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,