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Updated: May 15, 2025
After a while, rousing himself a little, he shifted his position and, drawing from the pocket of his shooting coat his little tree-calf edition of the Odyssey, read far into the twenty-first book, where, after the failure of all the suitors to bend Ulysses's bow, it is finally put, with mockery, into his own hands. Abruptly the drama of the story roused him from all his languor.
Such power have charms, by whose prevailing aid The fury of the raging bulls was laid. The Heaven-born Circe, with her magic song, Ulysses's men, did into monsters turn. Proteus, with this assum'd, what shape he wou'd. I, who this art so long have understood, Can send proud Ida's top into the main, And make the billows bear it up again."
Ulysses's soul melted at her moving narration, and forgetting the state of the dead, and that the airy texture of disembodied spirits does not admit of the embraces of flesh and blood, he threw his arms about her to clasp her: the poor ghost melted from his embrace, and looking mournfully upon him vanished away. Then saw he other females.
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