To one so suppliant and tam’d with woe, Thou shalt not want. Our city I will show,
And tell our people’s name: This neighbour town,
And all this kingdom, the Phæacians own.
And (since thou seem’dst so fain to know my birth,
And mad’st a question, if of heav’n or earth.)
This earth hath bred me; and my father’s name
Alcinous is, that in the pow’r and frame
Of this isle’s rule is supereminent.”
Thus, passing him, she to the virgins went,
And said: “Give stay both to your feet and fright.
Why thus disperse ye for a man’s mere sight?
Esteem you him a Cyclop, that long since
Made use to prey upon our citizens?
This man no moist man is, (nor wat’rish thing, [5]
That’s ever flitting, ever ravishing
All it can compass; and, like it, doth range
In rape of women, never stay’d in change).
This man is truly manly, wise, and stay’d, [6]
In soul more rich the more to sense decay’d,
Who nor will do, nor suffer to be done,
Acts lewd and abject; nor can such a one
Greet the Phæacians with a mind envíous,
Dear to the Gods they are, and he is pious,
Besides, divided from the world we are,
The out-part of it, billows circular
The sea revolving round about our shore;
Nor is there any man that enters more
Than our own countrymen, with what is brought
From other countries. This man, minding nought
But his relief, a poor unhappy wretch,
Wrack’d here, and hath no other land to fetch,
Him now we must provide for. From Jove come [7]
All strangers, and the needy of a home,
Who any gift, though ne’er so small it be,
Esteem as great, and take it gratefully.
And therefore, virgins, give the stranger food,
And wine; and see ye bathe him in the flood,
Near to some shore to shelter most inclin’d.
To cold-bath-bathers hurtful is the wind, Not only rugged making th’ outward skin, But by his thin pow’rs pierceth parts within. This said, their flight in a return they set, And did Ulysses with all grace entreat, Show’d him a shore, wind-proof, and full of shade, By him a shirt and utter mantle laid, A golden jug of liquid oil did add, Bad wash, and all things as Nausicaa bad. Divine Ulysses would not use their aid; But thus bespake them: “Ev’ry lovely maid, Let me entreat to stand a little by, [8] That I, alone, the fresh flood may apply To cleanse my bosom of the sea-wrought brine, And then use oil, which long time did not shine On my poor shoulders. I’ll not wash in sight Of fair-hair’d maidens. I should blush outright, To bathe all-bare by such a virgin light.” They mov’d, and mus’d a man had so much grace, And told their mistress what a man he was. He cleans’d his broad soil’d shoulders, back, and head Yet never tam’d, but now had foam and weed Knit in the fair curls. Which dissolv’d, and he Slick’d all with sweet oil, the sweet charity The untouch’d virgin show’d in his attire He cloth’d him with. Then Pallas put a fire, More than before, into his sparkling eyes, His late soil set off with his soon fresh guise. His locks, cleans’d, curl’d the more, and match’d, in pow’r To please an eye, the hyacinthian flow’r. And as a workman, that can well combine Silver and gold, and make both strive to shine, As being by Vulcan, and Minerva too, Taught how far either may be urg’d to go In strife of eminence, when work sets forth A worthy soul to bodies of such worth, No thought reproving th’ act, in any place, Nor Art no debt to Nature’s liveliest grace; So Pallas wrought in him a grace as great From head to shoulders, and ashore did seat His goodly presence. To which such a guise He show’d in going, that it ravish’d eyes. All which continued, as he sat apart, Nausicaa’s eye struck wonder through her heart, Who thus bespake her consorts: “Hear me, you Fair-wristed virgins! This rare man, I know, Treads not our country-earth, against the will Of some God thronéd on th’ Olympian hill. He show’d to me, till now, not worth the note, But now he looks as he had godhead got. I would to heav’n my husband were no worse, And would be call’d no better, but the course Of other husbands pleas’d to dwell out here. Observe and serve him with our utmost cheer.” She said, they heard and did. He drunk and eat Like to a harpy, having touch’d no meat A long before time. But Nausicaa now Thought of the more grace she did lately vow, Had horse to chariot join’d, and up she rose, Up cheer’d her guest, and said: “Guest, now dispose Yourself for town, that I may let you see My father’s court, where all the peers will be Of our Phæacian state. At all parts, then, Observe to whom and what place y’ are t’ attain; Though I need usher you with no advice, Since I suppose you absolutely wise. While we the fields pass, and men’s labours there, So long, in these maids’ guides, directly bear Upon my chariot (I must go before For cause that after comes, to which this more Be my induction) you shall then soon end Your way to town, whose tow’rs you see ascend [9] To such a steepness. On whose either side A fair port stands, to which is nothing wide An ent’rer’s passage; on whose both hands ride Ships in fair harbours; which once past, you win The goodly market-place (that circles in A fane to Neptune, built of curious stone, And passing ample) where munitión, Gables, and masts, men make, and polish’d oars; For the Phæacians are not conquerors By bows nor quivers; oars, masts, ships they are With which they plough the sea, and wage their war. And now the cause comes why I lead the way, Not taking you to coach: The men, that sway In work of those tools that so fit our state, Are rude mechanicals, that rare and late Work in the market-place; and those are they Whose bitter tongues I shun, who straight would say (For these vile vulgars are extremely proud, And foully-languag’d) ‘What is he, allow’d To coach it with Nausicaa, so large set, And fairly fashion’d? Where were these two met? He shall be sure her husband. She hath been Gadding in some place, and, of foreign men Fitting her fancy, kindly brought him home In her own ship. He must, of force, be come From some far region; we have no such man. It may be, praying hard, when her heart ran On some wish’d
