The sun shines bright on Ephyré’s height,[2] And right and left with billowy might Poseidon rules the sea; But not the sun that rules above, Nor strong Poseidon, nor great Jove, Can look with looks of favouring love, Bellerophon, on thee. There’s blood upon thy hands; the hounds Of hell pursue thy path; Nor they within rich Corinth’s bounds Shall slack their vengeful wrath. Black broods the sky above thy head, The Earth breeds serpents at thy tread, The Furies’ foot hath found thee; A baleful pest their presence brings, A curse to peasants and to kings; The horrid shadow of their wings Turns day to darkness round thee. Flee o’er the Argive hills, and there, With suppliant branch and pious prayer, Thou shalt not crave in vain Some prince whose hands not worthless hold The sceptre of Phoroneus old, To wash thee clean, and make thee bold To look on men again. II. Darkly the Nemean forests frown, Where Apesantian Jove From his broad altar-seat looks down On the Ogygian grove.[3] Fierce roars the lion from his den In Tretus’ long and narrow glen; And many a lawless man Here by the stony water-bed Lists the lone traveller’s errant tread, And wakes the plundering clan. Here be thy flight, Bellerophon, But danger fear thou none; For she, the warlike and the wise, Jove’s blue-eyed daughter from surprise Secure shall lead thee on. He flees: and where the priestess bears To Hera on the hill[4] The sacred keys, he pours his prayers, And drinks the scanty rill. He flees: and now before his eye, With wall and gate and bulwark high, And many a tower that fronts the sky, And many a covered way, Strong Tiryns stands, whose massy blocks Were torn by Cyclops from the rocks, And piled in vast array.[5] Here Prœtus reigns; and here at length The suppliant throws his jaded strength Before a friendly door; And now from hot pursuit secure, And from blood-guiltiness made pure, His heart shall fear no more. III.