And as when mid the folds the grey wolves scare in huddled affright
Vast throngs of sheep on a wintry day, having rushed on the pen
By the keen-nosed dogs unscented, unmarked of the shepherd’s ken;
And in fury they seek to leap the fence, and to seize the prey,
Glaring and glaring, a fierce-eyed ring; and, shrinking away
Upon every side, on each other trample the sheep; even so
Drave they in ghastly rout the haughty Bebrykian foe.
And as when bee-keepers or shepherds fill with the stifling smoke {130}
The cleft of a rock where dwell the honey-fashioning folk,
And the bees for a while all thronging within their cavern-home,