With leanness wasting his frame: day followed on evil day
Yet worse: no respite there was to his weariful pain. But herein
Was this man paying the debt of his father’s ancient sin.
For once on the mountains alone the trees of the forest felling
He had set at nought the prayers of a Nymph in an oak-tree dwelling.
For with earnest entreaty she moaned her request, and besought him with tears
To spare that trunk which had grown with her growth, wherewith through the years
Of long generations her life was bound; but in folly and pride
Of his youthful arrogance hewed he on: and the Tree-nymph died.
Wherefore the Wood-maid caused that her death thereafter should be
For a curse unto him and his children. And I, when he came unto me,
Knew of the ancient sin; and an altar I bade him raise
To the Thynian Nymph, and atonement-victims to give to the blaze,
Praying to ’scape from the weird pronounced on his father of yore.
Then, when from the doom of the Goddess deliverance came, never more
Forgat he me, nor neglected: and sorely against his will
From my doors do I send him fain to attend mine afflictions still.”
So spake Agênor’s son; and straightway returned again
His friend with fatlings twain from the flock. Rose Jason then
And rose the North-wind’s sons at the ancient prophet’s word.
Eftsoons called they on the name of Apollo the Prophecy-lord;
Then slew they the sheep on the hearth as sloped the sun to the west.
And the younger men of their band made ready the plenteous feast.
So when they had eaten, they turned to their rest, as each man chose,
By the hawsers of Argo these, through the mansion in clusters those.
But at dawn the Etesian breezes blew, which o’er every land
Equally blow in their season by Zeus’s high command.
Kyrênê, ’tis told, in the meads where Peneios’ waters roll
Pastured her sheep in the olden days; for dear to her soul
Were her maidenhood and her couch unstained: but, even as she strayed
By the stream with her flock, did Apollo snatch from the earth the maid
From Haimonia afar, and mid Chthonian Nymphs did he set her down,
Where over their Libyan haunts the steeps Myrtosian frown.
There did she bear Aristaius, and Phoebus’ son did they call
In Haimonia the Shepherd Lord, and the Mighty Hunter withal;
For the God of his love to a Nymph transformed her, and made her there
The Lady of the Land, long-lived: but his child he bare,
A babbling infant yet, to be nurtured in Cheiron’s cave.
And to him, when he grew unto manhood, a bride the Muses gave;
And cunning in healing they taught him, with prophecy-wisdom they fed;
And their tender of sheep did they make him, that all their flocks he led,
In the plain Athamantian of Phthia that pastured, by Othrys’ side,
And where the sacred streams of the river Apidanus glide.
But when Sirius glared on the isles of Minos with scorching blaze,
Neither came to the dwellers therein any respite for many days,
For this Aristaius they sent, by the Archer-god’s command,
To avert the plague; and he left at his father’s behest the land
Of Phthia, and dwelt in Kos, and assembled thither the folk
Of Parrhasia, even the people sprung from Lykaon’s stock.
So to Rain-giver Zeus he builded a mighty altar there,
And he offered sacrifice meet to the star of the fiery glare
On the hills, and to Zeus himself the son of Kronos; and so
O’er the earth from Zeus the cool Etesian winds yet blow
For forty days: and, or ever the red Dog-star doth rise,
The priests in Kos unto this day offer him sacrifice.
So telleth the tale: and there were the heroes constrained to stay
Land-bound by the selfsame winds. But the Thynians day by day,
Of their love for Phineus, brought to them gifts of abundant cheer.
And thereafter unto the Blessèd Twelve did the wanderers rear
On the further strand an altar, and victims offered they there
Ere they entered the sea-swift galley to row: yet forgat not to bear
In Argo a trembling dove, but Euphêmus clutched her fast
In his hand, as with terror she shrank and cowered; and so at the last
Loose from the Thynian land the hawsers twain they cast.
Yet not unmarked of Athênê onward again did they fare:
Swiftly her feet hath she set on a cloud light-floating in air
Which should waft her along, for she caused that the weight divine it bore.
So seaward she swept to the help of the toilers at the oar.
And as when one roveth afar from his own land—oftentimes thus
We men in our hardihood wander, and no land seemeth to us
Too far away, but all paths lie within our ken—
And he thinketh upon his home, and all in a moment then
Him seemeth the track over sea and o’er land thereunto lieth plain,
And the eyes of his soul in his eager pondering thitherward strain;
Even so swiftly the Daughter of Zeus through the welkin hath sped,
Till her feet on the perilous strand of the coast Bithynian tread.
So when they were come to the narrow gorge of the winding strait
Where to right and to left stern cliffs pent in that grim sea-gate,
Then the swirling rush of the surf dashed, bursting up from below,
O’er the ship as she went, and onward in sore dismay did they row.
And now the thud of the rocks, as each against other they clashed,
Ceaselessly smote on their ears, and thundered the cliffs brine-lashed.
Even then Euphêmus uprose firm-grasping the dove in his hand,
And on to the prow he strode, and the oarsmen obeyed the command
Of Tiphys Hagnias’ son, that they rowed with might and main
To drive the Argo betwixt the rocks through the perilous lane,
Putting their trust in their strength; and the crags, as asunder they leapt,
Opening they saw—of all men last—round a bend as they swept.
And their spirit was melted within them:—but now Euphêmus hath sped
The flight of the wings of the dove: each man uplifted his head,
Watching what now should befall:—on, onward between them, on
Flew she; but face to face those charging walls of stone
Came rushing together, and crashed, and the seething brine uproared
Vast-volumed like to a cloud; and the madding sea-gulf
