Classic Poem

Oft, from my classic memory's inmost shade,
That fair Phæacian shore to light I bring,
Where young Nausicaa stood,—that royal maid,
Whose brave-eyed pity faced the naked king,
And made a shipwreck sweet. Beside the bed
Of a near stream he found the robe and oil,
Her timely present to the man of toil;
Anon she took the chariot-reins, and led
The way, while in among her train he pass'd:
Then to the sacred grove, when they had come
Near that unsocial city; till, at last,
He hail'd his sea-star in her own bright home,—
The girl who clothed his shame, and by the clue
Of purple yarn, foreshow'd him where to sue.