She said, and o’er him waves her wand of gold Imperial robes his manly limbs infold; At once with grace divine his frame improves; At once with majesty enlarged he moves: Youth flush’d his reddening cheek, and from his brows A length of hair in sable ringlets flows; His blackening chin receives a deeper shade; Then from his eyes upsprung the warrior-maid. The hero reascends: the prince o’erawed Scarce lifts his eyes, and bows as to a god, Then with surprise (surprise chastised by fears): “How art thou changed! (he cried)—a god appears! Far other vests thy limbs majestic grace, Far other glories lighten from thy face! If heaven be thy abode, with pious care, Lo! I the ready sacrifice prepare: Lo! gifts of labour’d gold adorn thy shrine, To win thy grace: O save us, power divine!” “Few are my days (Ulysses made reply), Nor I, alas! descendant of the sky. I am thy father. O my son! my son! That father, for whose sake thy days have run One scene of woe! to endless cares consign’d, And outraged by the wrongs of base mankind.” Then, rushing to his arms, he kiss’d his boy With the strong raptures of a parent’s joy. Tears bathe his cheek, and tears the ground bedew: He strain’d him close, as to his breast he grew. “Ah me! (exclaims the prince with fond desire) Thou art not—no, thou canst not be my sire. Heaven such illusion only can impose, By the false joy to aggravate my woes. Who but a god can change the general doom, And give to wither’d age a youthful bloom! Late, worn with years, in weeds obscene you trod; Now, clothed in majesty, you move a god!” “Forbear (he cried,) for Heaven reserve that name; Give to thy father but a father’s claim; Other Ulysses shalt thou never see, I am Ulysses, I, my son, am he. Twice ten sad years o’er earth and ocean toss’d, ’Tis given at length to view my native coast. Pallas, unconquer’d maid, my frame surrounds With grace divine: her power admits no bounds; She o’er my limbs old age and wrinkles shed; Now strong as youth, magnificent I tread. The gods with ease frail man depress or raise, Exalt the lowly, or the proud debase.” He spoke and sate. The prince with transport flew, Hung round his neck, while tears his cheek bedew; Nor less the father pour’d a social flood; They wept abundant, and they wept aloud. As the bold eagle with fierce sorrow stung, Or parent vulture, mourns her ravish’d young; They cry, they scream, their unfledged brood a prey To some rude churl, and borne by stealth away: So they aloud: and tears in tides had run, Their grief unfinish’d with the setting sun; But checking the full torrent in its flow, The prince thus interrupts the solemn woe. “What ship transported thee, O father, say; And what bless’d hands have oar’d thee on the way?”