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Yea, this is my doom: by birds evil-boding I knew it before;

Yet from my fatherland went I: to sail in your galley I came,

That so to mine house might be left the renown of a hero’s name.’

He spake, and the young men, hearing the words of the prophet, were glad

For their home-return, but for Idmon’s doom were their heart made sad.

And so, at the hour when the sun from his noon-halt sinketh adown,{450}

And over the harvest-lands the long rock-shadows are thrown,

As the sun to the eventide dusk slow-slideth aslant from the sky,

Even then did the heroes all on the sands of the beach pile high

A couch of the wildwood leaves, and in front of the surf-line hoar

Row upon row lay down, and beside them was measureless store

Of meats, and of sweet strong wine which the cupbearers poured for them out

From the pitchers: thereafter they told, as each man’s turn came about,

Story and legend, as young men oft at the feast and the bowl

Will take their delight, when insatiate violence is far from their soul.