Touch’d by Diana’s vengeful arrow, died. 
Down dropp’d the caitiff-corse, a worthless load,
Down to the deep; there roll’d, the future food
Of fierce sea-wolves, and monsters of the flood. 
An helpless infant I remain’d behind;
Thence borne to Ithaca by wave and wind;
Sold to Laertes by divine command,
And now adopted to a foreign land.”

To him the king:  “Reciting thus thy cares,
My secret soul in all thy sorrow shares;
But one choice blessing (such is Jove’s high will)
Has sweeten’d all thy bitter draught of ill: 
Torn from thy country to no hapless end,
The gods have, in a master, given a friend. 
Whatever frugal nature needs is thine
(For she needs little), daily bread and wine. 
While I, so many wanderings past, and woes,
Live but on what thy poverty bestows.”

So passed in pleasing dialogue away
The night; then down to short repose they lay;
Till radiant rose the messenger of day. 
While in the port of Ithaca, the band
Of young Telemachus approach’d the land;
Their sails they loosed, they lash’d the mast aside,
And cast their anchors, and the cables tied: 
Then on the breezy shore, descending, join
In grateful banquet o’er the rosy wine. 
When thus the prince:  “Now each his course pursue;
I to the fields, and to the city you. 
Long absent hence, I dedicate this day
My swains to visit, and the works survey. 
Expect me with the morn, to pay the skies
Our debt of safe return in feast and sacrifice.”

Then Theoclymenus:  “But who shall lend,
Meantime, protection to thy stranger friend? 
Straight to the queen and palace shall I fly,
Or yet more distant, to some lord apply?”

The prince return’d:  “Renown’d in days of yore
Has stood our father’s hospitable door;
No other roof a stranger should receive,
No other hands than ours the welcome give. 
But in my absence riot fills the place,
Nor bears the modest queen a stranger’s face;
From noiseful revel far remote she flies,
But rarely seen, or seen with weeping eyes. 
No—­let Eurymachus receive my guest,
Of nature courteous, and by far the best;
He woos the queen with more respectful flame,
And emulates her former husband’s fame,
With what success, ’tis Jove’s alone to know,
And the hoped nuptials turn to joy or woe.”

Thus speaking, on the right up-soar’d in air
The hawk, Apollo’s swift-wing’d messenger: 
His dreadful pounces tore a trembling dove;
The clotted feathers, scatter’d from above,
Between the hero and the vessel pour
Thick plumage mingled with a sanguine shower.

The observing augur took the prince aside,
Seized by the hand, and thus prophetic cried: 
“Yon bird, that dexter cuts the aerial road,
Rose ominous, nor flies without a god: 
No race but thine shall Ithaca obey,
To thine, for ages, Heaven decrees the sway.”