By storm and typhoon, with surge rain-resounding, —Off they went, vanished, thro’ a bad herd’s whirling.And, when returned the brilliant light of Helios,We view the Aigaian sea on flower with corpsesOf men Achaian and with naval ravage.But us indeed, and ship, unhurt i’ the hull too,Either someone outstole us or outprayed us —Some god — no man it was the tiller touching.And Fortune, saviour, willing on our ship sat.So as it neither had in harbour wave-surgeNor ran aground against a shore all rocky.And then, the water-Haides having fled fromIn the white day, not trusting to our fortune,We chewed the cud in thoughts — this novel sorrowO’ the army labouring and badly pounded.And now — if anyone of them is breathing —They talk of us as having perished: why not?And we — that they the same fate have, imagine.May it be for the best! Meneleos, then,Foremost and specially to come, expect thou!