The Aeneid by Virgil Book 3 Page 48

But the race of Cyclopes, roused from the woods and high mountains, rush to the harbour and throng the shores. We see them, standing impotent with glaring eye, the Aetnean brotherhood, their heads towering to the sky, a grim conclave: even as when on a mountaintop lofty oaks or cone-clad cypresses stand in mass, a high forest of Jove or grove of Diana. In headlong speed, sharp fear drives us to fling out our sheets for any course between Scylla and Charybdis – a passage which on either side is but a hair’s breadth removed from death. It is resolved to sail back again, when the North Wind comes blowing from the narrow strait of Pelorus. Past Pantagia’s mouth with its living rock I voyage – past he Megarian bay and low-lying Tapsus.

Such wee the coasts pointed out by Achaemenides, comrade of the