Urged by the precepts by the goddess given,
And fill’d with confidence infused from Heaven,
The youth, whom Pallas destined to be wise
And famed among the sons of men, replies: 
“Inquir’st thou, father! from what coast we came? 
(Oh grace and glory of the Grecian name!)
From where high Ithaca o’erlooks the floods,
Brown with o’er-arching shades and pendent woods
Us to these shores our filial duty draws,
A private sorrow, not a public cause. 
My sire I seek, where’er the voice of fame
Has told the glories of his noble name,
The great Ulysses; famed from shore to shore
For valour much, for hardy suffering more. 
Long time with thee before proud Ilion’s wall
In arms he fought; with thee beheld her fall. 
Of all the chiefs, this hero’s fate alone
Has Jove reserved, unheard of, and unknown;
Whether in fields by hostile fury slain,
Or sunk by tempests in the gulfy main? 
Of this to learn, oppress’d with tender fears,
Lo, at thy knee his suppliant son appears. 
If or thy certain eye, or curious ear,
Have learnt his fate, the whole dark story clear
And, oh! whate’er Heaven destined to betide,
Let neither flattery soothe, nor pity hide. 
Prepared I stand:  he was but born to try
The lot of man; to suffer, and to die. 
Oh then, if ever through the ten years’ war
The wise, the good Ulysses claim’d thy care;
If e’er he join’d thy council, or thy sword,
True in his deed, and constant to his word;
Far as thy mind through backward time can see
Search all thy stores of faithful memory: 
’Tis sacred truth I ask, and ask of thee.”

To him experienced Nestor thus rejoin’d: 
“O friend! what sorrows dost thou bring to mind! 
Shall I the long, laborious scene review,
And open all the wounds of Greece anew? 
What toils by sea! where dark in quest of prey
Dauntless we roved; Achilles led the way;
What toils by land! where mix’d in fatal fight
Such numbers fell, such heroes sunk to night;
There Ajax great, Achilles there the brave,
There wise Patroclus, fill an early grave: 
There, too, my son—­ah, once my best delight
Once swift of foot, and terrible in fight;
In whom stern courage with soft virtue join’d
A faultless body and a blameless mind;
Antilochus—­What more can I relate? 
How trace the tedious series of our fate? 
Not added years on years my task could close,
The long historian of my country’s woes;
Back to thy native islands might’st thou sail,
And leave half-heard the melancholy tale. 
Nine painful years on that detested shore;
What stratagems we form’d, what toils we bore! 
Still labouring on, till scarce at last we found
Great Jove propitious, and our conquest crown’d. 
Far o’er the rest thy mighty father shined,
In wit, in prudence, and in force of mind. 
Art thou the son of that illustrious sire? 
With joy I grasp thee, and with love admire.