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 From thence, a world of toils and dangers past, Waft him to rich Phæacia's realms at last. There at the Feast his wand'rings to relate, His friendsfriends' [sic] dire change; his own relentless fate. But if the bard of former actions sings, He wisely draws from those remoter springs, The present order, and the course of things.


 * As yet unfold th' event on no pretense,

'Tis your chief task to keep us in suspense. Nor tell what presents Atreus' son prepares, To reconcile Achilles to the Wars; Or by what God's auspicious conduct led, From Polyphemus' den Ulysses fled. Pleas'd with the toil, and on the prospect bent Our souls leap forward to the wisht event. No call of nature can our search restrain, And sleep, and thirst, and hunger plead in vain. Glad we pursue the labour we embrac'd, And leave reluctant, when we leave at last. See! how the bard, triumphant in his art, Sports with our passions, and commands the heart; Now