In the halls of his palace Dipsakus welcomed Athamas’ son,
What time from Orchomenus-city he fled, on the winged ram borne.
A Nymph of the Mead was his mother: the tyrant’s arrogant scorn
He loathed, but contented beside his father’s streams dwelt he
With his mother, and pastured his sheep in the meadows beside the sea.
And quickly they sighted his shrine, and the broad low banks of the stream,
And the plain, and of Kalpê’s deep-flowing waters they caught the gleam
For a moment, and passed it by, and still, when the daylight waned, {660}
’Neath the stars of the windless night at the tireless oars they strained.
And even as ploughing oxen cleaving the rain-soaked soil