Then, turning with the word, Minerva flies, And soars an eagle through the liquid skies. Vision divine! the throng’d spectators gaze In holy wonder fix’d, and still amaze. But chief the reverend sage admired; he took The hand of young Telemachus, and spoke: “Oh, happy youth! and favoured of the skies, Distinguished care of guardian deities! Whose early years for future worth engage, No vulgar manhood, no ignoble age. For lo! none other of the course above, Then she, the daughter of almighty Jove, Pallas herself, the war-triumphant maid; Confess’d is thine, as once thy father’s aid. So guide me, goddess! so propitious shine On me, my consort, and my royal line! A yearling bullock to thy name shall smoke, Untamed, unconscious of the galling yoke, With ample forehead, and yet tender horns, Whose budding honours ductile gold adorns.” Submissive thus the hoary sire preferr’d His holy vow: the favouring goddess heard. Then, slowly rising, o’er the sandy space Precedes the father, follow’d by his race, (A long procession) timely marching home In comely order to the regal dome. There when arrived, on thrones around him placed, His sons and grandsons the wide circle graced. To these the hospitable sage, in sign Of social welcome, mix’d the racy wine (Late from the mellowing cask restored to light, By ten long years refined, and rosy bright). To Pallas high the foaming bowl he crown’d, And sprinkled large libations on the ground. Each drinks a full oblivion of his cares, And to the gifts of balmy sleep repairs. Deep in a rich alcove the prince was laid, And slept beneath the pompous colonnade; Fast by his side Pisistratus was spread (In age his equal) on a splendid bed: But in an inner court, securely closed, The reverend Nestor and his queen reposed.