Page:The Works of Alexander Pope (1717).djvu/393
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HOMER's ODYSSES.
357
Her decent hand a shining javelin bore,
And painted sandals on her feet she wore:
To whom the King: Whoe'er of human race
Thou art, that wander'st in this desart place,
With joy to thee, as to some God, I bend,
To thee my treasures and my self commend.
O tell a wretch, in exile doom'd to stray,
What air I breath, what country I survey?
The fruitful continent's extreamest bound,
Or some fair isle which Neptune's arms surround?
From what far clime (said she) remote from fame,
Arriv'st thou here, a stranger to our name?
Thou seest an island, not to those unknown,
Whose hills are brighten'd by the rising sun;
Nor those that plac'd beneath his utmost reign,
Behold him sinking in the western main.
The rugged soil allows no level space
For flying chariots, or the rapid race;
Yet not ungrateful to the peasant's pain,
Suffices fulness to the swelling grain;
And painted sandals on her feet she wore:
To whom the King: Whoe'er of human race
Thou art, that wander'st in this desart place,
With joy to thee, as to some God, I bend,
To thee my treasures and my self commend.
O tell a wretch, in exile doom'd to stray,
What air I breath, what country I survey?
The fruitful continent's extreamest bound,
Or some fair isle which Neptune's arms surround?
From what far clime (said she) remote from fame,
Arriv'st thou here, a stranger to our name?
Thou seest an island, not to those unknown,
Whose hills are brighten'd by the rising sun;
Nor those that plac'd beneath his utmost reign,
Behold him sinking in the western main.
The rugged soil allows no level space
For flying chariots, or the rapid race;
Yet not ungrateful to the peasant's pain,
Suffices fulness to the swelling grain;
The