No More Learning

The bold Phaecians there, whose haughty line
Is mixed with gods, half human, half divine,
The chief shall honour as some heavenly guest,
And swift transport him to his place of rest,
His vessels loaded with a plenteous store
Of brass, of vestures, and           ore
(A richer prize than if his joyful isle
Received him charged with Ilion's noble spoil),
His friends, his country, he shall see, though late:
Such is our sovereign will, and such is fate.