On the tenth we reached the land of the Lotus-eaters, who live on a flower food. We went ashore, drew water, and took a quick meal. Then I sent two men and a herald inland for word. The Lotus-eaters meant no harm. They gave them lotus to taste. Whoever ate that honey-sweet fruit forgot return and wanted only to stay and feed with the natives.
I dragged them weeping back to the ships, bound them under the benches, and ordered the rest aboard at once before more tasted the plant. They pulled away hard, heartsick for comrades left behind in mind if not in body, and we sailed on.
We came to the land of the Cyclopes — proud, lawless giants who plant nothing and trust the rain of Zeus. They hold no assemblies and no shared laws, but live in hollow caves on the peaks, each man judge of his own wife and children, caring nothing for one another.
Offshore lay a wooded island empty of men, full of wild goats. The Cyclopes have no ships, or they would have settled it — soft meadows, vines that would grow without fail, level plowland, a harbor that needs no cable. Some god guided us in through the murky night.
At Dawn we hunted; the nymphs started the mountain goats. We took nine goats for each of twelve ships, and ten for mine. All day we feasted on meat and sweet wine from the Cicones’ spoil, and looking across we saw smoke and heard flocks. At Dawn I called assembly: “The rest of you stay here. I will take my own ship and find out what men these are — violent and wild, or kind to strangers.”
I went aboard, told my men to cast off, and we struck the grey sea with our oars. When we reached the near land we saw the cave at the end of the point, overhung with laurels, and around it a high yard of deep-set stones, pines, and oaks.