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 The worst of a light burden far behind him

And found the rest to be Olympian gold,

He had impawned it all for mouldy pottage.

Telling me that, he sighed and shut his teeth,

And with a mortal smile shook his large head

At me before he went back to those drums.

They were not going a sound, as it appeared,

Their long approach for ever, but were soon

To cease, and only intermittently

Be heard again till choral gold came down

Out of a star to quench and vanquish them

With molten glory. Trembling there alone,

He knew that there would now be falling on him

The flaming rain he feared, or the one shaft

Of singing fire that he no longer feared—

At which that hand might close upon his throat