By Pallas taught, he frames the wondrous mould,
And the pale silver glows with fusile gold: 
So Pallas his heroic form improves
With bloom divine, and like a god he moves! 
More high he treads, and issuing forth in state,
Radiant before his gazing consort sate. 
“And, O my queen! (he cries) what power above
Has steel’d that heart, averse to spousal love? 
Canst thou, Penelope, when heaven restores
Thy lost Ulysses to his native shores,
Canst thou, O cruel! unconcern’d survey
Thy lost Ulysses, on this signal day? 
Haste, Euryclea, and despatchful spread
For me, and me alone, the imperial bed,
My weary nature craves the balm of rest. 
But Heaven with adamant has arm’d her breast.”

“Ah no! (she cries) a tender heart I bear,
A foe to pride:  no adamant is there;
And now, e’en now it melts! for sure I see
Once more Ulysses my beloved in thee! 
Fix’d in my soul, as when he sailed to Troy,
His image dwells:  then haste the bed of joy,
Haste, from the bridal bower the bed translate,
Fram’d by his hand, and be it dress’d in state!”

Thus speaks the queen, still dubious, with disguise
Touch’d at her words, the king with warmth replies
“Alas for this! what mortal strength can move
The enormous burden, who but Heaven above? 
It mocks the weak attempts of human hands! 
But the whole earth must move if Heaven commands
Then hear sure evidence, while we display
Words seal’d with sacred truth and truth obey: 
This hand the wonder framed; an olive spread
Full in the court its ever verdant head. 
Vast as some mighty column’s bulk, on high
The huge trunk rose, and heaved into the sky;
Around the tree I raised a nuptial bower,
And roof’d defensive of the storm and shower;
The spacious valve, with art inwrought conjoins;
And the fair dome with polished marble shines. 
I lopp’d the branchy head:  aloft in twain
Sever’d the bole, and smoothed the shining grain;
Then posts, capacious of the frame, I raise,
And bore it, regular, from space to space: 
Athwart the frame, at equal distance lie
Thongs of tough hides, that boast a purple dye;
Then polishing the whole, the finished mould
With silver shone, with elephant, and gold. 
But if o’erturn’d by rude, ungovern’d hands,
Or still inviolate the olive stands,
’Tis thine, O queen, to say, and now impart,
If fears remain, or doubts distract thy heart.”

While yet he speaks, her powers of life decay;
She sickens, trembles, falls, and faints away. 
At length recovering, to his arms she flew,
And strain’d him close, as to his breast she grew. 
The tears pour’d down amain, and “O (she cries)
Let not against thy spouse thine anger rise! 
O versed in every, turn of human art,
Forgive the weakness of a woman’s heart! 
The righteous powers, that mortal lot dispose,
Decree us to sustain a length of woes.