“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 home, ever since Phineus’[154] doors were closed against them, and fear drove them from the board which once fed them. A more baleful portent than this—a fiercer plague 35 of heaven’s vengeance never crawled out of the Stygian flood. Birds with maiden’s faces, a foul discharge, crooked talons, and on their cheeks the pallor of eternal famine. “On our arrival here, and entering the harbour, see! we behold luxuriant herds of oxen grazing dispersedly in the fields, and goats all along the grass, with none to tend them. On we rush, sword in hand, inviting the gods and Jove himself to share the spoil with us: and then on the winding 5 shore pile up couches for the banquet, and regale on the dainty fare. But on a sudden, with an appalling swoop from the hills, the Harpies are upon us, flapping their wings with a mighty noise—they tear the food in pieces, and spoil all with their filthy touch, while fearful screeches 10 blend with foul smells. Again, in a deep retreat under a hollow rock, with trees and crisp foliage all about us, we set out the board and put new fire on new altars. Again, from another quarter of the sky, out of their hidden lair, comes the troop, all rush and sound, flying about the prey 15 with their hooked talons, tainting the food with their loathsome mouths. I give the word to my comrades to seize their arms and wage war with the fell tribe. As I ordered they do—they arrange their swords in hiding about the grass, and cover and conceal their shields. So 20 soon as the noise of their swoop was heard along the winding shore, Misenus, from his lofty watch-tower, makes the hollow brass sound the alarm. On rush my comrades, and essay a combat of a new sort, to spoil with their swords the plumage of these foul sea-birds. But no violence will 25 ruffle their feathers, no wounds pierce their skin: they are off in rapid flight high in the air, leaving their half-eaten prey and their filthy trail behind them. One of them, Celæno, perches on a rock of vast height—ill-boding prophetess—and gives vent to words like these: ‘What, 30 is it war, for the oxen you have slain and the bullocks you have felled, true sons of Laomedon? is it war that _you_ are going to make on _us_, to expel us, blameless Harpies, from our ancestral realm? Take then into your minds these my words, and print them there. The prophecy 35 which the Almighty Sire imparted to Phœbus, Phœbus Apollo to me, I, the chief of the Furies, make known to you. For Italy, I know, you are crowding all sail: well, the winds