Ulysses was thy care, celestial maid;

Grac'd with thy sight, and favour'd with thy aid. But when the Trojan piles in ashes lay,

And bound for Greece we plough'd the watery way;

Our fleet dispers'd and driven from coast to coast,
Thy sacred presence from that hour I lost:
Till I beheld thy radiant form once more,
And heard thy counsels on Phæacia's shore.
But, by th' almighty author of thy race,
Tell me, O tell, is this my native place?
For much I fear, long tracts of land and sea
Divide this coast from distant Ithaca;
The sweet delusion kindly you impose,
To soothe my hopes, and mitigate my woes.
Thus he. The blue-ey'd goddess thus replies:
How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise!
Who, vers'd in fortune, fear the flattering show,
And taste not half the bliss the gods bestow.
The more shall Pallas aid thy just desires,
And guard the wisdom which herself inspires.
Others, long absent from their native place,
Straight seek their home, and fly with eager pace
To their wives' arms, and children's dear embrace.
Not thus Ulysses: he decrees to prove

His subjects' faith, and queen's suspected love;
Who mourn'd her lord twice ten revolving years,
And wastes the days in grief, the night in tears.
But Pallas knew (thy friends and navy lost,)
Once more 'twas given thee to behold thy coast:
Yet how could I with adverse fate engage,
And mighty Neptune's unrelenting rage?
Now lift thy longing eyes, while I restore
The pleasing prospect of thy native shore.
Behold the port of Phorcys! fenc'd around
With rocky mountains, and with olives crown'd.

Behold the gloomy grot! whose cool recess
Delights the Nereids of the neighbouring seas:
Whose now-neglected altars, in thy reign,
Blush'd with the blood of sheep and oxen slain.
Behold! where Neritus the clouds divides,
And shakes the waving forests on his sides.

So spake the goddess, and the prospect clear'd, The mists dispers'd, and all the coast appear'd. The king with joy confess'd his place of birth, And on his knees salutes his mother earth: Then with his suppliant hands upheld in air, Thus to the sea-green sisters sends his prayer.

All hail! ye virgin daughters of the main!
Ye streams, beyond my hopes beheld again!
To you once more your own Ulysses bows;
Attend his transports, and receive his vows:
If Jove prolong my days, and Pallas crown
The growing virtues of my youthful son,
To you shall rites divine be ever paid,
And grateful offerings on your altars laid.

Thus then Minerva. From that anxious breast
Dismiss those cares, and leave to heaven the rest.
Our task be now thy treasur'd stores to save,
Deep in the close recesses of the cave:
Then future means consult-she spoke and trod
The shady grot, that brighten'd with the god.
The closest caverns of the grot she sought;
The gold, the brass, the robes, Ulysses brought;
These in the secret gloom the chief dispos'd;
The entrance with a rock the goddess clos'd.
Now, seated in the olive's sacred shade,
Confer the hero and the martial maid.
The goddess of the azure eyes began:
Son of Laertes, much-experienc'd man!
The suitor-train thy earliest care demand,
Of that luxurious race to rid the land:

Three years thy house their lawless rule has seen,
And proud addresses to the matchless queen.
But she thy absence mourns from day to day,
And inly bleeds, and silent wastes away:
Elusive of the bridal hour, she gives

Fond hopes to all, and all with hopes deceives.
To this Ulysses. O celestial maid!
Prais'd be thy counsel, and thy timely aid:
Else had I seen my native walls in vain,
Like great Atrides, just restor❜d and slain.
Vouchsafe the means of vengeance to debate,
And plan with all thy arts the scene of fate.
Then, then be present, and my soul inspire,
As when we wrapt Troy's heaven-built walls in fire.
Though leagu'd against me hundred heroes stand,
Hundreds shall fall, if Pallas aid my hand.

She answer'd: in the dreadful day of fight
Know I am with thee, strong in all my might.
If thou but equal to thyself be found,

What gasping numbers then shall press the ground,
What human victims stain the feastful floor!
How wide the pavements float with guilty gore!
It fits thee now to wear a dark disguise,
And secret walk, unknown to mortal eyes.
For this my hand shall wither every grace,
And every elegance of form and face,

O'er thy smooth skin a bark of wrinkles spread,
Turn hoar the auburn honours of thy head,
Disfigure every limb with coarse attire,
And in thy eyes extinguish all the fire:
Add all the wants and the decays of life,
Estrange thee from thy own, thy son, thy wife;
From the loath'd object every sight shall turn,
And the blind suitors their destruction scorn.
Go first the master of thy herds to find,
True to his charge, a loyal swain and kind:

For thee he sighs, and to the royal heir
And chaste Penelope extends his care.
At the Coracian rock he now resides,
Where Arethusa's sable waters glides:
The sable water and the copious mast
Swell the fat herd: luxuriant, large repast!
With him, rest peaceful in the rural cell,
And all you ask his faithful tongue shall tell.
Me into other realms my cares convey,
To Sparta, still with female beauty gay;
For know, to Sparta, thy lov'd offspring came,
To learn thy fortunes from the voice of fame.
At this the father, with a father's care.
Must he too suffer: he, O goddess! bear
Of wanderings and of woes a wretched share?
Through the wild ocean plough the dangerous way,
And leave his fortunes and his house a prey?
Why wouldst not thou, O all-enlighten'd mind!
Inform him certain, and protect him kind?

To whom Minerva. Be thy soul at rest;
And know whatever heaven ordains is best.
To fame I sent him to acquire renown:
To other regions is his virtue known.
Secure he sits, near great Atrides plac'd;
With friendships strengthen'd, and with honours
grac❜d.

But lo! an ambush waits his passage o'er;
Fierce foes insidious intercept the shore:
In vain! far sooner all the murderous brood
This injur'd land shall fatten with their blood.
She spake, then touch'd him with her powerful
wand:

The skin shrunk up, and wither'd at her hand.
A swift old age o'er all his members spread;
A sudden frost was sprinkled on his head;
No longer in the heavy eye-ball shin'd
The glance divine, forth beaming from the

His robes which spots indelible besmear:
In rags dishonest flutters with the air:
A stag's torn hide is lapt around his reins:
A rugged staff his trembling hand sustains;
And at his side a wretched scrip was hung,
Wide patch'd, and knotted to a twisted thong.
So look'd the chief; so mov'd! To mortal eyes
Object uncouth! a man of miseries!

While Pallas, cleaving the wide fields of air,
To Sparta flies, Telemachus her care.