is one yawning chasm, rent asunder by the oar and the
pointed beak. Not such the headlong speed when in two-horse
race the chariots dash into the plain and pour along
from their floodgates, or when the drivers shake the streaming 25
reins over their flying steeds, and hang floating over
the lash. Then plaudits, and shouts of manly voices,
and the clamorous fervour of the backers, make the whole
woodland ring; the pent-up shores keep the sound rolling;
the hills send back the blows of the noise. See! flying 30
ahead of the rest, gliding over the first water in the midst