When they pour drink-offerings year by year, at the city’s mill
Grind ever their corn, for the querns in the houses of mourning are still.
And the wild winds woke at the sound of their mourning to shriek and to rave
Twelve days, twelve nights; and prisoned by wrath of wind and wave
Tarried the heroes from sailing, until, on the thirteenth night, {1080}
When the rest of the wanderers lay for the last time bowed by the might
Of slumber on that drear shore, while watch and ward was kept
Of Akastus and Mopsus Ampykus’ son over them that slept,—
Then over the golden head of Aison’s son did there fly
A kingfisher: clear through the hush his happy-boding cry