And now, rejoicing in the prosperous gales,
With beating heart Ulysses spreads his sails;
Placed at the helm he sate, and mark’d the skies,
Nor closed in sleep his ever-watchful eyes. 
There view’d the Pleiads, and the Northern Team,
And great Orion’s more refulgent beam. 
To which, around the axle of the sky,
The Bear, revolving, points his golden eye: 
Who shines exalted on the ethereal plain,
Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main. 
Far on the left those radiant fires to keep
The nymph directed, as he sail’d the deep. 
Full seventeen nights he cut the foaming way: 
The distant land appear’d the following day: 
Then swell’d to sight Phaeacia’s dusky coast,
And woody mountains, half in vapours lost;
That lay before him indistinct and vast,
Like a broad shield amid the watery waste.

But him, thus voyaging the deeps below,
From far, on Solyme’s aerial brow,
The king of ocean saw, and seeing burn’d
(From AEthiopia’s happy climes return’d);
The raging monarch shook his azure head,
And thus in secret to his soul he said: 
“Heavens! how uncertain are the powers on high! 
Is then reversed the sentence of the sky,
In one man’s favour; while a distant guest
I shared secure the AEthiopian feast? 
Behold how near Phoenecia’s land he draws;
The land affix’d by Fate’s eternal laws
To end his toils.  Is then our anger vain? 
No; if this sceptre yet commands the main.”

He spoke, and high the forky trident hurl’d,
Rolls clouds on clouds, and stirs the watery world,
At once the face of earth and sea deforms,
Swells all the winds, and rouses all the storms. 
Down rushed the night:  east, west, together roar;
And south and north roll mountains to the shore. 
Then shook the hero, to despair resign’d,
And question’d thus his yet unconquer’d mind;

“Wretch that I am! what farther fates attend
This life of toils, and what my destined end? 
Too well, alas! the island goddess knew
On the black sea what perils should ensue. 
New horrors now this destined head inclose;
Untill’d is yet the measure of my woes;
With what a cloud the brows of heaven are crown’d;
What raging winds! what roaring waters round! 
’Tis Jove himself the swelling tempest rears;
Death, present death, on every side appears. 
Happy! thrice happy! who, in battle slain,
Press’d in Atrides’ cause the Trojan plain! 
Oh! had I died before that well-fought wall! 
Had some distinguish’d day renown’d my fall
(Such as was that when showers of javelins fled
From conquering Troy around Achilles dead),
All Greece had paid me solemn funerals then,
And spread my glory with the sons of men. 
A shameful fate now hides my hapless head,
Unwept, unnoted, and for ever dead!”