ied:
"Beware, all heroes, for these are the rocks of the Sirens. You must
pass close by them, for there is no other channel; but those who listen
to that song are lost."

Then Orpheus spoke, the king of all minstrels: "Let them match their
song against mine. I have charmed stones, and trees, and dragons, how
much more the hearts of man!" So he caught up his lyre, and stood upon
the poop, and began his magic song.

And now they could see the Sirens, on Anthemousa, the flowery isle;
three fair maidens sitting on the beach, beneath a red rock in the
setting sun, among beds of crimson poppies and golden asphodel. Slowly
they sung and sleepily, with silver voices, mild and clear, which stole
over the golden waters, and into the hearts of all the heroes, in spite
of Orpheus's song.

And all things stayed around and listened; the gulls sat in white lines
along the rocks; on the beach great seals lay basking, and kept time
with lazy heads; while silver shoals of fish came up to hearken, and
whispered as they broke the shining calm. The Wind overhead hushed his
whistling, as he shepherded his clouds toward the west; and the clouds
stood in mid blue, and listened dreaming, like a flock of golden sheep.

And as the heroes listened, the oars fell from their hands, and their
heads drooped on their breasts, and they closed their heavy eyes; and
they dreamed of bright still gardens, and of slumbers under murmuring
pines, till all their toil seemed foolishness, and they thought of their
renown no more.

Then one lifted his head suddenly, and cried, "What use in wandering
forever? Let us stay here and rest awhile." And another, "Let us row to
the shore, and hear the words they sing." And another, "I care not for
the words, but for the music. They shall sing me to sleep, that I may
rest."

And Butes, the son of Pandion, the fairest of all mortal men, leapt out
and swam toward the shore, crying, "I come, I come, fair maidens, to
live and die here, listening to your song."

Then Medeia clapped her hands together, and cried, "Sing louder,
Orpheus, sing a bolder strain; wake up these hapless sluggards, or none
of them will see the land of Hellas more."

Then Orpheus lifted his harp, and crashed his cunning hand across the
strings; and his music and his voice rose like a trumpet through the
still evening air; into the air it rushed like thunder, till the rocks
rang and the sea; and into their souls it rushed like wine, till all
hea