Then Paris did a point of hunting blow,
Nor yet the sound had died upon the hill
When round the isle they spied a scarlet prow,
And oars that flash'd into that haven still,
The oarsmen bending forward with a will,
And swift their black ship to the haven-side
They brought, and steer'd her in with goodly skill,
And bare on board the strange Achaean bride.
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