Betray’d me tumbling from a towery height:

Staggering I reel’d, and as I reel’d I fell,

Lux’d the neck-joint—my soul descends to hell.

But lend me aid, I now conjure thee lend,

By the soft tie and sacred name of friend!

By thy fond consort! by thy father’s cares!

By loved Telemachus’ blooming years?

For well I know that soon the heavenly powers

Will give thee back to-day, and Circe’s shores:

There pious on my cold remains attend,

There call to mind thy poor departed friend.

The tribute of a tear is all I crave,

And the possession of a peaceful grave.

But if, unheard, in vain compassion plead,

Revere the gods. The gods avenge the dead!

A tomb along the watery margin raise,

The tomb with manly arms and trophies grace,

To show posterity Elpenor was.

There high in air, memorial of my name,

Fix the smooth oar, and bid me live to fame.’


“To whom with tears: ‘These rites, O mournful shade,

Due to thy ghost, shall to thy ghost be paid.’


“Still as I spoke the phantom seem’d to moan,

Tear follow’d tear, and groan succeeded groan.

But, as my waving sword the blood surrounds,

The shade withdrew, and mutter’d empty sounds.


“There as the wondrous visions I survey’d,

All pale ascends my royal mother’s shade:

A queen, to Troy she saw our legions pass;

Now a thin form is all Anticlea was!

Struck at the sight I melt with filial woe,

And down my cheek the pious sorrows flow,

Yet as I shook my falchion o’er the blood,

Regardless of her son the parent stood.


“When lo! the mighty Theban I behold,

To guide his steps he bore a staff of gold;

Awful he trod; majestic was his look!

And from his holy lips these accents broke:


“‘Why, mortal, wanderest thou from cheerful day,

To tread the downward, melancholy way?

What angry gods to these dark regions led

Thee, yet alive, companion of the dead?

But sheathe thy poniard, while my tongue relates

Heaven’s steadfast purpose, and thy future fates.’