“Here, till the setting sun roll’d down the light,
We sat indulging in the genial rite: 
Nor wines were wanting; those from ample jars
We drain’d, the prize of our Ciconian wars. 
The land of Cyclops lay in prospect near: 
The voice of goats and bleating flocks we hear,
And from their mountains rising smokes appear. 
Now sunk the sun, and darkness cover’d o’er
The face of things:  along the sea-beat shore
Satiate we slept:  but, when the sacred dawn
Arising glitter’d o’er the dewy lawn,
I call’d my fellows, and these words address’d
’My dear associates, here indulge your rest;
While, with my single ship, adventurous, I
Go forth, the manners of you men to try;
Whether a race unjust, of barbarous might,
Rude and unconscious of a stranger’s right;
Or such who harbour pity in their breast,
Revere the gods, and succour the distress’d,’

“This said, I climb’d my vessel’s lofty side;
My train obey’d me, and the ship untied. 
In order seated on their banks, they sweep
Neptune’s smooth face, and cleave the yielding deep. 
When to the nearest verge of land we drew,
Fast by the sea a lonely cave we view,
High, and with darkening laurels covered o’er;
Were sheep and goats lay slumbering round the shore
Near this, a fence of marble from the rock,
Brown with o’eraching pine and spreading oak. 
A giant shepherd here his flock maintains
Far from the rest, and solitary reigns,
In shelter thick of horrid shade reclined;
And gloomy mischiefs labour in his mind. 
A form enormous! far unlike the race
Of human birth, in stature, or in face;
As some lone mountain’s monstrous growth he stood,
Crown’d with rough thickets, and a nodding wood. 
I left my vessel at the point of land,
And close to guard it, gave our crew command: 
With only twelve, the boldest and the best,
I seek the adventure, and forsake the rest. 
Then took a goatskin fill’d with precious wine,
The gift of Maron of Evantheus’ line
(The priest of Phoebus at the Ismarian shrine). 
In sacred shade his honour’d mansion stood
Amidst Apollo’s consecrated wood;
Him, and his house, Heaven moved my mind to save,
And costly presents in return he gave;
Seven golden talents to perfection wrought,
A silver bowl that held a copious draught,
And twelve large vessels of unmingled wine,
Mellifluous, undecaying, and divine! 
Which now, some ages from his race conceal’d,
The hoary sire in gratitude reveal’d. 
Such was the wine:  to quench whose fervent steam
Scarce twenty measures from the living stream
To cool one cup sufficed:  the goblet crown’d
Breathed aromatic fragrances around. 
Of this an ample vase we heaved aboard,
And brought another with provisions stored. 
My soul foreboded I should find the bower
Of some fell monster, fierce with barbarous power;
Some rustic wretch, who lived in Heaven’s despite,