The Consolation of Philosophy · 59 of 78

Book IV, Song III: Circe’s Cup

Th’ Ithacan discreet, And all his storm-tossed fleet, Far o’er the ocean wave The winds of heaven drave— Drave to the mystic isle, Where dwelleth in her guile That fair and faithless one, The daughter of the Sun. There for the stranger crew With cunning spells she knew To mix th’ enchanted cup. For whoso drinks it up, Must suffer hideous change To monstrous shapes and strange. One like a boar appears; This his huge form uprears, Mighty in bulk and limb— An Afric lion—grim With claw and fang. Confessed A wolf, this, sore distressed When he would weep, doth howl; And, strangely tame, these prowl The Indian tiger’s mates.

And though in such sore straits, The pity of the god Who bears the mystic rod Had power the chieftain brave From her fell arts to save; His comrades, unrestrained, The fatal goblet drained. All now with low-bent head, Like swine, on acorns fed; Man’s speech and form were reft, No human feature left; But steadfast still, the mind, Unaltered, unresigned, The monstrous change bewailed.

How little, then, availed The potencies of ill! These herbs, this baneful skill, May change each outward part, But cannot touch the heart. In its true home, deep-set, Man’s spirit liveth yet. Those poisons are more fell, More potent to expel Man from his high estate, Which subtly penetrate, And leave the body whole, But deep infect the soul.