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Here in the shelter of the woods we lodged, And frighted heard strange sounds and dismal yells, Nor saw from whence they came; for all the night A murky storm deep lowering o'er our heads Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom Opposed itself to Cynthia's silver ray, And shaded all beneath. But now the sun With orient beams had chased the dewy night From earth and heaven; all Nature stood disclosed; When looking on the neighbouring woods we saw The ghastly visage of a man unknown, An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and wild; Affliction's foul and terrible dismay Sat in his looks, his face impair’d and worn With marks of famine, speaking sore distress ; His locks were tangled, and his shaggy beard Matted with filth ; in all things else a Greek.

He first advanced in haste; but when he saw Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career Stopp'd short, he back recoild as one surprised; But soon recovering speed, he ran, he flew Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries Our ears assail'd: ‘By Heaven's eternal fires ! By every god that sits enthroned on high! By this good light! relieve a wretch forlorn, And bear me hence to any distant shore, So I may shun this savage race accursed. 'Tis true I fought among the Greeks that late With sword and fire o’erturn’d Neptunian Troy, And laid the labour of the gods in dust; For which, if so the sad offence deserves, Plunged in the deep, for ever let me lie Whelm’d under seas; if death must be my doom, Let man inflict it, and I die well pleased.

He ended here, and now, profuse of tears, In suppliant mood fell prostrate at our feet: Webade him speak from whence, and what he was, And how by stress of fortune sunk thus low. Anchises, too, with friendly aspect mild, Gave him his hand, sure pledge of amity ; When, thus encouraged, he began his tale.

• I'm one, (says he) of poor descent, my name Is Achæmenides, my country Greece, Ulysses' sad compeer, who, whilst he fled The raging Cyclops, left me here behind Disconsolate, forlorn; within the cave He left me, giant Polypheme's dark cave; A dungeon wide and horrible, the walls On all sides furred with mouldy damps, and hung With clots of ropy gore, and human limbs, His dire repast: himself of mighty size, Hoarse in his voice, and in his visage grim, Intractable, that riots on the flesh Of mortal men, and swills the vital blood. Him did I see snatch

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with horrid grasp Two sprawling Greeks, in either hand a man; I saw him when with huge tempestuous sway He dash'd and broke them on the grundsil edge; The pavement swam in blood, the walls around Were spatter'do'er with brains: he lapp'd the blood, And chew'd the tender flesh still warm with life, That swell’d and heaved itself amidst his teeth As sensible of pain. Not less, meanwhile, Our chief incensed, and studious of revenge, Plots bis destruction, which he thus effects : The giant, gorged with flesh, and wine, and blood, Lay stretch'd at length and snoring in his den, Belching raw gobbets from his maw, o'ercharged

With purple wine and crudled gore confused:
We gather'd round, and to his single eye,
The single eye that in his forehead glared
Like a full moon, or a broad burnish'd shield,
A forky staff we dexterously apply'd,
Which in the spacious socket turning round,
Scoop'd out the big round jelly from its orb.
But let me not thus interpose delays;
Fly, Mortals ! fy this cursed detested race;
A hundred of the same stupendous size,
A hundred Cyclops live among the hills,
Gigantic brotherhood, that stalk along
With horrid strides o'er the high mountains' tops,
Enormous in their gait; I oft have heard
Their voice and tread, oft seen them as they pass’d,
Sculking and scow'ring down, half dead with fear.
Thrice has the moon wash'd all her orb in light,
Thrice trayell’d o'er, in her obscure sojourn,
The realms of Night inglorious, since I've lived
Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns and

shrubs
A wretched sustenance. As thus he spoke,
We saw descending from a neighbouring hill
Blind Polypheme: by weary steps and slow
The groping giant with a trunk of pine
Explored his way; around his woolly flocks
Attended grazing; to the well-known shore
He bent his course, and on the margin stood,
A hideous monster, terrible, deform’d:
Full in the midst of his high front there gaped
The spacious hollow where his eyeball rolld,
A ghastly orifice; he rinsed the wound,
And wash'd away the strings and clotted blood
That caked within ; then stalking through the deep
He fords the ocean, while the topmost wave
Scarce reaches up his middle side: we stood
Amazed be sure; a sudden horror chill
Ran through each nerve, and thrill'd in every vein,
Till using all the force of winds and oars
We sped away: he heard us in our course,
And with his outstretch'd arms around him groped,
But finding nought within his reach, he raised
Such hideous shouts, that all the ocean shook;
Even Italy, though many a league remote,
In distant echoes answer’d; Ætna roar'd,
Through all its inmost winding caverns roar’d.

Roused with the sound, the mighty family
Of one-eyed brothers, hasten to the shore,
And gather round the bellowing Polypheme,
A dire assembly! we with eager

haste Work every one, and from afar behold A host of giants covering all the shore.

So stands a forest tall of mountain oaks
Advanced to mighty growth: the traveller
Hears from the humble valley where he rides
The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow
Amidst the boughs, and at the distance sees
The shady tops of trees unnumber'd rise,
A stately prospect, waving in the clouds.

POEMATA.

HONORATISSIMO VIRO

CAROLO MONTAGU ARMIGERO, SCACCHARII CANCELLARIO, ÆRARII PRÆ

FECTO, REGI A SECRETIORIBUS CONSILIIS, ETC.

Cum tanta auribus tuis obstrepat vatum nequissimorum turba, nihil est cur queraris aliquid inusitatum tibi contigisse, ubi præclarum hoc argumentum meis etiam numeris violatum conspexeris. Quantum virtute bellicâ præstant Britanni, recens ex rebus gestis testatur gloria ; quàm verò in humanioribus Pacis studiis non emiņeamus, indicio sunt quos nuper in lucem emisimus versiculi. Quod si Congrevius ille tuus divino, quo solet, furore correptus materiam hanc non exornasset, vix tanti esset ipsa Pax, ut illâ lætaremur tot perditissimis Poëtis tam miserè decantata. At, dum alios insector, mei ipsius oblitus fuisse videor, qui haud minores forsan ex Latinis tibi molestias allaturus sum, quàm quas illi ex vernaculis suis carminibus attulerunt; nisi quod inter ipsos cruciatus lenimentum aliquod dolori tribuat tormenti varietas. Nec quidem unquam adduci possem, ut poëma patrio sermone conscriptum oculis tuis subjicerem, qui ab istis conatibus cæteros omnes scribendo non minùs deterres, quam favendo excitaveris.

Humanitatis tuæ
Cultor devotissimus,

JOSEPHUS ADDISON.

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