“Crete is a region lying in the midst Of the black deep, a fair and fruitful land, Girt by the waters. Many are the men, Nay, numberless, who make it their abode, And ninety are its cities. Different tongues Are spoken by the dwellers of the isle. In part they are Achaians, and in part Are Cretans of the soil, a gallant stock; There dwell Cydonians, Dorians of three tribes, And proud Pelasgians. Their great capital Is Knossos, where the monarch Minos dwelt, He who at every nine years’ end conferred With Jove almighty; and to him was born Deucalion, my brave father, who begat Me and Idomeneus, the King of Crete. To Ilium in his beaked galleys sailed Idomeneus with Atreus’ sons. My name— A name well known—is Aethon. ’Twas at Crete I saw Ulysses, who received from me The welcome due a guest. A violent wind Had driven him from Maleia and the course That led to Ilium, and had carried him To Crete, and lodged him in the dangerous port Amnisus, close to Ilithyia’s cave, Where scarce his fleet escaped the hurricane. Thence came he to the city, and inquired For King Idomeneus, who was, he said, His dear and honored guest; but he had sailed Ten days before, perhaps eleven, for Troy, In his beaked galleys. To the palace there I led Ulysses, and with liberal cheer Welcomed the chief, for plentifully stored The royal dwelling was. I also gave Meal from the public magazines to him And those who followed him, and dark red wine Brought from the country round, and beeves to slay In sacrifice, that so their hearts might feel No lack of aught. Twelve days the noble Greeks Remained with us. A violent north-wind, Which scarcely suffered them to stand upright On shore, withstood them. Some unfriendly power Had bid it blow; but on the thirteenth day Its fury ceased, and the fleet put to sea.”
Thus went he on, inventing tales that seemed Like truth. She listened, melting into tears That flowed as when on mountain height the snow, Shed by the west-wind, feels the east-wind’s breath, And flows in water,