And left him sorrowing on the lonely coast, In wild resentment for the fair he lost. In Chrysa's port now sage Ulysses rode; Beneath the deck the destined victims stow'd: The sails they furl'd, they lash the mast aside, And dropp'd their anchors, and the pinnace tied. Next on the shore their hecatomb they land; Chryseis last descending on the strand. Her, thus returning from the furrow'd main, Ulysses led to Phoebus' sacred fane; Where at his solemn altar, as the maid He gave to Chryses, thus the hero said: "Hail, reverend priest! to Phoebus' awful dome A suppliant I from great Atrides come: Unransom'd, here receive the spotless fair; Accept the hecatomb the Greeks prepare; And may thy god who scatters darts around, Atoned by sacrifice, desist to wound."(67) At this, the sire embraced the maid again, So sadly lost, so lately sought in vain. Then near the altar of the darting king, Disposed in rank their hecatomb they bring; With water purify their hands, and take The sacred offering of the salted cake; While thus with arms devoutly raised in air, And solemn voice, the priest directs his prayer: "God of the silver bow, thy ear incline, Whose power incircles Cilla the divine; Whose sacred eye thy Tenedos surveys, And gilds fair Chrysa with distinguish'd rays! If, fired to vengeance at thy priest's request, Thy direful darts inflict the raging pest: Once more attend! avert the wasteful woe, And smile propitious, and unbend thy bow." So Chryses pray'd. Apollo heard his prayer: And now the Greeks their hecatomb prepare; Between their horns the salted barley threw, And, with their heads to heaven, the victims slew:(68) The limbs they sever from the inclosing hide; The thighs, selected to the gods, divide: On these, in double cauls involved with art, The choicest morsels lay from every part. The priest himself before his altar stands, And burns the offering with his holy hands.