“The Argus-queller spake, and plucked from earth The potent plant and handed it to me, And taught me all its powers. The root is black, The blossom white as milk. Among the gods Its name is Moly; hard it is for men To dig it up; the gods find nothing hard.
“Back through the woody island Hermes went Toward high Olympus, while I took my way To Circè’s halls, yet with a beating heart. There, as I stood beneath the portico Of that bright-haired divinity, I called Aloud; the goddess heard my voice and came, And threw at once the shining doors apart, And prayed me to come in. I followed her, Yet grieving still. She led me in and gave A seat upon a silver-studded throne, Beautiful, nobly wrought, and placed beneath A footstool, and prepared a mingled draught Within a golden chalice, and infused A drug with mischievous intent. She gave The cup; I drank it off; the charm wrought not, And then she smote me with her wand and said:— ‘Go to the sty, and with thy fellows sprawl.’
“She spake; but drawing forth the trusty sword Upon my thigh, I rushed at her as if To take her life. She shrieked and, stooping low, Ran underneath my arm and clasped my knees, And uttered piteously these winged words:—
“ ‘Who art thou? of what race and of what land, And who thy parents? I am wonder-struck To see that thou couldst drink that magic juice And yield not to its power. No living man, Whoever he might be, that tasted once Those drugs, or passed them o’er his lips, has yet Withstood them. In thy breast a spirit dwells Not to be thus subdued. Art thou not then Ulysses, master of wise stratagems, Whose coming hither, on his way from Troy, In his black galley, oft has been foretold By Hermes of the golden wand? But sheathe Thy sword and share my couch, that, joined in love, Each may hereafter trust the other’s faith.’