While he revolved these doubts within his mind, A huge wave hurled him toward the rugged coast.
Then had his limbs been flayed, and all his bones Broken at once, had not the blue-eyed maid, Minerva, prompted him.
Borne toward the rock, He clutched it instantly with both his hands, And panting clung till that huge wave rolled by, And so escaped its fury.
Back it came, And smote him once again, and flung him far Seaward.
As to the claws of Polypus, Plucked from its bed, the pebbles thickly cling, So flakes of skin, from off his powerful hands, Were left upon the rock.
The mighty surge O’erwhelmed him; he had perished ere his time— Hapless Ulysses!—but the blue-eyed maid, Pallas, informed his mind with forecast.
Straight Emerging from the wave that shoreward rolled, He swam along the coast and eyed it well, In hope of sloping beach or sheltered creek.
But when, in swimming, he had reached the mouth Of a soft-flowing river, here appeared The spot he wished for, smooth, without a rock, And here was shelter from the wind.
He felt The current’s flow, and thus devoutly prayed:—