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“My home was Ithaca, and I partook the fortunes of Ulysses evil-starred. My name is Achemenides, my sire was Adamastus, and I sailed for Troy, being so poor,—O, that I ne'er had change the lot I bore! In yon vast Cyclops' cave my comrades, flying from its gruesome door, left me behind, forgotten. 'T is a house of gory feasts of flesh, 't is deep and dark, and vaulted high. He looms as high as heaven; I pray the blessed gods to rid the earth of the vile monster! None can look on him, none speak w
ed them on the stones, fouling the floor
with torrent of their blood; myself I saw him
crunch with his teeth the dripping, bloody limbs
still hot and pulsing on his hungry jaw.
But not without reward! For such a sight
Ulysses would not brook, and Ithaca
forgot not in such strait the name he bore.
For soon as, gorged with feasting and o'ercome
with drunken slumber, the foul giant lay
sprawled through the cave, his head dropped helpless down,
disgorging as he slept thick drool of gore