"'Not unavenged; nor brave Ulysses deigned To brook such outrage.

In that hour of tyne True to himself the Ithacan remained.
When, gorged with food, and belching gore and wine, With drooping neck, the giant snored supine, Then, closing round him, to the gods we pray, Each at his station, as the lots assign, And where, beneath the frowning forehead, lay, Huge as an Argive shield, or like the lamp of day, LXXXI.

"'His one great orb, deep in the monster's head We drive the pointed weapon, joy'd at last To wreak such vengeance for our comrades dead.
But fly, unhappy Trojans, fly, and cast Your cables from the shore.

Such and so vast As Polyphemus, when the cave's huge door Shuts on his flocks, and for his night's repast He milks them, lo! a hundred Cyclops more Roam on the lofty hills, and range the winding shore.
LXXXII.

"'Now thrice the Moon hath filled her horns with light, And still in woods and lonely dens I lie, And see the Cyclops stalk from height to height, And hear their tramp, and tremble at their cry.
My food--hard berries that the boughs supply, And roots of grass.