“Ah me! when, o’er a length of waters toss’d,
These eyes at last behold the unhoped-for coast,
No port receives me from the angry main,
But the loud deeps demand me back again. 
Above, sharp rocks forbid access; around
Roar the wild waves; beneath, is sea profound! 
No footing sure affords the faithless sand,
To stem too rapid, and too deep to stand. 
If here I enter, my efforts are vain,
Dash’d on the cliffs, or heaved into the main;
Or round the island if my course I bend,
Where the ports open, or the shores descend,
Back to the seas the rolling surge may sweep,
And bury all my hopes beneath the deep. 
Or some enormous whale the god may send
(For many such an Amphitrite attend);
Too well the turns of mortal chance I know,
And hate relentless of my heavenly foe.” 
While thus he thought, a monstrous wave upbore
The chief, and dash’d him on the craggy shore;
Torn was his skin, nor had the ribs been whole,
But Instant Pallas enter’d in his soul. 
Close to the cliff with both his hands he clung,
And stuck adherent, and suspended hung;
Till the huge surge roll’d off; then backward sweep
The refluent tides, and plunge him in the deep. 
As when the polypus, from forth his cave
Torn with full force, reluctant beats the wave,
His ragged claws are stuck with stones and sands;
So the rough rock had shagg’d Ulysses hands,
And now had perish’d, whelm’d beneath the main,
The unhappy man; e’en fate had been in vain;
But all-subduing Pallas lent her power,
And prudence saved him in the needful hour. 
Beyond the beating surge his course he bore,
(A wider circle, but in sight of shore),
With longing eyes, observing, to survey
Some smooth ascent, or safe sequester’d bay. 
Between the parting rocks at length he spied
A failing stream with gentler waters glide;
Where to the seas the shelving shore declined,
And form’d a bay impervious to the wind. 
To this calm port the glad Ulysses press’d,
And hail’d the river, and its god address’d: 

“Whoe’er thou art, before whose stream unknown
I bend, a suppliant at thy watery throne,
Hear, azure king! nor let me fly in vain
To thee from Neptune and the raging main
Heaven hears and pities hapless men like me,
For sacred even to gods is misery: 
Let then thy waters give the weary rest,
And save a suppliant, and a man distress’d.”

He pray’d, and straight the gentle stream subsides,
Detains the rushing current of his tides,
Before the wanderer smooths the watery way,
And soft receives him from the rolling sea. 
That moment, fainting as he touch’d the shore,
He dropp’d his sinewy arms:  his knees no more
Perform’d their office, or his weight upheld: 
His swoln heart heaved; his bloated body swell’d: 
From mouth and nose the briny torrent ran;
And lost in lassitude lay all the man,
Deprived of voice, of motion, and of breath;
The soul scarce waking in the arms of death. 
Soon as warm life its wonted office found,
The mindful chief Leucothea’s scarf unbound;
Observant of her word, he turn’d aside
HIs head, and cast it on the rolling tide. 
Behind him far, upon the purple waves,
The waters waft it, and the nymph receives.