Pascoli is now occupied on a translation, in hexameters, of the Homeric poems; and will shortly publish the glottological studies and the experiments by which he has prepared himself for his task. That he is capable of treating Greek subjects with Greek directness and simplicity, and without any affectation of Greek forms (a pitfall into which D’Annunzio continually stumbles) will be seen in the poem which closes this paper.
The Sleep of Odysseus.
I.
Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,
Wind-borne, helm-guided, while the creaking ropes
Were governed by Odysseus’ cunning hand;
Nor—wearied—did he yield them, for the wind
Bore him on ever toward his country dear.
Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,
The hero’s eye seeking unwaveringly
The rocky isle ’mid the blue-twinkling waves:
Content if, ere he died, he saw again
Its smoke-wreaths rising blue into the air.
The tenth day, where the ninth day’s setting sun
Had vanished in a blinding blaze of gold,
He, peering, saw a shapeless blot of black:
Cloud was’t he saw, or land? And his grave eye
Swam, conquered by the sweetness of the dawn.
Far off Odysseus’ heart was rapt by sleep.
II.
And, moving towards the ship’s swift flight, it seemed,
Behold a land! that nearer, nearer sailed
In misty blue, ’mid the blue-twinkling waves.
Anon a purple peak that stormed the sky;
Then down the peak the frothing gullies leaped
’mid tufts of bristling brushwood and bare rock;
And on its spurs sprang into view long rows
Of vines; and at its feet the verdant fields
Fleecy with shimmering blades of new-sprung grain,
Till it stood out entire—a rocky isle,
Harsh, and not pasture fit for neighing steed,
Altho’ good nurse for oxen and wild goats.
And here and there, upon the airy peaks,
Died, in the clearness of the wakening dawn,
The herdsmen’s fires: and here and there shot up
The morning swirl of smoke from Ithaca—
His home at last—! But King Odysseus’ heart
Floating profound in sleep, beheld it not.
III.
And lo! upon the prow o’ the hollow ship
Like angry gulls, words fly; like screaming birds
With hissing flight. The forward-straining ship
Was coasting then the high peak of The Crow
And the well-circled fount, and one could hear
The rooting of the boar-pigs; then a pen
Of ample girth appeared, with mighty rocks,
Well-builded, walled around, and hedged about
With wild-pear and with hawthorn all a-bloom.
The godlike herdsman of the boar-pigs, next,
Upon the seashore, with sharp-edgèd axe
Spoiled of its bitter bark an oakling strong,
And cut great stakes to strengthen that fair pen,
With harsh and gleaming axe-bites. Fitfully
Amid the water’s wash, came o’er the sea
The hoarse pant of his strokes—that herdsman good—
Faithful Eumæus—But Odysseus’ heart,
Sunk deep in slumber, heard them not at all.
IV.
And now above the ship, from prow to stern,
The sailors’ furious words like arrows sped
In shuddering flight. The eager-homing ship
Abreast the harbour of Phorkyne sailed.
Ahead of it stood out the olive tree,
Large, goodly-boughed; and near to it a cave,
A cave sonorous with much-busied bees
As they in wine-bowls and in jars of stone
Perform sweet task of honey. One could see
The stony street o’ the town; the houses white
Climbing the hill; distinguish, ’mid the green
Of water-loving alders, the fair fount,
The altar white, the high-raised, goodly roof—
Odysseus’ high-raised steading. Now, perchance,
The shuttle whistled through the warp, and ’neath
The weary fingers grew again the web
Ample, immortal.—Yet, nor saw, nor heard
Odysseus’ mighty heart, quite lost in sleep.
V.