Good counsel of Minerva azure-eyed. With both hands suddenly he seized the rock, And, groaning, clench'd it till the billow pass'd. So baffled he that wave; but yet again The refluent flood rush'd on him, and with force Resistless dash'd him far into the sea. As pebbles to the hollow polypus 520 Extracted from his stony bed, adhere, So he, the rough rocks clasping, stripp'd his hands Raw, and the billows now whelm'd him again. Then had the hapless Hero premature Perish'd, but for sagacity inspired By Pallas azure-eyed. Forth from the waves Emerging, where the surf burst on the rocks, He coasted (looking landward as he swam) The shore, with hope of port or level beach. But when, still swimming, to the mouth he came 530 Of a smooth-sliding river, there he deem'd Safest th' ascent, for it was undeform'd By rocks, and shelter'd close from ev'ry wind. He felt the current, and thus, ardent, pray'd. O hear, whate'er thy name, Sov'reign, who rul'st This river! at whose mouth, from all the threats Of Neptune 'scap'd, with rapture I arrive. Even the Immortal Gods the wand'rer's pray'r Respect, and such am I, who reach, at length, Thy stream, and clasp thy knees, after long toil. 540 I am thy suppliant. Oh King! pity me. He said; the river God at once repress'd His current, and it ceas'd; smooth he prepared The way before Ulysses, and the land Vouchsafed him easy at his channel's mouth. There, once again he bent for ease his limbs Both arms and knees, in conflict with the floods Exhausted; swoln his body was all o'er, And from his mouth and nostrils stream'd the brine. Breathless and speechless, and of life well nigh 550 Bereft he lay, through dreadful toil immense. But when, revived, his dissipated pow'rs He recollected, loosing from beneath His breast the zone divine, he cast it far Into the brackish stream, and a huge wave Returning bore it downward to the sea, Where Ino caught it. Then, the river's brink Abandoning, among the rushes prone He lay, kiss'd oft the soil, and sighing, said, Ah me! what suff'rings must I now sustain, 560 What doom, at last, awaits me? If I watch This woeful night, here, at the river's side, What hope but that the frost and copious dews, Weak as I am, my remnant small of life Shall quite extinguish, and the chilly air Breath'd from the river at the dawn of day? But if, ascending this declivity I gain the woods, and in some thicket sleep, (If sleep indeed can find me overtoil'd And cold-benumb'd) then I have cause to fear 570 Lest I be torn by wild beasts, and devour'd. Long time he mused, but, at the last, his course Bent to the woods, which not remote he saw