“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 treasured 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 disposed;
The entrance with a rock the goddess closed.

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-experienced 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! 
Praised be thy counsel, and thy timely aid;
Else had I seen my native walls in vain,
Like great Atrides, just restored 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 wrapp’d Troy’s heaven-built walls in fire. 
Though leagued 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 loathed object every sight shall turn,
And the blind suitors their destruction scorn.