Athênê, what time from the head of her father, in battle-gear {1310}
All flashing, she sprang, and the new-born bathed they in Trito’s mere.
The noon of the day it was, and the sun upon Libya-land
Burned with his fiercest beams: by Aison’s son did they stand,
And the mantle-shroud from his head with soft light touch drew they.
But the hero, downward drooping his eyes, thence turned them away,
For awe of the shapes divine: but with gentle words of cheer
With open face did they speak unto him in his ’wildered fear:
‘Ill-starred one, wherefore so grievously smitten art thou with despair?
We know how ye fared for the Golden Fleece: of your toils we be ware,