“At length we reach’d Æolias’s sea-girt shore, Where great Hippotades the sceptre bore, A floating isle! high-raised by toil divine, Strong walls of brass the rocky coast confine. Six blooming youths, in private grandeur bred, And six fair daughters, graced the royal bed; These sons their sisters wed, and all remain Their parents’ pride, and pleasure of their reign. All day they feast, all day the bowls flow round, And joy and music through the isle resound; At night each pair on splendid carpets lay, And crown’d with love the pleasures of the day. This happy port affords our wandering fleet A month’s reception, and a safe retreat. Full oft the monarch urged me to relate The fall of Ilion, and the Grecian fate; Full oft I told: at length for parting moved; The king with mighty gifts my suit approved. The adverse winds in leathern bags he braced, Compress’d their force, and lock’d each struggling blast. For him the mighty sire of gods assign’d The tempest’s lord, the tyrant of the wind; His word alone the listening storms obey, To smooth the deep, or swell the foamy sea. These in my hollow ship the monarch hung, Securely fetter’d by a silver thong: But Zephyrus exempt, with friendly gales He charged to fill, and guide the swelling sails: Rare gift! but O, what gift to fools avails! “Nine prosperous days we plied the labouring oar; The tenth presents our welcome native shore: The hills display the beacon’s friendly light, And rising mountains gain upon our sight. Then first my eyes, by watchful toils oppress’d, Complied to take the balmy gifts of rest: Then first my hands did from the rudder part (So much the love of home possess’d my heart): When lo! on board a fond debate arose; What rare device those vessels might inclose? What sum, what prize from Æolus I brought? Whilst to his neighbour each express’d his thought: “‘Say, whence ye gods, contending nations strive Who most shall please, who most our hero give? Long have his coffers groan’d with Trojan spoils: Whilst we, the wretched partners of his toils, Reproach’d by want, our fruitless labours mourn, And only rich in barren fame return. Now Æolus, ye see, augments his store: But come, my friends, these mystic gifts explore,’ They said: and (oh cursed fate!) the thongs unbound! The gushing tempest sweeps the ocean round; Snatch’d in the whirl, the hurried navy flew, The ocean widen’d and the shores withdrew. Roused from my fatal sleep I long debate If still to live, or desperate plunge to fate; Thus doubting, prostrate on the deck I lay, Till all the coward thoughts of death gave way.