(Some surly islander, of manners rude),
Nor farther conference vouchsafed to stay;
Heedless he whistled, and pursued his way. 
But thou whom years have taught to understand,
Humanely hear, and answer my demand: 
A friend I seek, a wise one and a brave: 
Say, lives he yet, or moulders in the grave? 
Time was (my fortunes then were at the best)
When at my house I lodged this foreign guest;
He said, from Ithaca’s fair isle he came,
And old Laertes was his father’s name. 
To him, whatever to a guest is owed
I paid, and hospitable gifts bestow’d: 
To him seven talents of pure ore I told,
Twelve cloaks, twelve vests, twelve tunics stiff with gold: 
A bowl, that rich with polish’d silver flames,
And skill’d in female works, four lovely dames.”

At this the father, with a father’s fears
(His venerable eyes bedimm’d with tears): 
“This is the land; but ah! thy gifts are lost,
For godless men, and rude possess the coast: 
Sunk is the glory of this once-famed shore! 
Thy ancient friend, O stranger, is no more! 
Full recompense thy bounty else had borne: 
For every good man yields a just return: 
So civil rights demand; and who begins
The track of friendship, not pursuing, sins. 
But tell me, stranger, be the truth confess’d,
What years have circled since thou saw’st that guest? 
That hapless guest, alas! for ever gone! 
Wretch that he was! and that I am! my son! 
If ever man to misery was born,
’Twas his to suffer, and ’tis mine to mourn! 
Far from his friends, and from his native reign,
He lies a prey to monsters of the main;
Or savage beasts his mangled relics tear,
Or screaming vultures scatter through the air: 
Nor could his mother funeral unguents shed;
Nor wail’d his father o’er the untimely dead: 
Nor his sad consort, on the mournful bier,
Seal’d his cold eyes, or dropp’d a tender tear!

“But, tell me who thou art? and what thy race? 
Thy town, thy parents, and thy native place? 
Or, if a merchant in pursuit of gain,
What port received thy vessel from the main? 
Or comest thou single, or attend thy train?”

Then thus the son:  “From Alybas I came,
My palace there; Eperitus my name
Not vulgar born:  from Aphidas, the king
Of Polyphemon’s royal line, I spring. 
Some adverse demon from Sicania bore
Our wandering course, and drove us on your shore;
Far from the town, an unfrequented bay
Relieved our wearied vessel from the sea. 
Five years have circled since these eyes pursued
Ulysses parting through the sable flood: 
Prosperous he sail’d, with dexter auguries,
And all the wing’d good omens of the skies. 
Well hoped we then to meet on this fair shore,
Whom Heaven, alas! decreed to meet no more.”