But when, still swimming, to the mouth he came
Of a smooth-sliding river, there he deem’d
Safest th’ ascent, for it was undeform’d
By rocks, and shelter’d close from ev’ry wind.
He felt the current, and thus, ardent, pray’d.
This river! at whose mouth, from all the threats
Of Neptune ’scap’d, with rapture I arrive.
Even the Immortal Gods the wand’rer’s pray’r
Respect, and such am I, who reach, at length,
Thy stream, and clasp thy knees, after long toil.
I am thy suppliant. Oh King! pity me.
His current, and it ceas’d; smooth he prepared
The way before Ulysses, and the land
Vouchsafed him easy at his channel’s mouth.
There, once again he bent for ease his limbs
Both arms and knees, in conflict with the floods
Exhausted; swoln his body was all o’er,
And from his mouth and nostrils stream’d the brine.
Breathless and speechless, and of life well nigh
Bereft he lay, through dreadful toil immense.
But when, revived, his dissipated pow’rs
He recollected, loosing from beneath
His breast the zone divine, he cast it far
Into the brackish stream, and a huge wave
Returning bore it downward to the sea,
Where Ino caught it. Then, the river’s brink
Abandoning, among the rushes prone
He lay, kiss’d oft the soil, and sighing, said,
What doom, at last, awaits me? If I watch
This woeful night, here, at the river’s side,
What hope but that the frost and copious dews,
Weak as I am, my remnant small of life
Shall quite extinguish, and the chilly air
Breath’d from the river at the dawn of day?
But if, ascending this declivity
I gain the woods, and in some thicket sleep,
(If sleep indeed can find me overtoil’d
And cold- benumb’d) then I have cause to fear
Lest I be torn by wild beasts, and devour’d.
Bent to the woods, which not remote he saw
From the sea-brink, conspicuous on a hill.
Arrived, between two neighbour shrubs he crept,
Both olives, this the fruitful, that the wild;
A covert, which nor rough winds blowing moist
Could penetrate, nor could the noon- day sun
Smite through it, or unceasing show’rs pervade,
So thick a roof the ample branches form’d
Close interwoven; under these the Chief
Retiring, with industrious hands a bed
Collected broad of leaves, which there he found
Abundant strew’d, such store as had sufficed
Two travellers or three for cov’ring warm,
Though winter’s roughest blasts had rag’d the while.
That bed with joy the suff’ring Chief renown’d
Contemplated, and occupying soon
The middle space, hillock’d it high with leaves.
As when some swain hath hidden deep his torch
Beneath the embers, at the verge extreme
Of all his farm, where, having neighbours none,
He saves a seed or two of future flame
Alive, doom’d else to fetch it from afar,
So with dry leaves Ulysses overspread
His body, on whose eyes Minerva pour’d
The balm of sleep copious, that he might taste
Repose again, after long toil severe.
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