I journeyed here by these high-mettled steeds
Car-borne, my wingless ægis in the gale
Full-bosomed whirring. And now, who are ye,
A strange assembly, though I fear you not,
Here gathered at my gates? I speak to both,
To thee the stranger, that with suppliant arms
Enclasps my statue—Whence art thou? And you,
Like to no generation seed-begotten,
Like to no goddess ever known of gods,
Like to no breathing forms of mortal kind;