And the pomegranate, and the apple tree
With its fair fruitage, and the luscious fig
And olive always green. The fruit they bear
Falls not, nor ever fails in winter time
Nor summer, but is yielded all the year.
The ever blowing west wind causes some
To swell and some to ripen; pear succeeds
To pear; to apple apple, grape to grape,
Fig ripens after fig. A fruitful field
Of vines was planted near; in part it lay
Open and basking in the sun, which dried
The soil, and here men gathered in the grapes,
And there they trod the wine-press. Farther on
Were grapes unripened yet, which just had cast
The flower, and others still which just began
To redden. At the garden's furthest bound
Were beds of many plants that all the year
Bore flowers. There gushed two fountains: one
of them
Ran wandering through the field; the other flowed
Beneath the threshold to the palace-court,
And all the people filled their vessels there.
Such were the blessings which the gracious gods
Bestowed on King Alcinoüs and his house.
(From The Odyssey, Book XIII)
Φόρκυνος δέ τις ἔστι λιμὴν ἁλίοιο γέροντος
ἐν δήμῳ Ἰθάκης, δύο δὲ προβλῆτες ἐν αὐτῷ
ἀκταὶ ἀπορρώγες, λιμένος ποτιπεπτηυίαι,
αἵ τ ̓ ἀνέμων σκεπόωσι δυσαήων μέγα κύμα
ἔκτοθεν· ἔντοσθεν δέ τ ̓ ἄνευ δεσμοῖο μένουσιν
νῆες ἐύσσελμοι, ὅτ ̓ ἂν ὅρμου μέτρον ἵκωνται.
αὐτὰρ ἐπὶ κρατὸς λιμένος τανύφυλλος ἐλαίη,
ἀγχόθι δ ̓ αὐτῆς ἄντρον ἐπήρατον ἠεροειδές,
ἱρὸν νυμφάων, αἳ νηιάδες καλέονται.
ἐν δὲ κρητηρές τε καὶ ἀμφιφορες ἔασιν
λάινοι· ἔνθα δ ̓ ἔπειτα τιθαιβώσσουσι μέλισσαι.
ἐν δ ̓ ἱστοὶ λίθεοι περιμήκεις, ἔνθα τε νύμφαι
φάρε ̓ ὑφαίνουσιν ἁλιπόρφυρα, θαῦμα ἰδέσθαι·
ἐν δ ̓ ὕδατ ̓ αἰενάοντα. δύω δέ τέ οἱ θύραι εἰσίν,
αἱ μὲν πρὸς Βορέαο καταιβαταὶ ἀνθρώποισιν,
αἱ δ ̓ αὖ πρὸς Νότου εἰσὶ θεώτεραι, οὐδέ τι κείνῃ
ἄνδρες ἐσέρχονται, ἀλλ ̓ ἀθανάτων ὁδός ἐστιν.
ἔνθ ̓ οἷ γ ̓ εἰσέλασαν πρὶν εἰδότες. ἡ μὲν ἔπειτα ἠπείρῳ ἐπέκελσεν, ὅσον τ ̓ ἐπὶ ἥμισυ πάσης, σπερχομένη· τοῖον γὰρ ἐπείγετο χέρσ ̓ ἐρετάων·
(From The Odyssey, Book XIII)
PORT there is in Ithaca, the haunt
Of Phorcys, Ancient of the Sea. Steep shores Stretch inward toward each other, and roll
The mighty surges which the hoarse winds hurl
Against them from the ocean, while within
Ships ride without their hawsers when they once
Have passed the haven's mouth. An olive tree
With spreading branches at the farther end
Of that fair haven stands, and overbrows
A pleasant shady grotto of the nymphs
Called Naiads. Cups and jars of stone are ranged
Within, and bees lay up their honey there.
There from their spindles wrought of stone the
nymphs
Weave their sea-purple robes, which all behold
With wonder; there are ever flowing springs.
Two are the entrances: one toward the north
By which men enter; but a holier one
Looks toward the south, nor ever mortal foot
May enter there. By that way pass the gods.
They touched the land, for well they knew the
spot.
The galley, urged so strongly by the arms
Of those who plied the oar, ran up the beach
Quite half her length. And then the crew came forth
οἱ δ ̓ ἐκ νηὸς βάντες ἐυζύγου ήπειρόνδε
πρῶτον Οδυσσήα γλαφυρῆς ἐκ νηὸς ἄειραν
αὐτῷ σύν τε λίνῳ καὶ ῥήγεϊ σιγαλόεντι,
κὰδ δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ ἐπὶ ψαμάθῳ ἔθεσαν δεδμημένον ὕπνῳ,
ἐκ δὲ χρήματ ̓ ἄειραν, ὦ οἱ Φαίηκες ἀγαυοὶ
ὤπασαν οἴκαδ ̓ ἰόντι διὰ μεγάθυμον ̓Αθήνην.
καὶ τὰ μὲν οὖν παρὰ πυθμέν ̓ ἐλαίης ἁθρόα θῆκαν
ἐκτὸς ὁδοῦ, μή πώ τις ὁδιτάων ἀνθρώπων,
πρὶν Ὀδυσῆ ἔγρεσθαι, ἐπελθὼν δηλήσαιτο·
αὐτοὶ δ ̓ αὖτ ̓ οἰκόνδε πάλιν κίον.
WAS on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar: A spot he longed to see, nor cared to leave: Oft did he mark the scenes of vanished war, Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial wight.
From the good ship, and first they lifted out
Ulysses with the linen and rich folds
Of tapestry, and laid him on the sands
In a deep slumber. Then they also took
The presents from the hold, which, as he left
Their isle, the princes of Phæacia gave
By counsel of wise Pallas. These they piled
Close to the olive-tree, without the way,
That none, in passing, ere Ulysses woke,
Might do their owner wrong. Then homeward sailed the crew.
But when he saw the evening star above Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, And hailed the last resort of fruitless love, He felt, or deemed he felt, no common glow; And as the stately vessel glided slow Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, He watched the billows' melancholy flow, And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, More placid seemed his eye, and smooth his pallid
|