And wiles made ravenous prey of passers-by,
Were throated with the liquid pipe of birds:
Of love they sang; and none, who sail’d anigh
Through the grey hazes of the cyanine sea,
Had wit the whirlpool of that song to flee,
Nor fear’d the talon hook’d and feather’d thigh.
4
But them the singers of the gods o’ercame,
And pluck’d them of their plumage, where in fright
They vainly flutter’d off to hide their shame,