“And now the moon had run her monthly round,
The south-east blustering with a dreadful sound: 
Unhurt the beeves, untouch’d the woolly train,
Low through the grove, or touch the flowery plain: 
Then fail’d our food:  then fish we make our prey,
Or fowl that screaming haunt the watery way. 
Till now from sea or flood no succour found,
Famine and meagre want besieged us round. 
Pensive and pale from grove to grove I stray’d,
From the loud storms to find a sylvan shade;
There o’er my hands the living wave I pour;
And Heaven and Heaven’s immortal thrones implore,
To calm the roarings of the stormy main,
And guide me peaceful to my realms again. 
Then o’er my eyes the gods soft slumbers shed,
While thus Eurylochus arising said: 

“’O friends, a thousand ways frail mortals lead
To the cold tomb, and dreadful all to tread;
But dreadful most, when by a slow decay
Pale hunger wastes the manly strength away. 
Why cease ye then to implore the powers above,
And offer hecatombs to thundering Jove? 
Why seize ye not yon beeves, and fleecy prey? 
Arise unanimous; arise and slay! 
And if the gods ordain a safe return,
To Phoebus shrines shall rise, and altars burn. 
But should the powers that o’er mankind preside
Decree to plunge us in the whelming tide,
Better to rush at once to shades below
Than linger life away, and nourish woe.’

“Thus he:  the beeves around securely stray,
When swift to ruin they invade the prey;
They seize, they kill!—­but for the rite divine. 
The barley fail’d, and for libations wine. 
Swift from the oak they strip the shady pride;
And verdant leaves the flowery cake supplied.

“With prayer they now address the ethereal train,
Slay the selected beeves, and flay the slain;
The thighs, with fat involved, divide with art,
Strew’d o’er with morsels cut from every part. 
Water, instead of wine, is brought in urns,
And pour’d profanely as the victim burns. 
The thighs thus offer’d, and the entrails dress’d,
They roast the fragments, and prepare the feast.

“’Twas then soft slumber fled my troubled brain;
Back to the bark I speed along the main. 
When lo! an odour from the feast exhales,
Spreads o’er the coast and scents the tainted gales;
A chilly fear congeal’d my vital blood,
And thus, obtesting Heaven, I mourn’d aloud;

“’O sire of men and gods, immortal Jove! 
O all ye blissful powers that reign above! 
Why were my cares beguiled in short repose? 
O fatal slumber, paid with lasting woes! 
A deed so dreadful all the gods alarms,
Vengeance is on the wing, and Heaven in arms!’

“Meantime Lampetie mounts the aerial way,
And kindles into rage the god of day;

“’Vengeance, ye powers (he cries), and then whose hand
Aims the red bolt, and hurls the writhen brand! 
Slain are those herds which I with pride survey,
When through the ports of heaven I pour the day,
Or deep in ocean plunge the burning ray. 
Vengeance, ye gods! or I the skies forego,
And bear the lamp of heaven to shades below.’