Who clasps the bright perfection in his arms! 
Never, I never view’d till this blast hour
Such finish’d grace!  I gaze, and I adore! 
Thus seems the palm with stately honours crown’d
By Phoebus’ altars; thus o’erlooks the ground;
The pride of Delos. (By the Delian coast,
I voyaged, leader of a warrior-host,
But ah, how changed I from thence my sorrow flows;
O fatal voyage, source of all my woes;)
Raptured I stood, and as this hour amazed,
With reverence at the lofty wonder gazed: 
Raptured I stand! for earth ne’er knew to bear
A plant so stately, or a nymph so fair. 
Awed from access, I lift my suppliant hands;
For Misery, O queen! before thee stands. 
Twice ten tempestuous nights I roll’d, resign’d
To roaring blows, and the warring wind;
Heaven bade the deep to spare; but heaven, my foe,
Spares only to inflict some mightier woe. 
Inured to cares, to death in all its forms;
Outcast I rove, familiar with the storms. 
Once more I view the face of human kind: 
Oh let soft pity touch thy generous mind! 
Unconscious of what air I breathe, I stand
Naked, defenceless on a narrow land. 
Propitious to my wants a vest supply
To guard the wretched from the inclement sky: 
So may the gods, who heaven and earth control,
Crown the chaste wishes of thy virtuous soul,
On thy soft hours their choicest blessings shed;
Blest with a husband be thy bridal bed;
Blest be thy husband with a blooming race,
And lasting union crown your blissful days. 
The gods, when they supremely bless, bestow
Firm union on their favourites below;
Then envy grieves, with inly-pining hate;
The good exult, and heaven is in our state.”

To whom the nymph:  “O stranger, cease thy care;
Wise is thy soul, but man is bore to bear;
Jove weighs affairs of earth in dubious scales,
And the good suffers, while the bad prevails. 
Bear, with a soul resign’d, the will of Jove;
Who breathes, must mourn:  thy woes are from above. 
But since thou tread’st our hospitable shore,
’Tis mine to bid the wretched grieve no more,
To clothe the naked, and thy way to guide. 
Know, the Phaecian tribes this land divide;
From great Alcinous’ royal loins I spring,
A happy nation, and a happy king.”

Then to her maids:  “Why, why, ye coward train,
These fears, this flight? ye fear, and fly in vain. 
Dread ye a foe? dismiss that idle dread,
’Tis death with hostile step these shores to tread;
Safe in the love of heaven, an ocean flows
Around our realm, a barrier from the foes;
’Tis ours this son of sorrow to relieve,
Cheer the sad heart, nor let affliction grieve. 
By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent;
And what to those we give to Jove is lent. 
Then food supply, and bathe his fainting limbs
Where waving shades obscure the mazy streams.”

Obedient to the call, the chief they guide
To the calm current of the secret tide;
Close by the stream a royal dress they lay,
A vest and robe, with rich embroidery gay;
Then unguents in a vase of gold supply,
That breathed a fragrance through the balmy sky.