“To whom with grief: ‘O swift to be undone! Constrain’d I act what wisdom bids me shun. But yonder herbs and yonder flocks forbear; Attest the heavens, and call the gods to hear: Content, an innocent repast display, By Circe given, and fly the dangerous prey.’ “Thus I: and while to shore the vessel flies, With hands uplifted they attest the skies: Then, where a fountain’s gurgling waters play, They rush to land, and end in feasts the day: They feed; they quaff; and now (their hunger fled) Sigh for their friends devour’d, and mourn the dead; Nor cease the tears till each in slumber shares A sweet forgetfulness of human cares. Now far the night advanced her gloomy reign, And setting stars roll’d down the azure plain: When at the voice of Jove wild whirlwinds rise, And clouds and double darkness veil the skies; The moon, the stars, the bright ethereal host Seem as extinct, and all their splendours lost: The furious tempest roars with dreadful sound: Air thunders, rolls the ocean, groans the ground. All night it raged: when morning rose to land We haul’d our bark, and moor’d it on the strand, Where in a beauteous grotto’s cool recess Dance the green Nereids of the neighbouring seas. “There while the wild winds whistled o’er the main, Thus careful I address’d the listening train: “‘O friends, be wise! nor dare the flocks destroy Of these fair pastures: if ye touch, ye die. Warn’d by the high command of Heaven, be awed: Holy the flocks, and dreadful is the god! That god who spreads the radiant beams of light, And views wide earth and heaven’s unmeasured height.’ “And now the moon had run her monthly round, The south-east blustering with a dreadful sound: Unhurt the beeves, untouch’d the woolly train, Low through the grove, or touch the flowery plain: Then fail’d our food: then fish we make our prey, Or fowl that screaming haunt the watery way. Till now from sea or flood no succour found, Famine and meagre want besieged us round. Pensive and pale from grove to grove I stray’d, From the loud storms to find a sylvan shade; There o’er my hands the living wave I pour; And Heaven and Heaven’s immortal thrones implore, To calm the roarings of the stormy main, And guide me peaceful to my realms again. Then o’er my eyes the gods soft slumbers shed, While thus Eurylochus arising said: “‘O friends, a thousand ways frail mortals lead To the cold tomb, and dreadful all to tread; But dreadful most, when by a slow decay Pale hunger wastes the manly strength away. Why cease ye then to implore the powers above, And offer hecatombs to thundering Jove? Why seize ye not yon beeves, and fleecy prey? Arise unanimous; arise and slay! And if the gods ordain a safe return, To Phœbus shrines shall rise, and altars burn. But should the powers that o’er mankind preside Decree to plunge us in the whelming tide, Better to rush at once to shades below Than linger life away, and nourish woe.’