ἤ Δωρίδος ὅρμον αἴας,
ἤ Φθιάδος.
Potter—
“Tell me, ye gales, ye rising gales,
That lightly sweep along the azure plain,
Whose soft breath fills the swelling sails,
And wafts the vessel dancing o'er the main;
Whither, ah! whither will ye bear
This sickening daughter of despair?
What proud lord’s rigour shall the slave deplore,