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With rhythmical fall of the feet swift-circling beat the ground,—

So smote with the oars, by the lyre of Orpheus timing the stroke,{540}

The sea’s wild water, and over the blades the surges broke.

And on this side and that with the foam the dark brine seething flashed;

Like muttered thunder it sounded by strokes of the mighty updashed.

And glanced in the sun like flame, as the ship winged onward her flight,

Their armour: the wake far-weltering ever behind gleamed white,

As an oft-trodden path through a grassy plain lieth clear in sight.

And all the Gods that day from the height of the heaven looked down

On the ship, and the might of the demigod heroes, the men of renown,

Sailing the sea; and afar on the crests of the hill-tops lone

The Maids of the Mountain, the Pelian Nymphs, in amaze looked on{550}

At the work of Athênê Itônis, the heroes’ goodly array,

As the ashen blades in their hands kept time with measured sway.

Yea, and there came one down from the mountain’s height to the shore,