Ye breezes, who the ships convey,
That long becalmed at anchor lay,
Nor dared to quit the strand;
As the swift keel divides the wave,
Say whither am I borne a slave,
Ordained to tread the Doric land,
Or Phthia, where beset with reeds,
Apidanus, the sire of limpid rills,
Winding a-down the channelled hills,
Waters the fruitful meads?