And these—as the youths that in Pytho begin unto Phœbus the dance,
In Ortygia, or there where Ismenus’ ripples in sunlight glance,
Hand in hand to the notes of the lyre his altar around
With rhythmical fall of the feet swift-circling beat the ground,—
So smote with the oars, by the lyre of Orpheus timing the stroke, {540}
The sea’s wild water, and over the blades the surges broke.
And on this side and that with the foam the dark brine seething flashed;
Like muttered thunder it sounded by strokes of the mighty updashed.
And glanced in the sun like flame, as the ship winged onward her flight,
Their armour: the wake far-weltering ever behind gleamed white,