The guardian of the golden fruit,
Had given to sleep his watchful eyes.
To the wandering homes of Scythia,
Where tribes in their ancestral seats
As strangers dwell, he made his way.
He trod the frozen ocean's crust,535
A still sea hemmed by silent shores;
There no waves beat on the rigid plains,
And where but now full swelling sails
Had sped their barks, a path is worn