of whose stout barque Neptune has made a wreck amidst the waves, Tossed by the billow and the blast, and few Are those who from the hoary ocean reach The shore, their limbs all crested with the brine, These gladly climb the sea-beach, and are safe— So welcome was her husband to her eyes. Nor would her fair white arms release his neck, And there would rosy-fingered Morn have found Both weeping, but the blue-eyed Pallas planned That thus it should not be; she stayed the night When near its close, and held the golden Morn Long in the ocean deeps, nor suffered her To yoke her steeds that bring the light to men— Lampas and Phaëthon, swift steeds that bear The Morning on her way. Ulysses then, The man of forecast, thus bespake his queen:—
“Not yet, O wife, have we attained the close Of all our labors. One remains which yet I must achieve, toilsome, and measureless In difficulty; for so prophesied The spirit of Tiresias, on the day When to the abode of Pluto I went down To ask the seer concerning the return Of my companions, and my own. But now Seek we our couch, dear wife, that, softly laid, We may refresh ourselves with welcome sleep.”