The Voyage of Telegonus
Ill fares it with the man whose lips are setTo bitter themes and words that spite the gods;For, seeing how the son of Saturn swaysWith eyes and ears for all, this one shall haltAs on hard, hurtful hills; his days shall knowThe plaintive front of sorrow; level looksWith cries ill-favoured shall be dealt to him;And this shall be that he may think of peaceAs one might think of alienated lipsOf sweetness touched for once in kind, warm dreams.Yea, fathers of the high and holy face,This soul thus sinning shall have cause to sob“Ah, ah,” for sleep, and space enough to learnThe wan, wild Hyrie’s aggregated songThat starts the dwellers in distorted heights,With all the meaning of perpetual sighsHeard in the mountain deserts of the world,And where the green-haired waters glide betweenThe thin, lank weeds and mallows of the marsh.But thou to whom these things are like to shapesThat come of darkness—thou whose life slips pastRegarding rather these with mute fast mouth—Hear none the less how fleet Telegonus,The brass-clad hunter, first took oar and smoteSwift eastward-going seas, with face directFor narrowing channels and the twofold coastsPast Colchis and the fierce Symplegades,And utmost islands, washed by streams unknown.
For in a time when Phasis whitened wideAnd drove with violent waters blown of windAgainst the bare, salt limits of the land,It came to pass that, joined with Cytheraea,The black-browed Ares, chafing for the wrongUlysses did him on the plains of Troy,Set heart against the king; and when the stormsSang high in thunder and the Thracian rain,The god bethought him of a pale-mouthed priestOf Thebae, kin to ancient Chariclo,And of an omen which the prophet gaveThat touched on death and grief to Ithaca;Then, knowing how a heavy-handed fateHad laid itself on Circe’s brass-clad son,He pricked the hunter with a lust that turnedAll thoughts to travel and the seas remote;But chiefly now he stirred TelegonusTo longings for his father’s exiled face,And dreams of rest and honey-hearted loveAnd quiet death with much of funeral flameFar in the mountains of a favoured landBeyond the wars and wailings of the waves.
So, past the ridges where the coast abruptDips greyly westward, Circe’s strong-armed sonSwept down the foam of sharp-divided straitsAnd faced the stress of opening seas. Sheer outThe vessel drave; but three long moons the galeMoaned round; and swift, strong streams of fire revealedThe labouring rowers and the lightening surf,Pale watchers deafened of sonorous storm,And dipping decks and rents of ruined sails.Yea, when the hollow ocean-driven shipWheeled sideways, like a chariot cloven throughIn hard hot battle, and the night came upAgainst strange headlands lying east and north,Behold a black, wild wind with death to allRan shoreward, charged with flame and thunder-smoke,Which blew the waters into wastes of white,And broke the bark, as lightning breaks the pine;Whereat the sea in fearful circles showedUnpitied faces turned from Zeus and light—Wan swimmers wasted with their agony,And hopeless eyes and moaning mouths of men.But one held by the fragments of the wreck,And Ares knew him for Telegonus,Whom heavy-handed Fate had chained to deedsOf dreadful note with sin beyond a name.So, seeing this, the black-browed lord of war,Arrayed about by Jove’s authentic light,Shot down amongst the shattered clouds and calledWith mighty strain, betwixt the gaps of storm“Oceanus! Oceanus!” WhereatThe surf sprang white, as when a keel dividesThe gleaming centre of a gathered wave;And, ringed with flakes of splendid fire of foam,The son of Terra rose half-way and blewThe triple trumpet of the water-gods,At which great winds fell back and all the seaGrew dumb, as on the land a war-feast breaksWhen deep sleep falls upon the souls of men.Then Ares of the night-like brow made knownThe brass-clad hunter of the facile feet,Hard clinging to the slippery logs of pine,And told the omen to the hoary godThat touched on death and grief to Ithaca;Wherefore Oceanus, with help of hand,Bore by the chin the warrior of the North,A moaning mass, across the shallowing surge,And cast him on the rocks of alien shoresAgainst a wintry morning shot with storm.
Hear also, thou, how mighty gods sustainThe men set out to work the ends of FateWhich fill the world with tales of many tearsAnd vex the sad face of humanity:Six days and nights the brass-clad chief abodePent up in caverns by the straitening seasAnd fed on ferns and limpets; but the dawn,Before the strong sun of the seventh, broughtA fume of fire and smells of savoury meatAnd much rejoicing, as from neighbouring feasts;At which the hunter, seized with sudden lust,Sprang up the crags, and, like a dream of fear,Leapt, shouting, at a huddled host of hindsAmongst the fragments of their steaming food;And as the hoarse wood-wind in autumn sweepsTo every zone the hissing latter leaves,So fleet Telegonus, by dint of spearAnd strain of thunderous voice, did scatter theseEast, south, and north. ’Twas then the chief had rest,Hard by the outer coast of Ithaca,Unknown to him who ate the spoil and slept.Nor stayed he hand thereafter; but when noonBurned dead on misty hills of stunted fir,This man shook slumber from his limbs and spedAgainst hoar beaches and the kindled cliffsOf falling waters. These he waded through,Beholding, past the forests of the West,A break of light and homes of many men,And shining corn, and flowers, and fruits of flowers.Yea, seeing these, the facile-footed chiefGrasped by the knot the huge Aeaean lanceAnd fell upon the farmers; wherefore theyLeft hoe and plough, and crouched in heights remote,Companioned with the grey-winged fogs; but heMade waste their fields and throve upon their toil—As throve the boar, the fierce four-footed curseWhich Artemis did raise in CalydonTo make stern mouths wax white with foreign fear,All in the wild beginning of the world.
So one went down and told Laertes’ sonOf what the brass-clad stranger from the straitsHad worked in Ithaca; whereat the KingRose, like a god, and called his mighty heir,Telemachus, the wisest of the wise;And these two, having counsel, strode without,And armed them with the arms of warlike days—The helm, the javelin, and the sun-like shield,And glancing greaves and quivering stars of steel.Yea, stern Ulysses, rusted not with rest,But dread as Ares, gleaming on his carGave out the reins; and straightway all the landsWere struck by noise of steed and shouts of men,And furious dust, and splendid wheels of flame.Meanwhile the hunter (starting from a sleepIn which the pieces of a broken dreamHad shown him Circe with most tearful face),Caught at his spear, and stood like one at bayWhen Summer brings about Arcadian hornsAnd headlong horses mixt with maddened hounds;Then huge Ulysses, like a fire of fight,Sprang sideways on the flying car, and draveFull at the brass-clad warrior of the NorthHis massive spear; but fleet TelegonusStooped from the death, but heard the speedy lanceSing like a thin wind through the steaming air;Yet he, dismayed not by the dreadful foe—Unknown to him—dealt out his strength, and aimedA strenuous stroke at great Laertes’ son,Which missed the shield, but bit through flesh and bone,And drank the blood, and dragged the soul from thence.So fell the King! And one cried “Ithaca!Ah, Ithaca!” and turned his face and wept.Then came another—wise Telemachus—Who knelt beside the man of many daysAnd pored upon the face; but lo, the lifeWas like bright water spilt in sands of thirst,A wasted splendour swiftly drawn away.Yet held he by the dead: he heeded notThe moaning warrior who had learnt his sin—Who waited now, like one in lairs of pain,Apart with darkness, hungry for his fate;For had not wise Telemachus the loreWhich makes the pale-mouthed seer content to sleepAmidst the desolations of the world?So therefore he, who knew Telegonus,The child of Circe by Laertes’ son,Was set to be a scourge of Zeus, smote not,But rather sat with moody eyes, and mused,And watched the dead. For who may brave the gods?
Yet, O my fathers, when the people came,And brought the holy oils and perfect fire,And built the pile, and sang the tales of Troy—Of desperate travels in the olden time,By shadowy mountains and the roaring sea,Near windy sands and past the Thracian snows—The man who crossed them all to see his sire,And had a loyal heart to give the king,Instead of blows—this man did little moreThan moan outside the fume of funeral rites,All in a rushing twilight full of rain,And clap his palms for sharper pains than swords.Yea, when the night broke out against the flame,And lonely noises loitered in the fens,This man nor stirred nor slept, but lay at wait,With fastened mouth. For who may brave the gods?