The harvest fell of the Earth-born against him should rise: and with strain
Of brazen hoofs on laboured the while that fearsome twain.
And it was so, that when the third part now was left of the day,
From the dawn as it waned, when the toil-forwearied labourers pray {1340}
‘O come to us, sweet unyoking-tide! O tarry thou not!’
Even then by the stalwart ploughman the fallowfield’s earing was wrought,
For all it was ploughgates four; and the bulls from the yoke loosed he,
And with shouting and smiting he scared them over the plain to flee.
Then back toward Argo he hied him again, while yet all clear
Of the Earth-born brood the furrows he saw; and with cheer on cheer