“Heavens! how uncertain are the powers on high!

Is then reversed the sentence of the sky,

In one man’s favour; while a distant guest

I shared secure the Æthiopian feast?

Behold how near Phæacia’s land he draws;

The land affix’d by Fate’s eternal laws

To end his toils. Is then our anger vain?

No; if this sceptre yet commands the main.”


He spoke, and high the forky trident hurl’d,

Rolls clouds on clouds, and stirs the watery world,

At once the face of earth and sea deforms,

Swells all the winds, and rouses all the storms.

Down rushed the night: east, west, together roar;

And south and north roll mountains to the shore.

Then shook the hero, to despair resign’d,

And question’d thus his yet unconquer’d mind;


“Wretch that I am! what farther fates attend

This life of toils, and what my destined end?

Too well, alas! the island goddess knew

On the black sea what perils should ensue.

New horrors now this destined head inclose;

Untill’d is yet the measure of my woes;

With what a cloud the brows of heaven are crown’d;

What raging winds! what roaring waters round!

’Tis Jove himself the swelling tempest rears;

Death, present death, on every side appears.

Happy! thrice happy! who, in battle slain,

Press’d in Atrides’ cause the Trojan plain!

Oh! had I died before that well-fought wall!

Had some distinguish’d day renown’d my fall

(Such as was that when showers of javelins fled

From conquering Troy around Achilles dead),

All Greece had paid me solemn funerals then,

And spread my glory with the sons of men.

A shameful fate now hides my hapless head,

Unwept, unnoted, and for ever dead!”


A mighty wave rush’d o’er him as he spoke,

The raft is cover’d, and the mast is broke;

Swept from the deck and from the rudder torn,

Far on the swelling surge the chief was borne;

While by the howling tempest rent in twain

Flew sail and sail-yards rattling o’er the main.