Labour the furrows adown, and abundant sweat of their toil
Streameth from flank and from neck, and aye from beneath the yoke
Are the tired beasts turning their eyes askance; and as furnace-smoke
In hot gasps snort they the breath from their mouths; and, deep in the clay
Thrusting their hoofs, at the plough they tug through the livelong day;
So toiled those heroes tugging the oars through the brine alway.
When the dawn divine not yet hath arisen, nor utter night
Reigneth, but over the darkness stealeth a faint grey light,— {670}
The twilight-tide is it named of slumber-stinted men,—
Into a desolate Thynian island’s haven then