“Son of my love, and monarch of my cares, What pangs for thee this wretched bosom bears! Are thus by Jove who constant beg his aid With pious deed, and pure devotion, paid? He never dared defraud the sacred fane Of perfect hecatombs in order slain: There oft implored his tutelary power, Long to protract the sad sepulchral hour; That, form’d for empire with paternal care, His realm might recognize an equal heir. O destined head! The pious vows are lost; His God forgets him on a foreign coast!— Perhaps, like thee, poor guest! in wanton pride The rich insult him, and the young deride! Conscious of worth reviled, thy generous mind The friendly rite of purity declined; My will concurring with my queen’s command, Accept the bath from this obsequious hand. A strong emotion shakes my anguish’d breast: In thy whole form Ulysses seems express’d; Of all the wretched harboured on our coast, None imaged e’er like thee my master lost.” Thus half-discover’d through the dark disguise, With cool composure feign’d, the chief replies: “You join your suffrage to the public vote; The same you think have all beholders thought.” He said: replenish’d from the purest springs, The laver straight with busy care she brings: In the deep vase, that shone like burnish’d gold, The boiling fluid temperates the cold. Meantime revolving in his thoughtful mind The scar, with which his manly knee was sign’d; His face averting from the crackling blaze, His shoulders intercept the unfriendly rays: Thus cautious in the obscure he hoped to fly The curious search of Euryclea’s eye. Cautious in vain! nor ceased the dame to find This scar with which his manly knee was sign’d.