blinding darkness, we wander on the deep: three nights
with never a star. On the fourth day, at last, land was
first seen to rise, and mountains with curling smoke 25
wreaths to dawn in distant prospect. Down drop the
sails: we rise on our oars: incessantly the crews, straining
every nerve, toss the foam and sweep the blue.
“Escaped from the sea, I am first welcomed by the coast
of the Strophades—the Strophades are known by the 30
name Greece gave them, islands in the great Ionian, which
fell Celæno[153] and the rest of the Harpies have made their