Bellerophôn By Arran and Isla Leigh [i.e. by K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
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THE WORKSHOP UNDER AETNA. |
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171
THE WORKSHOP UNDER AETNA.
“Quotiens Cyclopum effervere in agros
Vidimus undantem ruptis fornacibus Aetnam,
Flammarumque globos liquefactaque volvere saxa!”
Vidimus undantem ruptis fornacibus Aetnam,
Flammarumque globos liquefactaque volvere saxa!”
I
They toil with their huge heaving shoulders,As massive as rock-riven boulders;
Like strings of the Mêlian's harp
Their sinews are chorded: with sharp
II
Wrench of iron their fingers are twisted;Each muscle in toil is enlisted,
And like rocks, flesh-knit, are their thighs.
The sound of the chain in their sighs
III
Reveals them fierce captives unwilling,Some strange, awful service fulfilling;
Vulcanian labour divine
'Mid the mountain-roots of their mine.
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IV
Flames lurid or bronze-bright are lappingThe ambient dark, and are flapping
Against the stale, seasonless air,
Ensanguining night everywhere.
V
Fierce, tawny forges roar lion-like,Dull-sounding hammers the iron strike,
And beat the auriferous block,
Till earth shakes aghast at the shock;
VI
And pale man looks up to the mountain,One luminous fire-spraying fountain;
Feels the air grow pond'rous and still,
Sees the loos'ning vines on the hill.
VII
Still labour those forms, rest forbidden,In forge-stricken darkness deep hidden;
Blood-brown in the rubicund glare
Glow limbs Ethiopic and bare,
VIII
Their ruddy right hands, wide and wielding,No instant to idleness yielding;
A red sun their one-circled sight,
Their craggy brows seaming with light.
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IX
Their bent heads, gigantic and solemn,Above the dun neck's rounded column
With locks heavy-capitalled,—locks
Aglow from the rutilant rocks.
X
They are forging the Father's lightning,With flame the dull metal brightening;
And their sweat feeds as oil the blaze,
While the levin of wrath they raise,
XI
Till the softened gold can be woven,The shafts of the lightning cloven,
Fang'd with Death, and quivered for clasp
Of the god's omnipotent grasp.
XII
Man too has a labour Titanic,'Neath Aetnean crater volcanic;
Foredoomed 'mid reverberate strife
To work for a bright higher life.
XIII
The furnace of passion must heat it,And blows of strong suffering beat it
To the form a god's hands require,
To mould of the Master's desire.
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XIV
This life which we hate, or we cherish,Shall live, while in darkness we perish
'Neath the roots of the mountain mass,
Which that forged light alone may pass.
XV
This Stygian dark seems so hollow;Our bright work we never may follow.
If we love, we go with it too;
As the Titans their spirit threw
XVI
To the lightning-shaft. Through surrenderOf strength rose the keen, puissant splendour,
Begot in the cramped, crippled form,
The fetterless life of the storm!
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