O might we cleave the air, like Libyan cranes,
Who fly in ranks th’ impending wintry storm;
When their shrill leader bids them quit the plains,
They the veteran’s voice obey,
O’er rich harvests wing their way,
Or where parched wastes th’ unfruitful scene deform.
With lengthened neck, ye feathered race
Who skim the clouds in social band,
Where the seven Pleiades expand
Their radiance, and Orion heaves his mace,
This joyous embassy convey
As near Eurotas’ banks ye stray;
That Menelaus to his subject land
Victorious comes from Phrygia’s strand.