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 Yes, in your heaven, where proud ye reign, exult; Poor vanquish'd Ceres and her child insult!"
 * She spake, and sought, on Etna's woody side,

For brands, whose flame her nightly toil might guide. By golden Acis' bank a grove arose, Acis, whose stream fair Galatea chose Full oft to bathe in rather than the sea: A tangled grove—and dense with many a tree, It climb'd up Etna's flanks—'twas there, men say, That Jove, victorious from the mighty fray, His blood-stain' d shield and captured trophies laid, And clothed with Phlegra's spoils the branchy glade. There hang the giant limbs, the grinning jaws, The face, whose threatening scowl the gazer awes: Huge bones of serpents into heaps are cast; Their skins, yet rigid, roar with every blast: No tree but boasts some name of warrior lords; This bending bears Ægæon's hundred swords, On that are Cœus' sable arms bestow'd, These ponderous Mimas and Ophion load. The smoking spoils of Earth's most royal son, Enceladus himself, a shady pine hath on; Which bows beneath their weight its stature tall, Saved by its neighbour oak alone from fall.