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and to draw down the grim helmet-peaks to their embrace. They who of late took pleasure in the sword, yea in death itself, now groan and shake with sobbing, their warlike temper broken. Even so, when men are about to go perchance on some long voyage o’er the sea, and already the south winds are in the sails and the anchor rises from its torn bed, the loving band clings fast and enlaces their necks with eager arms, and their streaming eyes are dimmed, some with kisses, some with the sea’s vast haze; at last they are left behind, yet stand upon a rock, and rejoice to follow the swift-flying canvas with their gaze, while they grieve that their native breezes are blowing ever stronger; yet still they stand, and beckon to the ship from the well-known rock.

Now, Fame of olden time, and thou, dark Antiquity of the world, whose care it is to remember princes and to make immortal the story of their lives, recount the warriors, and thou, Calliope, queen of the groves of song, uplift thy lyre and begin the tale, what troops of arms Gradivus roused, what cities he laid waste of their peoples; for to none comes loftier inspiration from the fountain’s draught. The king Adrastus, sick with misgiving beneath the burden of his cares, and drawing nigh his life’s departure, walked scarce of his own will amongst the applauding people, content to be girt but with his sword;^[1] attendants bear his arms behind him, his charioteer tends the swift horses close by the city gates, and already is Arion struggling against the yoke. To support their king Larissa and high Prosymna arm their men, and Midea, fitter home of herds, and Phlius rich in cattle, and Neris that