Page:Statius (Mozley 1928) v2.djvu/103

as their masters: their eyes dart flame, they loudly champ the bits, and blood and foam corrode the iron; scarce do the confining posts resist their pressure, they smoke and pant in stifled rage. Such misery is it to stand still, a thousand steps are lost ere they start, and, on the absent plain, their hooves ring loud.^[1] Around stand trusty friends, smoothing out the twisted tangled manes, and speak heartening words and give much counsel. The Tyrrhenian^[2] blast rang in their ears, and all leapt forward from their places. What canvas on the deep, what javelins in war, what clouds so swiftly fly across the heavens? less violent are winter streams, or fire; slower fall stars or gather rains, more slowly flow the torrents from the mountain-summits.

As they sped forth the Pelasgi saw and marked them; now are they lost to view, now confused and hidden in one cloud of blinding dust; they can see nothing for the press, and scarce by shout of name can they recognize each other. Then some draw clear of the throng, and each takes place according to his strength; the second lap blots out the former furrows, and now stooping forward in their eagerness they touch the yoke, now with straining knees they bend double, tugging at the reins.^[3] On the shaggy necks the muscles swell, and the breeze combs back the erect manes, while the dusty ground drinks up the white rain of foam. The thunder of hooves and the gentler sound of running wheels are blended. Never idle are their arms, the air hisses with the oft-plied lash; no more densely spatters the hail from the cold North, nor streams the rain from the Olenian horns.^[4]