Haste to the cottage by this orchard’s side,

And take the banquet which our cares provide;

There wait thy faithful band of rural friends,

And there the young Telemachus attends.”


Thus, having said, they traced the garden o’er

And stooping entered at the lowly door.

The swains and young Telemachus they found.

The victim portion’d and the goblet crown’d.

The hoary king, his old Sicilian maid

Perfum’d and wash’d, and gorgeously arrayed.

Pallas attending gives his frame to shine

With awful port, and majesty divine;

His gazing son admires the godlike grace,

And air celestial dawning o’er his face.

“What god (he cried) my father’s form improves!

How high he treads and how enlarged he moves!”


“Oh! would to all the deathless powers on high,

Pallas and Jove, and him who gilds the sky!

(Replied the king elated with his praise)

My strength were still, as once in better days:

When the bold Cephalens the leaguer form’d.

And proud Nericus trembled as I storm’d.

Such were I now, not absent from your deed

When the last sun beheld the suitors bleed,

This arm had aided yours, this hand bestrown

Our shores with death, and push’d the slaughter on;

Nor had the sire been separate from the son.”


They communed thus; while homeward bent their way

The swains, fatigued with labours of the day:

Dolius, the first, the venerable man;

And next his sons, a long succeeding train.

For due refection to the bower they came,

Call’d by the careful old Sicilian dame,

Who nursed the children, and now tends the sire,

They see their lord, they gaze, and they admire.

On chairs and beds in order seated round,

They share the gladsome board; the roofs resound,

While thus Ulysses to his ancient friend:

“Forbear your wonder, and the feast attend:

The rites have waited long.” The chief commands

Their love in vain; old Dolius spreads his hands,

Springs to his master with a warm embrace,

And fastens kisses on his hands and face;