Poetical works of the late F. Sayers to which have been prefixed the connected disquisitions on the rise and progress of English poetry, and on English metres, and also some biographic particulars of the author, supplied by W. Taylor |
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| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. | [Act 3] |
| 4. |
| 5. |
 | Poetical works of the late F. Sayers |  |
218
[Act 3]
ULYSSES, CHORUS.ULYSSES.
O mighty Jove! within th' accursed cell
I've seen a sight which man can scarcely credit;
It is not human—
CHORUS.
Has the hated Cyclops
Devour'd your friends?—
ULYSSES.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Two have already suffer'd, and the rest,
Trembling like birds, now sculk within his cave.
I dar'd to approach the monster—waited on him,
And when I found his hunger was appeas'd,
A thought came 'cross me—strait I fill'd a cup
With potent wine, and gave it him to drink;
Take this, I said, this is the luscious juice
That Greece produces, and that Bacchus doats on;
The Cyclops, gorg'd with flesh, receiv'd the cup
And drain'd it at one draught—dear guest, cries he,
Thou giv'st me liquor worthy of my banquet!
While he still smack'd his lips, I carried to him
219
Would do its duty—strait he 'gan to sing—
Cup after cup he drain'd—I plied him well—
He's hot enough—and now, amidst my friends,
He makes the cavern echo to his shouts
And uncouth songs—I silently stole off—
Fain would I save myself, and you too, satyrs;
Say, will you quit the wretch, and sport again
I'the courts of Bacchus and the Danaides?
Your father there within approves my counsel,
But he is weak and tottering, and he clings
Close to the cup, as if he stuck by bird-lime—
Ye are both young and active—join me then,
And seek your former master, Bromius.
CHORUS.
Ah! my good man, would I might see the day
When I shall fairly 'scape the monster's clutches!
Here is no music—all is dead and joyless—
But we have no resource.
ULYSSES.
You have, my friend,
Hear but my plan—severely will I punish
This hated beast, and give you liberty.
CHORUS.
Say how? with keener joy I'd hear his groans
Than the soft tinkling of the harp of Asias.
220
The Cyclops, hot with wine, will long to join
His brethren at their feasts—
CHORUS.
I understand you,
And we must watch his steps—catch him alone,
And strangle him, or hurl him from the rocks.
ULYSSES.
I mean not that—our work is not so plain.
CHORUS.
How then? long, long ago we've heard, Ulysses,
The rumour of your cunning.
ULYSSES.
Thus, then, satyrs;
I will persuade him not to quit his home;
I'll tell him he'd be mad to share his wine
With any other Cyclops—here I'll fix him—
And when the potent god has laid him low,
I'll sharpen some huge stake, and fire its point,
And as the shipwright bores with whirling auger,
So will we bore, with the still-flaming shaft,
The eye of Polypheme.
CHORUS.
'T is well—'t is well.
ULYSSES.
When we've thus blinded him, yourself, your father,
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And row away most merrily.
CHORUS.
O glorious!
But say, Ulysses, will you need our aid
To twirl the stake?
ULYSSES.
Yes truly—'t will be weighty.
CHORUS.
O! I would work like fifty carts and horses,
Could I but blind the dog, and root out thoroughly
That wasp's-nest eye of his—
ULYSSES.
Be silent now—
When I command, be ready—tho' I've quitted
My friends within, and might escape alone,
Yet I should scorn to do it; we will live
Or die together.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Who first, who last shall seize
The burning brand,
And plunge its fiery point,
Within the radiant orb?
SEMI-CHORUS.
Hark, hark, I hear within
The sound of song;
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The minstrel rude—
Lo! from the rocky cave,
Th' unwieldy Cyclops reels;
O haste, and join his strains.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Happy, happy, happy he
Who quaffs the luscious juice,
Happy in the purple flood
That sparkling flows around!
How sweet, on downy turf reclin'd,
To laugh the summer hours away
With her we love!
How sweet, by Bacchus fir'd, to trace
The winning graces of her form,
To mark the down-cast, beamy eye,
And catch the fragrance of her breath!
END OF ACT THE THIRD.
| Poetical works of the late F. Sayers | |