The conquered chariot-wheels—mementoes grim
Of every crime this sinful race has done.
Here also is the Phrygian turban hung
Of Pelops' self; and here the spoil of foes,
A rich embroidered robe, the prize of war.
An oozy stream springs there beneath the shade,665
And sluggish creeps along within the swamp,
Just like the ugly waters of the Styx
Which bind the oaths of heaven. 'Tis said that here
At dead of night the hellish gods make moan,