And breezes from the Strymon sweeping down,
Breeding delays and hunger, driving forth
Our men in wandering course,
On seas without a port.
Sparing nor ships, nor rope, nor sailing gear,
With doubled months wore down the Argive host; 190
And when, for that wild storm,
Of one more charm far harder for our chiefs
The prophet told, and spake of Artemis,[285]
In tone so piercing shrill,
The Atreidæ smote their staves upon the ground,
And could not stay their tears.