Ulysses monologue — Circe : $b A dramatic fantasy

Of sail and oar appears an end not yet, Brave comrades,—ye sad fortune-favor’d few, Poor relic of that once gallant troop which sat High on three-hundred thwarts; when each proud keel, Cleaving a homeward furrow, swept gaily past Familiar beacons; and from known crag and scaur Triumphal friendly greetings echoed loud, That drop like honey in victorious ears. Not long their cadence linger’d; but ye know What flouts of whirlwind and black sulphurous cloud, Wreck-witness’d warrants of Neptunian ire, Whelm’d some with death and the scant remnant usher’d Into these strange, uncanny, nameless seas. And now from wave to wave your weary arms Drive the lone pinnace, this frail shell of hope, With mingled dread and homesick yearning freighted.