“Son of Laertes, man of many wiles, Highborn Ulysses! thus wilt thou depart Home to thy native country? Then farewell; But, couldst thou know the sufferings Fate ordains For thee ere yet thou landest on its shore, Thou wouldst remain to keep this home with me And be immortal, strong as is thy wish To see thy wife—a wish that day by day Possesses thee. I cannot deem myself In face or form less beautiful than she; For never with immortals can the race Of mortal dames in form or face compare.”
Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her:—
“Bear with me, gracious goddess; well I know All thou couldst say. The sage Penelope In feature and in stature comes not nigh To thee, for she is mortal—deathless thou, And ever young; yet day by day I long To be at home once more, and pine to see The hour of my return. Even though some god Smite me on the black ocean, I shall bear The stroke, for in my bosom dwells a mind Patient of suffering; much have I endured, And much survived, in tempests on the deep, And in the battle; let this happen too.”
He spake; the sun went down; the night came on; And now the twain withdrew to a recess Deep in the vaulted cave, where, side by side, They took their rest. But when the child of Dawn, Aurora, rosy-fingered, looked abroad, Ulysses put his vest and mantle on; The nymph too, in a robe of silver-white, Ample, and delicate, and beautiful,