“Nor shall that meed be thine, nor ever more
Shall loved Ulysses hail this happy shore. 
(Replied Eumaeus):  to the present hour
Now turn thy thought, and joys within our power. 
From sad reflection let my soul repose;
The name of him awakes a thousand woes. 
But guard him, gods! and to these arms restore! 
Not his true consort can desire him more;
Not old Laertes, broken with despair: 
Not young Telemachus, his blooming heir. 
Alas, Telemachus! my sorrows flow
Afresh for thee, my second cause of woe! 
Like some fair plant set by a heavenly hand,
He grew, he flourish’d, and he bless’d the land;
In all the youth his father’s image shined,
Bright in his person, brighter in his mind. 
What man, or god, deceived his better sense,
Far on the swelling seas to wander hence? 
To distant Pylos hapless is he gone,
To seek his father’s fate and find his own! 
For traitors wait his way, with dire design
To end at once the great Arcesian line. 
But let us leave him to their wills above;
The fates of men are in the hand of Jove. 
And now, my venerable guest! declare
Your name, your parents, and your native air: 
Sincere from whence begun, your course relate,
And to what ship I owe the friendly freight?”

Thus he:  and thus (with prompt invention bold)
The cautious chief his ready story told.

“On dark reserve what better can prevail,
Or from the fluent tongue produce the tale,
Than when two friends, alone, in peaceful place
Confer, and wines and cates the table grace;
But most, the kind inviter’s cheerful face? 
Thus might we sit, with social goblets crown’d,
Till the whole circle of the year goes round: 
Not the whole circle of the year would close
My long narration of a life of woes. 
But such was Heaven’s high will!  Know then, I came
From sacred Crete, and from a sire of fame: 
Castor Hylacides (that name he bore),
Beloved and honour’d in his native shore;
Bless’d in his riches, in his children more. 
Sprung of a handmaid, from a bought embrace,
I shared his kindness with his lawful race: 
But when that fate, which all must undergo,
From earth removed him to the shades below,
The large domain his greedy sons divide,
And each was portion’d as the lots decide. 
Little, alas! was left my wretched share,
Except a house, a covert from the air: 
But what by niggard fortune was denied,
A willing widow’s copious wealth supplied. 
My valour was my plea, a gallant mind,
That, true to honour, never lagg’d behind
(The sex is ever to a soldier kind). 
Now wasting years my former strength confound,
And added woes have bow’d me to the ground;
Yet by the stubble you may guess the grain,
And mark the ruins of no vulgar man. 
Me, Pallas gave to lead the martial storm,
And the fair ranks of battle to deform;
Me, Mars inspired to turn the foe to flight,