Crown’d with rough thickets, and a nodding wood.

I left my vessel at the point of land,

And close to guard it, gave our crew command:

With only twelve, the boldest and the best,

I seek the adventure, and forsake the rest.

Then took a goatskin fill’d with precious wine,

The gift of Maron of Evantheus’ line

(The priest of Phœbus at the Ismarian shrine).

In sacred shade his honour’d mansion stood

Amidst Apollo’s consecrated wood;

Him, and his house, Heaven moved my mind to save,

And costly presents in return he gave;

Seven golden talents to perfection wrought,

A silver bowl that held a copious draught,

And twelve large vessels of unmingled wine,

Mellifluous, undecaying, and divine!

Which now, some ages from his race conceal’d,

The hoary sire in gratitude reveal’d.

Such was the wine: to quench whose fervent steam

Scarce twenty measures from the living stream

To cool one cup sufficed: the goblet crown’d

Breathed aromatic fragrances around.

Of this an ample vase we heaved aboard,

And brought another with provisions stored.

My soul foreboded I should find the bower

Of some fell monster, fierce with barbarous power;

Some rustic wretch, who lived in Heaven’s despite,

Contemning laws, and trampling on the right.

The cave we found, but vacant all within

(His flock the giant tended on the green):

But round the grot we gaze; and all we view,

In order ranged our admiration drew:

The bending shelves with loads of cheeses press’d,

The folded flocks each separate from the rest

(The larger here, and there the lesser lambs,

The new-fallen young here bleating for their dams:

The kid distinguish’d from the lambkin lies);

The cavern echoes with responsive cries.

Capacious chargers all around were laid.

Full pails, and vessels of the milking trade.

With fresh provisions hence our fleet to store

My friends advise me, and to quit the shore.

Or drive a flock of sheep and goats away,