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Was with its stored thunder laboring up, One hand she press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart, as if just there, Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his ear Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke In solemn tenor and deep organ-tone; Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in this like accenting; how frail To that large utterance of the early gods!


 * "Saturn, look up! and for what, poor lost king?

I have no comfort for thee; no, not one; I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou? For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a god. The Ocean, too, with all its solemn noise, Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air Is emptied of thy hoary majesty. Thy thunder, captious at the new command, Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; And thy sharp lightning, in unpractised hands, Scourges and burns our once serene domain.


 * With such remorseless speed still come new woes,

That unbelief has not a space to breathe.