A galley’s roller of olive-wood; into leaf doth it break
But a little below Acherusia’s height: and—if I may speak
This too by the power of the Muses that stirreth within my breast—
To Bœotian men and Nisaian Apollo spake his behest,
Worship to him as unto their city’s protector to pay,
And around that ancient olive a city’s foundations to lay.
But by this is tradition dim, and they render the honour-meed
Unto one Agamestor, and not unto Idmon, Aiolus’ seed. {850}
Now who was the next that died?—for the heroes again in grief
Another earth-mound heaped for another perished chief: