I bid thee hail, and hope Thou meetest me with no unkind intent. Protect what thou beholdest here and me; I make my suit to thee as to a god, And come to thy dear knees. And tell, I pray, That I may know the truth, what land is this? What people? who the dwellers? may it be A pleasant isle, or is it but the shore Of fruitful mainland shelving to the sea?”
And then the goddess, blue-eyed Pallas, said: “Of simple mind art thou, unless perchance Thou comest from afar, if thou dost ask What country this may be. It is not quite A nameless region; many know it well Of those who dwell beneath the rising sun, And those, behind, in Evening’s dusky realm. Rugged it is, and suited ill to steeds, Yet barren it is not, though level grounds Are none within its borders. It is rich In corn and wine, for seasonable rains And dews refresh its soil. Large flocks of goats And herds of beeves are pastured here; all kinds Of trees are in its forests, and its springs Are never dry. The fame of Ithaca, Stranger, has travelled to the Trojan coast, Though that, I hear, lies far away from Greece.”