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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,

       Already snatch'd by fate, and the black doom of death!

       Pass we to other subjects; and engage

       On themes remote the venerable sage

       (Who thrice has seen the perishable kind

       Of men decay, and through three ages shined

       Like gods majestic, and like gods in mind);

       For much he knows, and just conclusions draws,

       From various precedents, and various laws.

       O son of Neleus! awful Nestor, tell

       How he, the mighty Agamemnon, fell;

       By what strange fraud Aegysthus wrought, relate

       (By force he could not) such a hero's fate?

       Live Menelaus not in Greece? or where

       Was then the martial brother's pious care?

       Condemn'd perhaps some foreign short to tread;

       Or sure Aegysthus had not dared the deed."

       To whom the full of days: Illustrious youth,

       Attend (though partly thou hast guess'd) the truth.

       For had the martial Menelaus found

       The ruffian breathing yet on Argive ground;

       Nor earth had bid his carcase from the skies,

       Nor Grecian virgins shriek'd his obsequies,

       But fowls obscene dismember'd his remains,

       And dogs had torn him on the naked plains.

       While us the works of bloody Mars employ'd,

       The wanton youth inglorious peace enjoy'd:

       He stretch'd at ease in Argos' calm recess

       (Whose stately steeds luxuriant pastures bless),

       With flattery's insinuating art

       Soothed the frail queen, and poison'd all her heard.

       At first, with the worthy shame and decent pride,

       The royal dame his lawless suit denied.

       For virtue's image yet possess'd her mind.

       Taught by a master of the tuneful kind;

       Atrides, parting for the Trojan war,

       Consign'd the youthful consort to his care.

       True to his charge, the bard preserved her long

       In honour's limits; such the power of song.

       But when the gods these objects of their hate

       Dragg'd to the destruction by the links of fate;

       The bard they banish'd from his native soil,

       And left all helpless in a desert isle;

       There he, the sweetest of the sacred train,

       Sung dying to the rocks, but sung in vain.

       Then virtue was no more; her guard away,

       She fell, to lust a voluntary prey.

       Even to the temple stalk'd the adulterous spouse,

       With impious thanks, and mockery of the vows,

       With images, with garments, and with gold;

       And odorous fumes from loaded altars roll'd.

       "Meantime from flaming Troy we cut the way

       With Menelaus, through the curling sea.

       But when to Sunium's sacred point we came,

       Crown'd with the temple of the Athenian dame;

       Atride's pilot, Phrontes, there expired

       (Phrontes, of all the songs of men admired

       To steer the bounding bark with steady toil,

       When the storm thickens, and the billows boil);

       While yet he exercised the steerman's art,

       Apollo touch'd him with his gentle dart;

       Even with the rudder in his hand, he fell.

       To pay whole honours to the shades of hell,

       We check'd our haste, by pious office bound,

       And laid our old companion in the ground.

       And now the rites discharged, our course we keep

       Far on the gloomy bosom of the deep:

       Soon as Malae's misty tops arise,

       Sudden the Thunderer blackens all the skies,

       And the winds whistle, and the surges roll

       Mountains on mountains, and obscure the pole.

       The tempest scatters, and divides our fleet;

       Part, the storm urges on the coast of Crete,

       Where winding round the rich Cydonian plain,

       The streams of Jardan issue to the main.

       There stands a rock, high, eminent and steep,

       Whose shaggy brow o'erhangs the shady deep,

       And views Gortyna on the western side;

       On this rough Auster drove the impetuous tide:

       With broken force the billows roll'd away,

       And heaved the fleet into the neighb'ring bay.

       Thus saved from death, the gain'd the Phaestan shores,

       With shatter'd vessels and disabled oars;

       But five tall barks the winds and water toss'd,

       Far from their fellows, on the Aegyptian coast.

       There wander'd Menelaus through foreign shores

       Amassing gold, and gathering naval stores;

       While cursed Aegysthus the detested deed

       By fraud fulfilled, and his great brother bled.

       Seven years, the traitor rich Mycenae sway'd,

       And his stern rule the groaning land obey'd;

       The eighth, from Athens to his realm restored,

       Orestes brandish'd the avenging sword,

       Slew the dire pair, and gave to funeral flame

       The vile assassin and adulterous dame.

       That day, ere yet the bloody triumphs cease,

       Return'd Atrides to the coast of Greece,

       And safe to Argos port his navy brought,

       With gifts of price and ponderous treasure fraught.

       Hence warn'd, my son, beware! nor idly stand

       Too long a stranger to thy native land;

       Lest heedless absence wear thy wealth away,

       While lawless feasters in thy palace

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