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Now o'er the ocean am I blown,
Or tossed on shore from stone to stone.
O, by the genial light of day,
By those soft airs on earth that play,
By your loved sire I make my prayer,
By the sweet promise of your heir,
Respect our friendship: give relief
From these my ills, unconquered chief:
And either heap, as well you can,
Some earth upon a wretched man—
'Twill cost you but to measure back
To Velia's port your watery track—
Or if perchance some way be known,
Some path by your blest mother shown,
For not unhelped of heaven, I trow,
O'er those dread floods you hope to go,
Vouchsafe the pledge my misery craves,
And take me with you o'er the waves,
That so in resting-place of peace
My wandering life at length may cease.'
His piteous plaint was scarcely done
When thus the prophetess begun:
'Whence, Palinure, this wild desire?
What, still unburied, you aspire
To see the stream that Furies guard,
And tread, unbid, the bank's pale sward?
No longer dream that human prayer
The will of Fate can overbear.
Yet take and in your memory store
This cordial for your sorrow sore.
For know, that cruel country-side,
Alarmed by portents far and wide,
Shall lay your spirit, raise a mound,
And send down offerings underground:
And all the coast, while time endures,
Shall link its name with Palinure's.'