LITMIR.BIZ

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the whistling winds the vessels fly,

      With rapid swiftness cut the liquid way,

      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.”

      “Ah! no such hope (the prince with sighs replies)

      Can touch my breast; that blessing Heaven denies.

      Ev’n by celestial favour were it given,

      Fortune or fate would cross the will of Heaven.”

      “What words are these, and what imprudence thine?

      (Thus interposed the martial maid divine)

      Forgetful youth! but know, the Power above

      With ease can save each object of his love;

      Wide as his will, extends his boundless grace;

      Nor lost in time nor circumscribed by place.

      Happier his lot, who, many sorrows’ pass’d,

      Long labouring gains his natal shore at last;

      Than who, too speedy, hastes to end his life

      By some stern ruffian, or adulterous wife.

      Death only is the lot which none can miss,

      And all is possible to Heaven but this.

      The best, the dearest favourite of the sky,

      Must taste that cup, for man is born to die.”

      Thus check’d, replied Ulysses’ prudent heir:

      “Mentor, no more — the mournful thought forbear;

      For he no more must draw his country’s breath,

      Already snatch’d by fate, and the black doom of death!

      Pass we to other subjects; and engage

      On themes remote the venerable sage

      (Who thrice has seen the perishable kind

      Of men decay, and through three ages shined

      Like gods majestic, and like gods in mind);

      For much he knows, and just conclusions draws,

      From various precedents, and various laws.

      O son of Neleus! awful Nestor, tell

      How he, the mighty Agamemnon, fell;

      By what strange fraud Aegysthus wrought, relate

      (By force he could not) such a hero’s fate?

      Live Menelaus not in Greece? or where

      Was then the martial brother’s pious care?

      Condemn’d perhaps some foreign short to tread;

      Or sure Aegysthus had not dared the deed.”

      To whom the full of days: Illustrious youth,

      Attend (though partly thou hast guess’d) the truth.

      For had the martial Menelaus found

      The ruffian breathing yet on Argive ground;

      Nor earth had bid his carcase from the skies,

      Nor Grecian virgins shriek’d his obsequies,

      But fowls

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