One roof contain’d us, and one table fed. 
But when the softly-stealing pace of time
Crept on from childhood into youthful prime,
To Samos’ isle she sent the wedded fair;
Me to the fields; to tend the rural care;
Array’d in garments her own hands had wove,
Nor less the darling object of her love. 
Her hapless death my brighter days o’ercast,
Yet Providence deserts me not at last;
My present labours food and drink procure,
And more, the pleasure to relieve the poor. 
Small is the comfort from the queen to hear
Unwelcome news, or vex the royal ear;
Blank and discountenanced the servants stand,
Nor dare to question where the proud command;
No profit springs beneath usurping powers;
Want feeds not there where luxury devours,
Nor harbours charity where riot reigns: 
Proud are the lords, and wretched are the swains.”

The suffering chief at this began to melt;
And, “O Eumaeus! thou (he cries) hast felt
The spite of fortune too! her cruel hand
Snatch’d thee an infant from thy native land! 
Snatch’d from thy parents’ arms, thy parents’ eyes,
To early wants! a man of miseries! 
The whole sad story, from its first, declare: 
Sunk the fair city by the rage of war,
Where once thy parents dwelt? or did they keep,
In humbler life, the lowing herds and sheep? 
So left perhaps to tend the fleecy train,
Rude pirates seized, and shipp’d thee o’er the main? 
Doom’d a fair prize to grace some prince’s board,
The worthy purchase of a foreign lord.”

“If then my fortunes can delight my friend,
A story fruitful of events attend: 
Another’s sorrow may thy ears enjoy,
And wine the lengthen’d intervals employ. 
Long nights the now declining year bestows;
A part we consecrate to soft repose,
A part in pleasing talk we entertain;
For too much rest itself becomes a pain. 
Let those, whom sleep invites, the call obey,
Their cares resuming with the dawning day: 
Here let us feast, and to the feast be join’d
Discourse, the sweeter banquet of the mind;
Review the series of our lives, and taste
The melancholy joy of evils pass’d: 
For he who much has suffer’d, much will know,
And pleased remembrance builds delight on woe.

“Above Ortygia lies an isle of fame,
Far hence remote, and Syria is the name
(There curious eyes inscribed with wonder trace
The sun’s diurnal, and his annual race);
Not large, but fruitful; stored with grass to keep
The bellowing oxen and the bleating sheep;
Her sloping hills the mantling vines adorn,
And her rich valleys wave with golden corn. 
No want, no famine, the glad natives know,
Nor sink by sickness to the shades below;
But when a length of years unnerves the strong,
Apollo comes, and Cynthia comes along. 
They bend the silver bow with tender skill,
And, void of pain, the silent arrows kill.