Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/414

396 The broad plains left in lonely solitude. The eager sailors ply the bending oars, Hands aiding sails, and move their sturdy arms With rhythmic swing. The furrowed waters gleam, And sing along the sides, while rushing prows Besprinkle all the sea with hoary spray. When fresher breezes fill our swelling sails, We cease from toil, and, stretched along the thwarts, We watch the far-off shores of Ilium, Fast fleeing as our vessels seaward fare; Or tell old tales of war: brave Hector's threats, His corpse dishonored, and again restored To purchased honors of the funeral pyre; And Priam sprinkling with his royal blood The sacred altar of Hercean Jove. Then to and fro amid the briny sea The dolphins sport, and leap the heaving waves With arching backs; now race in circles wide, Now swim beside us in a friendly band, Now dash ahead or follow in our wake; Anon in wanton sport they smite our prows, And so our thousand rushing barks surround. Now sinks the shore from view, the spreading plains; And far-off Ida seems a misty cloud. And now, what but the sharpest eye can see, Troy's rising smoke blurs dim the distant sky. The sun was bringing weary mortals rest, And waning day was giving place to night; When clouds began to fill the western sky, And dim the luster of the sinking sun— The grim prognostic of a rising gale. Young night had spangled all the sky with stars, And empty sails hung languid on the masts; When low, foreboding sighings of the wind Spring from our landward side; the hidden shore Resounds afar with warning mutterings; The rising waves anticipate the storm; The moon is blotted out, the stars are hid, The sea leaps skyward, and the sky is gone.