the ebb of the failing sea and venture a leap among the
shallows; others resort to the oars. Tarchon, spying out
a place on the beach where the waters seethe not nor the
broken billows roar, but ocean without let glides gently
up the shore as the tide advances, suddenly turns his
prows thither, and exhorts his crew: “Now, ye chosen
band, ply your stout oars, lift the vessels and carry them
home: cleave with your beaks this land that hates you; 5
let the keel plough its own furrow. Even from shipwreck
in a roadstead like this I would not shrink, could I once