With hunger that no feeding stints. Borne thither, into haven come, we see how everywhere The merry wholesome herds of neat feed down the meadows fair, 220 And all untended goatish flocks amid the herbage bite. With point and edge we fall on them, and all the Gods invite, Yea very Jove, to share the spoil, and on the curvèd strand We strew the beds, and feast upon rich dainties of the land. When lo, with sudden dreadful rush from out the mountains hap The Harpy folk, and all about their clanging wings they flap, And foul all things with filthy touch as at the food they wrench, And riseth up their grisly voice amid the evilest stench. Once more then 'neath a hollow rock at a long valley's head, 229 Where close around the boughs of trees their quavering shadows shed, We dight the boards, and once again flame on the altars raise. Again from diverse parts of heaven, from dusky lurking-place, The shrieking rout with hookèd feet about the prey doth fly, Fouling the feast with mouth: therewith I bid my company To arms, that with an evil folk the war may come to pass. They do no less than my commands, and lay along the grass Their hidden swords, and therewithal their bucklers cover o'er. Wherefore, when swooping down again, they fill the curvèd shore With noise, Misenus blows the call from off a watch-stead high With hollow brass; our folk fall on and wondrous battle try, 240 Striving that sea-fowl's filthy folk with point and edge to spill. But nought will bite upon their backs, and from their feathers still Glanceth the sword, and swift they flee up 'neath the stars of air, Half-eaten meat and token foul leaving behind them there. But on a rock exceeding high yet did Celæeno rest, Unhappy seer! there breaks withal a voice from out her breast: 'What, war to pay for slaughtered neat, war for our heifers slain? O children of Laomedon, the war then will ye gain? The sackless Harpies will ye drive from their own land away? Then let this sink into your souls, heed well the words I say; 250 The Father unto Phoebus told a tale that Phoebus told To me, and I the first-born fiend that same to you unfold: Ye sail for Italy, and ye, the winds appeased by prayer, Shall come to Italy, and gain the grace of haven there: Yet shall ye gird no wall about the city granted you, Till famine, and this murder's wrong that ye were fain to do, Drive you your tables gnawed with teeth to eat up utterly.'