Poured Aison’s son; and Idmon rejoiced, beholding shine
The splendour that gleamed all round from the sacrifice and the smoke,
As forth for an omen of good in wavering wreaths it broke.
And the purpose of Leto’s son, nothing doubting, straightway he spoke:
‘For you ’tis ordained of the doom of the Gods and of each man’s fate {440}
Hither to win with the Fleece; but meanwhile lie in wait
Toils without number, as thither ye fare, and as backward ye hie.
But for me by the hateful doom of a God is it fated to die
Far hence, I know not where, on the Asian mainland shore.
Yea, this is my doom: by birds evil-boding I knew it before;