“‘Swear first (she cried), ye sailors! to restore A wretch in safety to her native shore.’ Swift as she ask’d, the ready sailors swore. She then proceeds: ‘Now let our compact made Be nor by signal nor by word betray’d, Nor near me any of your crew descried, By road frequented, or by fountain side. Be silence still our guard. The monarch’s spies (For watchful age is ready to surmise) Are still at hand; and this, revealed, must be Death to yourselves, eternal chains to me. Your vessel loaded, and your traffic pass’d, Despatch a wary messenger with haste; Then gold and costly treasures will I bring, And more, the infant offspring of the king. Him, child-like wandering forth, I’ll lead away (A noble prize!) and to your ship convey.’ “Thus spoke the dame, and homeward took the road. A year they traffic, and their vessel load. Their stores complete, and ready now to weigh, A spy was sent their summons to convey: An artist to my father’s palace came, With gold and amber chains, elaborate frame: Each female eye the glittering links employ; They turn, review, and cheapen every toy. He took the occasion, as they stood intent, Gave her the sign, and to his vessel went. She straight pursued, and seized my willing arm; I follow’d, smiling, innocent of harm. Three golden goblets in the porch she found (The guests not enter’d, but the table crown’d); Hid in her fraudful bosom these she bore: Now set the sun, and darken’d all the shore. Arriving then, where tilting on the tides Prepared to launch the freighted vessel rides, Aboard they heave us, mount their decks, and sweep With level oar along the glassy deep. Six calmy days and six smooth nights we sail, And constant Jove supplied the gentle gale. The seventh, the fraudful wretch (no cause descried), Touch’d by Diana’s vengeful arrow, died. Down dropp’d the caitiff-corse, a worthless load, Down to the deep; there roll’d, the future food Of fierce sea-wolves, and monsters of the flood. An helpless infant I remain’d behind; Thence borne to Ithaca by wave and wind; Sold to Laertes by divine command, And now adopted to a foreign land.” To him the king: “Reciting thus thy cares, My secret soul in all thy sorrow shares; But one choice blessing (such is Jove’s high will) Has sweeten’d all thy bitter draught of ill: Torn from thy country to no hapless end, The gods have, in a master, given a friend. Whatever frugal nature needs is thine (For she needs little), daily bread and wine. While I, so many wanderings past, and woes, Live but on what thy poverty bestows.”