Sirens, Scylla, Charybdis

6“ ‘Thus far is well; now needfully attend
To what I say, and may some deity
Help you remember it! You first will come
To where the Sirens haunt. They throw a spell
Over all who pass that way. If unawares
One finds himself so nigh that he can hear
Their voices, round him nevermore shall wife
And lisping children gather, welcoming
His safe return with joy. The Sirens sit
In a green field, and charm with mellow notes
The comer, while beside them lie in heaps
The bones of men decaying underneath
The shrivelled skins. Take heed and pass them by.
First fill with wax well kneaded in the palm
The ears of your companions, that no sound
May enter. Hear the music, if you will,
But let your people bind you, hand and foot,
To the good ship, upright against the mast,
And round it wind the cord, that you may hear
The ravishing notes. But should you then entreat
Your men, commanding them to set you free,
Let them be charged to bind you yet more fast
With added bands. And when they shall have passed
The Sirens by, I will not judge for you
Which way to take; consider for yourself;
I tell you of two ways. There is a pile
Of beetling rocks, where roars the mighty surge
Of dark-eyed Amphitrite; these are called
The Wanderers by the blessed gods. No birds
Can pass them safe, not even the timid doves,
Which bear ambrosia to our father Zeus,
But ever does the slippery rock take off
Someone, whose loss the God at once supplies,
To keep their number full. To these no barque
Guided by man has ever come, and left
The spot unwrecked; the billows of the deep
And storms of fire in air have scattered wide
Timbers of ships and bodies of drowned men.
One only of the barques that plough the deep
Has passed them safely —Argo, known to all
By fame, when coming from Aeaeta home —
And her the billows would have dashed against
The enormous rocks, if Hera, for the sake
Of Jason, had not come to guide it through.

7“ ‘Two are the rocks; one lifts to the broad heaven
Its pointed summit, where a dark gray cloud
Broods, and withdraws not; never is the sky
Clear over that peak, not even in summer days
Or autumn; nor can man ascend its steeps,
Or venture down —so smooth the sides, as if
Man’s art had polished them. There in the midst
Upon the western side toward Erebus
There yawns a shadowy cavern; thither you,
Noble Odysseus, steer your barque, yet keep
So far aloof that, standing on the deck,
A youth might send an arrow from a bow
Just to the cavern’s mouth. There Scylla dwells,
And fills the air with fearful yells; her voice
The cry of whelps just littered, but herself
A frightful prodigy —a sight which none
Would care to look on, though he were a god.
Twelve feet are hers, all shapeless; six long necks,
A hideous head on each, and triple rows
Of teeth, close set and many, threatening death.
And half her form is in the cavern’s womb,
And forth from that dark gulf her heads are thrust,
To look abroad upon the rocks for prey —
Dolphin, or dogfish, or the mightier whale,
Such as the murmuring Amphitrite breeds
In multitudes. No mariner can boast
That he has passed by Scylla with a crew
Unharmed; she snatches from the deck, and bears
Away in each grim mouth, a living man.

8“ ‘Another rock, Odysseus, you will see,
Of lower height, so near her that a spear,
Cast by the hand, might reach it. On it grows
A huge wild fig-tree with luxuriant leaves.
Below, Charybdis, of immortal birth,
Draws the dark water down; for thrice a day
She gives it forth, and thrice with fearful whirl
She draws it in. O, be it not your lot
To come while the dark water rushes down!
Even Poseidon could not then deliver you.
Then turn your course with speed toward Scylla’s rock,
And pass that way; it were better far that six
Should perish from the ship than all be lost’