Which Translation: The Odyssey

H. E. Bates

1929 · Tetrameter verse

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Biography

Herbert Bates (1868-1929) was an American educator who served as Instructor in English at the University of Nebraska. He spent his career editing school editions of literary classics for Longmans, Macmillan, and American Book Company, and was affiliated with the National Council of Teachers of English. He also published a volume of original poetry, Songs of Exile (1896).

Bates rendered the Odyssey in iambic tetrameter rather than the more common pentameter, arguing in his introduction that Homer’s dactylic hexameters produce heavy, plodding lines in English and that a shorter line better captures the speed of the original Greek. The translation is abridges some passages and skips most of the Telemachy (Books 1-4) to maintain poetic momentum.

Ian Johnston called the tetrameter ‘all wrong for Homer’ because ‘it’s not a verse form we are very familiar with in long dramatic poems,’ and noted the abridgment makes it ‘not altogether reliable as an accurate rendition of Homer.’

Publication History

  • 1929 — Harper and Brothers, The Odyssey of Homer; translated into English verse
  • 1929 — McGraw-Hill, The Odyssey of Homer; translated into English verse ★

The proem

1.1–11
Tell me the tale, Muse, of that man
Of many changes, he who went
Wandering so far when he had plundered
Troy’s sacred citadel. And many
The men whose cities he beheld,
Whose minds he learned to know, and many
The sorrows that his soul endured
Upon the deep the while he strove
To save himself from death and bring
His comrades home.
Of these things now,
Daughter of Zeus, O goddess, tell us,
Even as thou wilt, the tale.
“Ah, you gods
Are ever envious! What horror
Fills you should any goddess venture
To mate with mortal man! So now
You gods are horrified that I
Should keep this mortal here! Yet I
It was who saved the man,
And she found him
Sitting upon the shore, and tears
Flowed ceaseless from his eyes. Sweet life
Was wasting from him as he sorrowed
For his own home.
So speaking,
Noble Odysseus crept from under
The thicket where he lay, and broke
With mighty hands a leafy branch
From the close growth to hold before him
And hide his naked body. Forth
He came then, even as a lion,
Bred in the mountains, comes: his trust
Is in his strength: he goes his way,
Rain-wet, wind-buffeted; his eyes
Glow fire. Now he goes to prey
On sheep or cattle; now he chases
The woodland deer; or, hunger-driven,
He ventures among flocks and enters
The close-barred fold. And even as he,
Odysseus, naked though he was,
Came boldly toward those fair-haired maidens,
For need compelled him. Terrible
He seemed there in their eyes, his skin
Crusted and foul with brine. They fled
Scattered before him, all along
The sandbars toward the sea.
But one,
And one alone remained, the daughter
Of great Alcinoüs. Athene
Gave courage to her heart and freed
Her knees from fear.

War-widow simile

8.521–532
Such deeds
The famous minstrel sang. Odysseus
Was melted by his song, and tears
Flowed from his eyes and wet his cheeks.
As when a woman wails and clings
To her dear husband who lies fallen
Before his city and his people,
Striving to ward from town and children
The dread day of unsparing ruin:—
She sees him dying, quivering
In death before her, and she wraps
Her body round him and cries out
In piercing sorrow. But behind her
The enemy press on with spears
And drive her forth to slavery
To suffer toil and grief. Her cheeks
Are wasted with her piteous weeping.
Even so piteously the tears
Flowed from Odysseus’ eyes.

Cyclops eats the men

9.287–299
So I replied.
He, cruel-hearted, made no answer,
But springing up, reached forth his hands
And seized my comrades. Two at once
He snatched up in his grasp and dashed them
To earth like helpless puppies. Forth
The brains flowed, moistening the ground.
Then limb from limb he tore their bodies
And made his meal, devouring them
Savagely as a lion bred
Among the mountains. Naught of them
He left uneaten—flesh or entrails
Or marrowy bones. And we cried out
In lamentation and uplifted
Our hands to Zeus, to see a deed
So horrible. Numb terror laid
Hold on our hearts.
And now the Cyclops,
When he had filled that monstrous belly
With flesh of men, and followed this
With draughts of unmixed milk, lay stretched
Full length upon the cavern floor
Among his flock.

The Nobody trick

9.364–371
‘O Cyclops,
You ask my far-famed name, and this
I now will tell you. Give me therefore
The stranger’s gift, as you have promised.
My name is Noman; aye, and Noman
My father and my mother called me
And all my comrades.’
So I spoke,
And he with cruel heart replied:
‘Noman, of all his company,
I shall eat last; and all the others
I’ll eat before him. This shall be
My gift to you—my guest.’
‘Who are you? Whence come you?
What is your land and what your city?
What parents bred you? Wonder fills me,
For you have drunk the magic drink
And yet it charms you not. No man
Ever before like you, defied
My magic power, once he tasted
And it had passed his teeth. Nay, surely
You are Odysseus, he whose way
Is ever-changing, for great Hermes
Of the gold scepter ever told me
That you would sail here, bound from Troy
In your swift ship. Come now, and put
Your sword back in its sheath. We then
May meet in love and friendship, each
Trusting the other.’

Anticlea's shade

11.204–215
So spoke she. Then
With heart bewildered I would fain
Clasp in my arms that shape, the spirit
Of my dear mother dead. And thrice
I tried—love drove me on—to clasp her,
And thrice out of my arms she flitted
Even as a shadow or a dream.
Bitterly then my sorrow burned
Into my breast, and in wing’d words
I spoke to her:
‘Why, Mother, dear,
Will you not wait for me to clasp you
As my heart longs to do, that here
Even in Death’s land we may, with arms
Around each other, taste the full
Of grief’s cold agony! Or is it
Only your empty semblance, this
That great Persephone has sent me
That I may only in my sorrow
Weep but the more!’
‘Nay, great Odysseus, speak not thus
Lightly to me of death. Far rather
Had I be slave to some mean fellow
Of trifling wealth and small estate
Than here be lord o’er all the dead
Whose days are over.’...

The Sirens' song

12.184–192
‘Come hither,
O famed Odysseus, mighty glory
Of the Achæans. Turn your ship
But hither to the shore and hearken
The song we sing, for no man ever
Has steered his black ship hence till he
Has heard the honey-sweet delight
Of music from our lips; then forth
He went upon his way with joy
And fuller wisdom. For we know
All that the Argives and the Trojans
Endured on Troy’s wide plains; we know
All that befalls mankind on earth,
The nourisher of all.’

Hyperion's cattle

12.341–352
Death in all forms
Is hateful to us wretched mortals,
But bitterest of all is this:
To die of hunger, and so face
Life’s ending. Come then, let us drive
The best of the Sun’s cattle hither
And slay them as an offering
To the undying gods that dwell
In the wide heaven. And if ever
We come again to Ithaca,
Our own dear land, then let us build
A costly temple to the Sun
Who rides on high, and place within it
Full many a precious gift. If still
The Sun be angry for the sake
Of these, his high-horned kine, and still
Must needs destroy our ship, and all
The gods above agree—then I
With open mouth would face the wave,
Drink death, and cast my soul forth gladly—
Far rather that than thus waste slowly
Away with hunger, here imprisoned
Upon this desert isle.’
So spoke Eumæus,
Then entered that fair house and passed
Straight down the hall and through the midst
Of those proud wooers. Then on Argos
Death’s dark end came, when he had seen
Odysseus, gone for twenty years.

Sleepless Odysseus

20.25–34
As one
Who turns a paunch of fat and blood
Before a great and blazing fire
And rolls it to this side and that,
Eager to roast it soon—even so
Odysseus tossed from side to side
And ever pondered how his hands
Might seize upon the shameless suitors,
And he but one, and they so many.
And to him now Athene came
From heaven descending, and she wore
A woman’s form and stood beside him
Close by his head, and thus she spoke:
“Why do you lie here still awake,
Unhappiest of men?

Stringing the bow

21.404–412
So spoke the wooers.
But wise Odysseus, who had handled
That mighty bow, testing each part,
At once as easily as a man,
A singer, skilful with the lyre,
Stretches a string in place and fits it
To its new peg, and at each end
Makes fast the twisted gut—even so
With ready ease Odysseus bent
And strung that mighty bow.
He took it
In his right hand and tried the bowstring,
And at his touch it rang out loud,
Clear as a swallow’s cry.
Now wise Odysseus stripped away
His ragged garments. Up he sprang
To the great threshold with the bow
And the full quiver, and poured forth
The swift shafts at his feet. Then thus
Before the wooers he spoke:
“So now
Ends this dread contest. And again
I aim, at a new mark, a mark
No man has hit before. And may
My aim be true, and great Apollo
Grant me the glory!”

The disloyal maids

22.465–474
So he spoke,
And tied therewith, fast to a pillar,
The cable of a dark-prowed ship,
And bore its farther end far off
About the roundhouse, and so drew it
High from the earth, that not a one
Might touch her feet to ground And so,
Even as doves or long-winged thrushes
That dash themselves into a net
Hid in a thicket, thinking only
To perch and rest there, but instead
Find that a cruel bed has clasped them—
Even so these women hung, all holding
Their heads in one long row, a noose
Made fast about each neck, to die
The basest of all deaths. A while
They twitched their feet, a little while,
Then all were still.

The olive-tree bed

23.181–190
All this she said
To try her husband. But Odysseus
Was angered at her words, and thus
He spoke to his true wife:
“What, woman!
What words are these you now have said
To pierce my heart! Who can have set
My bed in a new place? That task
Would be a hard one, aye, too hard
Even for the cleverest, unless
A god should come and easily
Remove it at his will and set it
In a new place. No mortal man
Of living men, in his full strength,
Could ever move it easily
Out of its present place. For in it,
Wrought in its very frame, is hidden
A secret token, and no other
Wrought this, but I alone.
Like men that see the land with gladness—
Seamen whose sturdy ship Poseidon
Has smitten on the deep and shattered
With storm and mighty seas, and few
Are they who from the foaming waters
Escape to swim to shore: their skin
Is crusted with the brine, but happy
They step to land once more, delivered
Out of their danger—with such gladness
She gazed upon her husband. Never
Could she release from round his neck
The clasp of her white arms.