The surf
beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at
length finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he
landed, spent with toil, breathless and speechless and almost
dead. After some time, reviving, he kissed the soil, rejoicing,
yet at a loss what course to take. At a short distance he
perceived a wood, to which he turned his steps. There, finding a
covert sheltered by intermingling branches alike from the sun and
the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a bed, on which
he stretched himself, and heaping the leaves over him, fell
asleep.
The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the
Phaeacians. These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but
being oppressed by that savage race, they migrated to the isle of
Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous, their king. They were,
the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared
manifestly and feasted among them when they offered sacrifices,
and did not conceal themselves from solitary wayfarers when they
met them. They had abundance of wealth and lived in the enjoyment
of it undisturbed by the alarms of war, for as they dwelt remote
from gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their shores, and
they did not even require to make use of bows and quivers. Their
chief employment was navigation.
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