Nor would I leave thee, Cinyras, untold, Liguria's chief, nor, though a few were thine, Cupavo.

Emblem of his sire of old, The swan's white feathers on his helmet shine, Thy fault, O Love.

When Cycnus, left to pine For Phaethon, the poplar shades among, Soothed his sad passion with the Muse divine, Old age with hoary plumage round him clung; Starward he soared from earth and, soaring up, still sung.
XXVIII.

Now comes his son, with his Ligurian bands, Oaring their bark.

A Centaur from the prow Looms o'er the waves a-tiptoe, with his hands A vast rock heaving, as in act to throw; The long keel ploughs the furrowed deep below.
Next, from his home the gallant Ocnus came, The son of Manto, who the Fates doth know, Brave child of Tiber.