And all the meadow-land trembled under her tread; and the yell
Pealed of the marish-haunting Nymphs of the river, that dance
In the pastures wherethrough Amaryntian Phasis’ ripples glance.
And terror gat hold upon Aison’s son; but, for all his dread, {1220}
Yet he turned him not round as his feet thence bore him, until he had sped
Back to his friends: and by this over Caucasus’ snow-flecked height,
As she rose, was the Dawn mist-cradled shooting her shafts of light.
And now did Aiêtes array in the corslet of stubborn mould
His breast, the corslet that Arês gave, in the day when rolled
Mimas of Phlegra beneath his hands in the dust of doom.