The eddies of smoke roll upward in murky coil on coil, {140}
One after another swiftly ever on high they spring
From beneath in wavering wreaths uprushing and hovering;
Even so that monster was writhing and heaving the endless trail
Of his coils overlapped with the myriad-ranged harsh-crackling scale.
But, even as he writhed him, came before his eyes the maid,
With sweet voice summoning Sleep, most mighty of Gods, to her aid,
On the monster to cast his spell: and to her that through night’s deep mirk
Paceth, the Underworld Queen, she cried to speed her work.
And followed her Aison’s son in fear: but, lulled by the song,