And reach Gerestus at the point of day. 
There hecacombs of bulls, to Neptune slain,
High-flaming please the monarch of the main. 
The fourth day shone, when all their labours o’er,
Tydides’ vessels touched the wish’d-for shore. 
But I to Pylos scud before the gales,
The god still breathing on my swelling sails;
Separate from all, I safely landed here;
Their fates or fortunes never reach’d my ear. 
Yet what I learn’d, attend; as here I sat,
And ask’d each voyager each hero’s fate;
Curious to know, and willing to relate.

“Safe reach’d the Myrmidons their native land,
Beneath Achilles’ warlike son’s command. 
Those, whom the heir of great Apollo’s art,
Brave Philoctetes, taught to wing the dart;
And those whom Idomen from Ilion’s plain
Had led, securely cross’d the dreadful main
How Agamemnon touch’d his Argive coast,
And how his life by fraud and force he lost,
And how the murderer, paid his forfeit breath;
What lands so distant from that scene of death
But trembling heard the fame? and heard, admire. 
How well the son appeased his slaughter’d sire! 
Ev’n to the unhappy, that unjustly bleed,
Heaven gives posterity, to avenge the deed. 
So fell Aegysthus; and mayest thou, my friend,
(On whom the virtues of thy sire descend,)
Make future times thy equal act adore,
And be what brave Orestes was before!”

The prudent youth replied:  “O thou the grace
And lasting glory of the Grecian race! 
Just was the vengeance, and to latest days
Shall long posterity resound the praise. 
Some god this arm with equal prowess bless! 
And the proud suitors shall its force confess;
Injurious men! who while my soul is sore
Of fresh affronts, are meditating more. 
But Heaven denies this honour to my hand,
Nor shall my father repossess the land;
The father’s fortune never to return,
And the sad son’s to softer and to mourn!”
Thus he; and Nestor took the word:  “My son,
Is it then true, as distant rumours run,
That crowds of rivals for thy mother’s charms
Thy palace fill with insults and alarms? 
Say, is the fault, through tame submission, thine? 
Or leagued against thee, do thy people join,
Moved by some oracle, or voice divine? 
And yet who knows, but ripening lies in fate
An hour of vengeance for the afflicted state;
When great Ulysses shall suppress these harms,
Ulysses singly, or all Greece in arms. 
But if Athena, war’s triumphant maid,
The happy son will as the father aid,
(Whose fame and safety was her constant care
In every danger and in every war: 
Never on man did heavenly favour shine
With rays so strong, distinguish’d and divine,
As those with which Minerva mark’d thy sire)
So might she love thee, so thy soul inspire! 
Soon should their hopes in humble dust be laid,
And long oblivion of the bridal bed.”