this usage, and we may even trace it back for centuries before either of them wrote. Our prose writers have done the same thing; the names of Latin derivation have been adopted by the earliest and latest translators of the New Testament. To each of the deities known by these names there is annexed in the mind of the English reader⁠—and it is for the English reader that I have made this translation⁠—a peculiar set of attributes. Speak of Juno and Diana, and the mere English reader understands you at once; but when he reads the names of Herè and Artemis, he looks into his classical dictionary. The names of Latin origin are naturalized; the others are aliens and strangers. The conjunction and itself, which has been handed down to us unchanged from our Saxon ancestors, holds not its place in our language by a firmer and more incontestable title than the names which we have hitherto given to the deities of ancient Greece. We derive this usage from the Latin authors⁠—from Virgil, and Horace, and Ovid, and the prose writers of ancient Rome. Art as well as poetry knows these deities by the same names. We talk of the Venus de Medicis, the Venus of Milo, the Jupiter of Phidias, and never think of calling a statue of Mars a statue of Ares.
For my part, I am satisfied with the English language as it has been handed down to us. If the lines of my translation had bristled with the names of Zeus and Herè, and Poseidon and Ares, and Artemis and Demeter, I should feel that I had departed from the immemorial usage of the English tongue, that I had introduced obscurity where the meaning should have been plain, and that I had given just cause of complaint to the readers for whom I wrote.


The Odyssey




Book I
Visit of Pallas to Telemachus

A council of the gods⁠—Deliberations concerning Ulysses⁠—Mercury despatched to Calypso, to bid her send Ulysses to Ithaca⁠—Visit of Pallas, in the shape of Mentor, to Telemachus, advising him to repair to Pylos and Sparta in quest of his father, Ulysses⁠—Revels of the suitors of Penelope⁠—Phemius, the minstrel, and his song of the return of the Grecians⁠—The suitors rebuked by Telemachus.

Tell me, O Muse, of that sagacious man

Who, having overthrown the sacred town

Of Ilium, wandered far and visited

The capitals of many nations, learned

The customs of their dwellers, and endured

Great suffering on the deep: his life was oft

In peril, as he labored to bring back

His comrades to their homes. He saved them not,

Though earnestly he strove; they perished all,

Through their own folly; for they banqueted,

Madmen! upon the oxen of the Sun⁠—

The all-o’erlooking Sun, who cut them off

From their return. O goddess, virgin-child

Of Jove, relate some part of this to me.
Now all the rest, as many as escaped

The cruel doom of death, were at their homes

Safe from the perils of the war and sea,

While him alone, who pined to see his home

And wife again, Calypso, queenly nymph,

Great among goddesses, detained within

Her spacious grot, in hope that he might yet

Become her husband. Even when the years

Brought round the time in which the gods decreed

That he should reach again his dwelling-place

In Ithaca, though he was with his friends,

His toils were not yet ended. Of the gods

All pitied him save Neptune, who pursued

With wrath implacable the godlike chief,

Ulysses, even to his native land.
Among the Ethiopians was the god

Far off⁠—the Ethiopians most remote

Of men. Two tribes there are; one dwells beneath

The rising, one beneath the setting sun.

He went to grace a hecatomb of beeves

And lambs, and sat delighted at the feast;

While in the palace of Olympian Jove

The other gods assembled, and to them

The father of immortals and of men

Was speaking. To his mind arose the thought

Of that Aegisthus whom the famous son

Of Agamemnon, Prince Orestes, slew.

Of him he thought and thus bespake the gods:⁠—
“How strange it is that mortals blame the gods

And say that we inflict the ills they bear,

When they, by their own folly and against

The will of fate, bring sorrow on themselves!

As late Aegisthus, unconstrained by fate,

Married the queen of Atreus’ son and slew

The husband just returned from war. Yet well

He knew the bitter penalty, for we

Warned him. We sent the herald Argicide,

Bidding him neither slay the chief nor woo

His queen, for that Orestes,