But and if the praise of riches or might of hands or of battleward-sweeping
Steel-clad war-hosts kindle the heart of the bard, let them delve me the ground
For a long leap hence—O yea, for my knees are strung for lightsome leaping.
Ay, an eagle am I, and the eagle’s swoop is beyond the sea-line’s bound.
Yea, for those heroes the welcoming song upon Pelion’s height was sung
By the choir most lovely of Muses nine; and the lyre with seven chords strung
With the golden quill in Apollo’s hand was swept till melodies rung