The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase. Джозеф Аддисон

belches molten stones and ruddy flame,

        Incensed, or tears up mountains by the roots,

        Or slings a broken rock aloft in air.

        The bottom works with smothered fire involved

        In pestilential vapours, stench, and smoke.

           'Tis said, that thunder-struck Enceladus

        Groveling beneath the incumbent mountain's weight,

        Lies stretched supine, eternal prey of flames;

        And, when he heaves against the burning load,

        Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,

        A sudden earthquake shoots through all the isle,

        And Ætna thunders dreadful under-ground,

        Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls convolved,

        And shades the sun's bright orb, and blots out day.

           Here in the shelter of the woods we lodged,

        And frighted heard strange sounds and dismal yells,

        Nor saw from whence they came; for all the night

        A murky storm deep lowering o'er our heads

        Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom

        Opposed itself to Cynthia's silver ray,

        And shaded all beneath. But now the sun

        With orient beams had chased the dewy night

        From earth and heaven; all nature stood disclosed:

        When, looking on the neighbouring woods, we saw

        The ghastly visage of a man unknown,

        An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild;

        Affliction's foul and terrible dismay

        Sat in his looks, his face, impaired and worn

        With marks of famine, speaking sore distress;

        His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard

        Matted with filth; in all things else a Greek.

           He first advanced in haste; but, when he saw

        Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career

        Stopp'd short, he back recoiled as one surprised:

        But soon recovering speed he ran, he flew

        Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries

        Our ears assailed: 'By heaven's eternal fires,

        By every god that sits enthroned on high,

        By this good light, relieve a wretch forlorn,

        And bear me hence to any distant shore,

        So I may shun this savage race accursed.

        'Tis true I fought among the Greeks that late

        With sword and fire o'erturned Neptunian Troy

        And laid the labours of the gods in dust;

        For which, if so the sad offence deserves,

        Plunged in the deep, for ever let me lie

        Whelmed under seas; if death must be my doom,

        Let man inflict it, and I die well-pleased.'

           He ended here, and now profuse to tears

        In suppliant mood fell prostrate at our feet:

        We bade him speak from whence and what he was,

        And how by stress of fortune sunk thus low;

        Anchises too, with friendly aspect mild,

        Gave him his hand, sure pledge of amity;

        When, thus encouraged, he began his tale.

           'I'm one,' says he, 'of poor descent; my name

        Is Achæmenides, my country Greece;

        Ulysses' sad compeer, who, whilst he fled

        The raging Cyclops, left me here behind,

        Disconsolate, forlorn; within the cave

        He left me, giant Polypheme's dark cave;

        A dungeon wide and horrible, the walls

        On all sides furred with mouldy damps, and hung

        With clots of ropy gore, and human limbs,

        His dire repast: himself of mighty size,

        Hoarse in his voice, and in his visage grim,

        Intractable, that riots on the flesh

        Of mortal men, and swills the vital blood.

        Him did I see snatch up with horrid grasp

        Two sprawling Greeks, in either hand a man;

        I saw him when with huge, tempestuous sway

        He dashed and broke them on the grundsil edge;

        The pavement swam in blood, the walls around

        Were spattered o'er with brains. He lapp'd the blood,

        And chewed the tender flesh still warm with life,

        That swelled and heaved itself amidst his teeth

        As sensible of pain. Not less meanwhile

        Our chief, incensed and studious of revenge,

        Plots his destruction, which he thus effects.

        The giant, gorged with flesh, and wine, and blood,

        Lay stretched at length and snoring in his den,

        Belching raw gobbets from his maw, o'ercharged

        With purple wine and cruddled gore confused.

        We gathered round, and to his single eye,

        The single eye that in his forehead glared

        Like a full moon, or a broad burnished shield,

        A forky staff we dexterously applied,

        Which, in the spacious socket turning round,

        Scooped out the big round jelly from its orb.

        But let me not thus interpose delays;

        Fly, mortals, fly this cursed, detested race:

        A hundred of the same stupendous size,

        A hundred Cyclops live among the hills,

        Gigantic brotherhood, that stalk along

        With horrid strides o'er the high mountains' tops,

        Enormous in their gait; I oft have heard

        Their voice and tread, oft seen them as they passed,

        Sculking and cowering down, half dead with fear.

        Thrice has the moon washed all her orb in light,

        Thrice travelled o'er, in her obscure sojourn,

        The realms of night inglorious, since I've lived

        Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns and shrubs

        A wretched sustenance.' As thus he spoke,

        We saw descending from a neighbouring hill

        Blind Polypheme; by weary steps and slow

        The groping giant with a trunk of pine

        Explored his way; around, his woolly flocks

        Attended grazing; to the well-known