A guest, and suppliant too, we should esteem Dear as our brother, one that doth but dream He hath a soul, or touch but at a mind Deathless and manly, should stand so inclin’d. Nor cloak you longer with your curious wit, Lov’d guest, what ever we shall ask of it. It now stands on your honest state to tell, And therefore give your name, nor more conceal What of your parents, and the town that bears Name of your native, or of foreigners That near us border, you are call’d in fame. There’s no man living walks without a name, Noble nor base, but had one from his birth Impos’d as fit as to be borne. What earth, People, and city, own you, give to know. Tell but our ships all, that your way must show. For our ships know th’ expressed minds of men, And will so most intentively retain Their scopes appointed, that they never err, And yet use never any man to steer, Nor any rudders have, as others need. They know men’s thoughts, and whither tends their speed, And there will set them; for you cannot name[13] A city to them, nor fat soil, that Fame Hath any notice giv’n, but well they know, And they will fly to them, though they ebb and flow In blackest clouds and nights; and never bear Of any wrack or rock the slend’rest fear. But this I heard my sire Nausithous say. Long since, that Neptune, seeing us convey So safely passengers of all degrees, Was angry with us; and upon our seas A well-built ship we had, near harbour come From safe deduction of some stranger home, Made in his flitting billows stick stone still; And dimm’d our city, like a mighty hill With shade cast round about it. This report, The old king made;[14] in which miraculous sort, If God had done such things, or left undone, At his good pleasure be it. But now, on, And truth relate us, both whence you err’d, And to what clime of men would be transferr’d, With all their fair towns, be they as they are, If rude, unjust, and all irregular, Or hospitable, bearing minds that please The mighty Deity. Which one of these You would be set at, say, and you are there. And therefore what afflicts you? Why, to hear The fate of Greece and Ilion, mourn you so? The Gods have done it; as to all they do Destine destruction, that from thence may rise A poem to instruct posterities. Fell any kinsman before Ilion? Some worthy sire-in-law, or like-near son, Whom next our own blood and self-race we love? Or any friend perhaps, in whom did move A knowing soul, and no unpleasing thing? Since such a good one is no underling To any brother; for, what fits true friends, True wisdom is, that blood and birth transcends.” FINIS LIBRI OCTAVI HOM. ODYSS. [1] The continued piety of Ulysses through all places, times, and occasions.