Aigaion’s cairn, past Phrygia a little, and slipped thereby,
Even then, through the furrows of roughened surge as he tugged and tore,
Snapped he the ashen blade, and, grasping the half of the oar
Yet in his hands, back Herakles fell, and the half swept down
The tossing wake of the ship. But he rose, and with angry frown {1170}
Sat gazing around, for his hands endured not idle to lie.
’Twas the hour when the delver or ploughman aback from the field doth hie
With joy to his hut, and his soul sore craveth the eventide meat,
And bow on the threshold his knees, and totter his weary feet.
All dust-besprent he beholdeth his cramped hands worn with toil,