Whose form was such, as should not much bespeak
When he appear'd, our confidence or love. 365
Then, kindling fire, we offer'd to the Gods,
And of his cheeses eating, patient sat
Till home he trudged from pasture. Charged he came
With dry wood bundled, an enormous load
Fuel by which to sup. Loud crash'd the thorns 370
Which down he cast before the cavern's mouth,
To whose interior nooks we trembling flew.
At once he drove into his spacious cave
His batten'd flock, all those which gave him milk,
But all the males, both rams and goats, he left 375
Abroad, excluded from the cavern-yard.
Upheaving, next, a rocky barrier huge
To his cave's mouth, he thrust it home. That weight
Not all the oxen from its place had moved
Of twenty and two wains; with such a rock 380
Immense his den he closed. Then down he sat,
And as he milk'd his ewes and bleating goats
All in their turns, her yeanling gave to each;
Coagulating, then, with brisk dispatch,
The half of his new milk, he thrust the curd 385
Into his wicker sieves, but stored the rest
In pans and bowls—his customary drink.
His labours thus perform'd, he kindled, last,
His fuel, and discerning us, enquired,
Who are ye, strangers? from what distant shore 390
Roam ye the waters? traffic ye? or bound
To
