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And than sey men 2 vers of the psautre, 3 sithes: Irruat super eos formido et pavor in magnitudine Brachii tui, Domine, Fiant inmobiles, quasi Lapis, donec pertranseat populus tuus, Domine; donec pertranseat populus tuus iste, quem possedisti. And thanne may men passe with outen perile.
Soon he was at the outposts, where strong divisions of Cissian and Babylonian infantrymen were slumbering under arms, ready for the attack the instant the uproar from the rear of the pass told how Hydarnes had completed his circuit. Eos—“Rosy-Fingered Dawn”—was just shimmering above the mist-hung peak of Mt. Telethrius in Eubœa across the bay when Glaucon came to the last Persian outpost.
The son of Eos, or Aurora, and the Titan Astraeus, he was of the same parentage as the other multitude of the starry host, to whom a similar origin was ascribed, and from whom in Greek mythology he was evidently believed to differ only in the superior order of his brightness.
The poetess imagined herself as hearing the voice of Memnon singing to his mother Eos while her tears, the fresh morning dew, fell upon the image of her son, fallen before the walls of Troy.
The frigate seemed to leap at the object before her as at a prey; and dire was the crash that ensued. As we may suppose the wrathful lioness springs upon the buffalo, and, meeting more resistance from its horny bulk than she had suspected, recoils and makes another spring, so did the Eos strike, rebound, then strike again. I felt two distinct percussions. The second stroke divided the obstacle.
If we are asked if it be not a legend embodying portions of historical matter, and raised upon a basis of truth whether there may not really have occurred at the foot of the hill of Ilium a war purely human and political, without gods, without heroes, without Helen, without Amazons, without Ethiopians under the beautiful son of Eos, without the wooden horse, without the characteristic and expressive features of the old epic war if we are asked if there was not really some such historical Trojan war as this, our answer must be, that as the possibility of it cannot be denied, so neither can the reality of it be affirmed."
Dorothy was so thin as to be stringy of body. She had a sharp hatchet-face, eyes with the colour of ice in them ... a cold, blue-grey. She was a woman of culture, yet at the same time she was possessed of a great instinct for organisation and business enterprise just what was needed for the kind of thing Spalton was trying to inaugurate at Eos.
Gingerly, I put on the ragged suit.... I stood in front of the Eos Artwork Studios. I saw a boy coming down the path from one of the buildings. "Would you tell me please where I can find the Master?" I asked, reverently. The boy gave me a long stare. "Oh, you mean Mr. Spalton?" "Yes." "That's him ... there ... choppin' wood."
Abscondes eos in abscondito faciei tuae: a conturbatione hominum. Thou shalt hide them in the secret of Thy face: from the disturbance of men. Ps. xxx. 21. The former, as Sir John points out, disregards and avoids pain, the latter deals with it.
His companion now looking at our habiliments which were in rather a dripping condition asked John Jones if we had come from far. "We have been to Pont y Meibion," said Jones, "to see the chair of Huw Morris," adding that the Gwr Boneddig was a great admirer of the songs of the Eos Ceiriog.
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