To raise his wonder, and engage his aid;
And now appear, thy treasures to protect,
Conceal thy person, thy designs direct,
And tell what more thou must from Fate expect;
Domestic woes far heavier to be borne! 
The pride of fools, and slaves’ insulting scorn? 
But thou be silent, nor reveal thy state;
Yield to the force of unresisted Fate,
And bear unmoved the wrongs of base mankind,
The last, and hardest, conquest of the mind.”

“Goddess of wisdom! (Ithacus replies,)
He who discerns thee must be truly wise,
So seldom view’d and ever in disguise! 
When the bold Argives led their warring powers,
Against proud Ilion’s well-defended towers,
Ulysses was thy care, celestial maid! 
Graced with thy sight, and favoured with thy aid. 
But when the Trojan piles in ashes lay,
And bound for Greece we plough’d the watery way;
Our fleet dispersed, 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 Phaeacia’s shore. 
But, by the almighty author of thy race,
Tell me, oh 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-eyed goddess thus replies;
“How prone to doubt, how cautious are the wise! 
Who, versed 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 nights 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. 
Bebold the port of Phorcys! fenced 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 dispersed, and all the coast appeared. 
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;