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 raceThou 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 spaceFor flying chariots, or the rapid race;Yet not ungrateful to the peasant's pain,Suffices fulness to the swelling grain;

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