When over her bulwark to hurl itself mad is the surge of the wave;
So followed he hard upon Tyndareus’ son to daunt him: he gave
No respite. The hero by cunning keeping him scatheless aye
Baffled his every rush: well marked he his brutal play,
To wot if the giant in might were haply resistless, or no.
So ever he faced him and warded, and flashed back blow for blow.
And even as when the shipwrights with hammers mightily swinging
Smite on the beams of a galley, driving the clamps close-clinging {80}
Sharply together, that bang upon clang cometh crashing and ringing,
And the air is a-shiver; so crack ’neath the buffets the cheeks of the twain,