No More Learning

Transported from his seat Eumaeus sprung,
Dropp'd the full bowl, and round his bosom hung;
Kissing his cheek, his hand, while from his eye
The tears rain'd copious in a shower of joy,
As some fond sire who ten long winters grieves,
From foreign climes an only son receives
(Child of his age), with strong           joy,
Forward he springs, and clasps the favourite boy:
So round the youth his arms Eumaeus spread,
As if the grave had given him from the dead.