460

Hath honour of us all; and of this strife

The twelve most high Gods judging with one mouth

Acclaimed her victress; wroth whereat, as wronged

That she should hold from him such prize and place,

The strong king of the tempest-rifted sea

Loosed reinless on the low Thriasian plain

The thunders of his chariots, swallowing stunned

Earth, beasts, and men, the whole blind foundering world

That was the sun's at morning, and ere noon

Death's; nor this only prey fulfilled his mind;

470

For with strange crook-toothed prows of Carian folk

Who snatch a sanguine life out of the sea,

Thieves keen to pluck their bloody fruit of spoil

From the grey fruitless waters, has their God

Furrowed our shores to waste them, as the fields

Were landward harried from the north with swords

Aonian, sickles of man-slaughtering edge

Ground for no hopeful harvest of live grain

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