“’Why sits Ulysses silent and apart,
Some hoard of grief close harbour’d at his heart
Untouch’d before thee stand the cates divine,
And unregarded laughs the rosy wine. 
Can yet a doubt or any dread remain,
When sworn that oath which never can be vain?’

“I answered:  ’Goddess! human is my breast,
By justice sway’d, by tender pity press’d: 
Ill fits it me, whose friends are sunk to beasts,
To quaff thy bowls, or riot in thy feasts. 
Me would’st thou please? for them thy cares employ,
And them to me restore, and me to joy.’

“With that she parted:  in her potent hand
She bore the virtue of the magic wand. 
Then, hastening to the sties, set wide the door,
Urged forth, and drove the bristly herd before;
Unwieldy, out they rush’d with general cry,
Enormous beasts, dishonest to the eye. 
Now touch’d by counter-charms they change again,
And stand majestic, and recall’d to men. 
Those hairs of late that bristled every part,
Fall off, miraculous effect of art! 
Till all the form in full proportion rise,
More young, more large, more graceful to my eyes. 
They saw, they knew me, and with eager pace
Clung to their master in a long embrace: 
Sad, pleasing sight! with tears each eye ran o’er,
And sobs of joy re-echoed through the bower;
E’en Circe wept, her adamantine heart
Felt pity enter, and sustain’d her part.

“’Son of Laertes! (then the queen began)
Oh much-enduring, much experienced man! 
Haste to thy vessel on the sea-beat shore,
Unload thy treasures, and the galley moor;
Then bring thy friends, secure from future harms,
And in our grottoes stow thy spoils and arms,’

“She said.  Obedient to her high command
I quit the place, and hasten to the strand,
My sad companions on the beach I found,
Their wistful eyes in floods of sorrow drown’d.

“As from fresh pastures and the dewy field
(When loaded cribs their evening banquet yield)
The lowing herds return; around them throng
With leaps and bounds their late imprison’d young,
Rush to their mothers with unruly joy,
And echoing hills return the tender cry: 
So round me press’d, exulting at my sight,
With cries and agonies of wild delight,
The weeping sailors; nor less fierce their joy
Than if return’d to Ithaca from Troy. 
’Ah master! ever honour’d, ever dear! 
(These tender words on every side I hear)
What other joy can equal thy return? 
Not that loved country for whose sight we mourn,
The soil that nursed us, and that gave us breath: 
But ah! relate our lost companions’ death.’

“I answer’d cheerful:  ’Haste, your galley moor,
And bring our treasures and our arms ashore: 
Those in yon hollow caverns let us lay,
Then rise, and follow where I lead the way. 
Your fellows live; believe your eyes, and come
To taste the joys of Circe’s sacred dome.’