“Wretched old man! (with tears the prince returns)
Yet cease to go—­what man so blest but mourns? 
Were every wish indulged by favouring skies,
This hour should give Ulysses to my eyes. 
But to the queen with speed dispatchful bear,
Our safe return, and back with speed repair;
And let some handmaid of her train resort
To good Laertes in his rural court.”

While yet he spoke, impatient of delay,
He braced his sandals on, and strode away: 
Then from the heavens the martial goddess flies
Through the wild fields of air, and cleaves the skies: 
In form, a virgin in soft beauty’s bloom,
Skill’d in the illustrious labours of the loom. 
Alone to Ithaca she stood display’d,
But unapparent as a viewless shade
Escaped Telemachus (the powers above,
Seen or unseen, o’er earth at pleasure move): 
The dogs intelligent confess’d the tread
Of power divine, and howling, trembling, fled. 
The goddess, beckoning, waves her deathless hands: 
Dauntless the king before the goddess stands: 

“Then why (she said), O favour’d of the skies! 
Why to thy godlike son this long disguise? 
Stand forth reveal’d; with him thy cares employ
Against thy foes; be valiant and destroy! 
Lo!  I descend in that avenging hour,
To combat by thy side, thy guardian power.”

She said, and o’er him waves her wand of gold
Imperial robes his manly limbs infold;
At once with grace divine his frame improves;
At once with majesty enlarged he moves: 
Youth flush’d his reddening cheek, and from his brows
A length of hair in sable ringlets flows;
His blackening chin receives a deeper shade;
Then from his eyes upsprung the warrior-maid.

The hero reascends:  the prince o’erawed
Scarce lifts his eyes, and bows as to a god,
Then with surprise (surprise chastised by fears): 
“How art thou changed! (he cried)—­a god appears! 
Far other vests thy limbs majestic grace,
Far other glories lighten from thy face! 
If heaven be thy abode, with pious care,
Lo!  I the ready sacrifice prepare: 
Lo! gifts of labour’d gold adorn thy shrine,
To win thy grace:  O save us, power divine!”

“Few are my days (Ulysses made reply),
Nor I, alas! descendant of the sky. 
I am thy father.  O my son! my son! 
That father, for whose sake thy days have run
One scene of woe! to endless cares consign’d,
And outraged by the wrongs of base mankind.”

Then, rushing to his arms, he kiss’d his boy
With the strong raptures of a parent’s joy. 
Tears bathe his cheek, and tears the ground bedew: 
He strain’d him close, as to his breast he grew. 
“Ah me! (exclaims the prince with fond desire)
Thou art not—­no, thou canst not be my sire. 
Heaven such illusion only can impose,
By the false joy to aggravate my woes. 
Who but a god can change the general doom,
And give to wither’d age a youthful bloom! 
Late, worn with years, in weeds obscene you trod;
Now, clothed in majesty, you move a god!”