The swain returns: “A tale of sorrows hear: In spacious Crete he drew his natal air; Long doom’d to wander o’er the land and main, For Heaven has wove his thread of life with pain. Half breathless ’scaping to the land he flew From Thesprot mariners, a murderous crew. To thee, my son, the suppliant I resign; I gave him my protection, grant him thine.” “Hard task (he cries) thy virtue gives thy friend, Willing to aid, unable to defend. Can strangers safely in the court reside, ’Midst the swell’d insolence of lust and pride? E’en I unsafe: the queen in doubt to wed, Or pay due honours to the nuptial bed. Perhaps she weds regardless of her fame, Deaf to the mighty Ulyssean name. However, stranger! from our grace receive Such honours as befit a prince to give; Sandals, a sword and robes, respect to prove, And safe to sail with ornaments of love. Till then, thy guest amid the rural train, Far from the court, from danger far, detain. ’Tis mine with food the hungry to supply, And clothe the naked from the inclement sky. Here dwell in safety from the suitors’ wrongs, And the rude insults of ungovern’d tongues. For should’st thou suffer, powerless to relieve, I must behold it, and can only grieve. The brave, encompass’d by an hostile train, O’erpower’d by numbers, is but brave in vain.” To whom, while anger in his bosom glows, With warmth replies the man of mighty woes: “Since audience mild is deign’d, permit my tongue At once to pity and resent thy wrong. My heart weeps blood to see a soul so brave Live to base insolence or power a slave, But tell me, dost thou, prince, dost thou behold, And hear their midnight revels uncontroll’d? Say, do thy subjects in bold faction rise, Or priests in fabled oracles advise? Or are thy brothers, who should aid thy power, Turn’d mean deserters in the needful hour? Oh that I were from great Ulysses sprung, Or that these wither’d nerves like thine were strung, Or, heavens! might he return! (and soon appear He shall, I trust; a hero scorns despair:) Might he return, I yield my life a prey To my worst foe, if that avenging day Be not their last: but should I lose my life, Oppress’d by numbers in the glorious strife, I chose the nobler part, and yield my breath, Rather than bear dishonor, worse than death; Than see the hand of violence invade The reverend stranger and the spotless maid; Than see the wealth of kings consumed in waste, The drunkard’s revel, and the gluttons’ feast.”