They ran, and with weary toil sore-spent won they to the strand.
And to them lo, Lêto’s son, coming up from the Libyan land,
As he fared to the countless folk of the Hyperborean race,
Appeared; and his tresses golden-gleaming about his face,
Ever, as onward he moved, in the breezes floated and swung.
In his left hand held he the silver bow, and his quiver slung
From his shoulders was gleaming adown his back: and the isle all o’er
Quaked ’neath his feet, and surged the billow high on the shore. {680}
Then fell on them ’wildered fear as they looked: was none dared turn
His face to gaze with his eyes on the God’s eyes lovely and stern.