| |
| UNDER Mount Etna he lies, | |
| It is slumber, it is not death; | |
| For he struggles at times to arise, | |
| And above him the lurid skies | |
| Are hot with his fiery breath. | 5 |
| |
| The crags are piled on his breast, | |
| The earth is heaped on his head; | |
| But the groans of his wild unrest, | |
| Though smothered and half suppressed, | |
| Are heard, and he is not dead. | 10 |
| |
| And the nations far away | |
| Are watching with eager eyes; | |
| They talk together and say, | |
| “To-morrow, perhaps to-day, | |
| Enceladus will arise!” | 15 |
| |
| And the old gods, the austere | |
| Oppressors in their strength, | |
| Stand aghast and white with fear | |
| At the ominous sounds they hear, | |
| And tremble, and mutter, “At length!” | 20 |
| |
| Ah me! for the land that is sown | |
| With the harvest of despair! | |
| Where the burning cinders, blown | |
| From the lips of the overthrown | |
| Enceladus, fill the air. | 25 |
| |
| Where ashes are heaped in drifts | |
| Over vineyard and field and town, | |
| Whenever he starts and lifts | |
| His head through the blackened rifts | |
| Of the crags that keep him down. | 30 |
| |
| See, see! the red light shines! | |
| ’T is the glare of his awful eyes! | |
| And the storm-wind shouts through the pines | |
| Of Alps and of Apennines, | |
| “Enceladus, arise!” | 35 |
| |
