Did it shake the sail with the fanning of those vast pinions’ flight:
For the form and the measure thereof was like no fowl of the air,
But as polished oars most huge its swift-swaying wing-feathers were.
Nor long thereafter they heard an exceeding bitter cry,
As torn was Prometheus’ liver, and rang the vault of the sky
With his screaming, until again from the mountain darting back
They marked where the ravening eagle sped on the selfsame track.
And at nightfall, by guidance of Argus, the broad-flowing stream did they gain {1260}
Of Phasis, and there was the uttermost bourne of the Pontic main.
Then straightway the sail they furled, and the yard-arm let they fall,