Thy careful hand is stamp’d on all the soil,

Thy squadron’d vineyards well thy art declare,

The olive green, blue fig, and pendent pear;

And not one empty spot escapes thy care.

On every plant and tree thy cares are shown,

Nothing neglected, but thyself alone.

Forgive me, father, if this fault I blame;

Age so advanced, may some indulgence claim.

Not for thy sloth, I deem thy lord unkind:

Nor speaks thy form a mean or servile mind;

I read a monarch in that princely air,

The same thy aspect, if the same thy care;

Soft sleep, fair garments, and the joys of wine,

These are the rights of age, and should be thine.

Who then thy master, say? and whose the land

So dress’d and managed by thy skilful hand?

But chief, oh tell me! (what I question most)

Is this the far-famed Ithacensian coast?

For so reported the first man I view’d

(Some surly islander, of manners rude),

Nor farther conference vouchsafed to stay;

Heedless he whistled, and pursued his way.

But thou whom years have taught to understand,

Humanely hear, and answer my demand:

A friend I seek, a wise one and a brave:

Say, lives he yet, or moulders in the grave?

Time was (my fortunes then were at the best)

When at my house I lodged this foreign guest;

He said, from Ithaca’s fair isle he came,

And old Laertes was his father’s name.

To him, whatever to a guest is owed

I paid, and hospitable gifts bestow’d:

To him seven talents of pure ore I told,

Twelve cloaks, twelve vests, twelve tunics stiff with gold:

A bowl, that rich with polish’d silver flames,

And skill’d in female works, four lovely dames.”


At this the father, with a father’s fears

(His venerable eyes bedimm’d with tears):

“This is the land; but ah! thy gifts are lost,

For godless men, and rude possess the coast:

Sunk is the glory of this once-famed shore!

Thy ancient friend, O stranger, is no more!

Full recompense thy bounty else had borne: