"Saved from the sea, the Strophades we gain, So called in Greece, where dwells, with Harpies, dire Celaeno, in the vast Ionian main, Since, forced from Phineus' palace to retire, They fled their former banquet.

Heavenly ire Ne'er sent a pest more loathsome; ne'er were seen Worse plagues to issue from the Stygian mire-- Birds maiden-faced, but trailing filth obscene, With taloned hands and looks for ever pale and lean.
XXX.

"The harbour gained, lo! herds of oxen bright And goats untended browse the pastures fair.
We, sword in hand, make onset, and invite The gods and Jove himself the spoil to share, And piling couches, banquet on the fare.
When straight, down-swooping from the hills meanwhile The Harpies flap their clanging wings, and tear The food, and all with filthy touch defile, And, mixt with screams, uprose a sickening stench and vile.
XXXI.

"Once more, within a cavern screened from view, Where circling trees a rustling shade supply, The boards are spread, the altars blaze anew.
Back, from another quarter of the sky, Dark-ambushed, round the clamorous Harpies fly With taloned claws, and taste and taint the prey.
To arms I call my comrades, and defy The loathsome brood to battle.

They obey, And swords and bucklers hide amid the grass away.
XXXII.