Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/281

Rh Still alert thy stone-crushed frame?

Doth thy fierce soul still deplore

Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills,

And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore?

Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep

The fight which crowned thine ills,

Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep?

Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair,

Where erst the strong sea-currents sucked thee down,

Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest,

Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair?

That thy groans, like thunder prest,

Begin to roll, and almost drown

The sweet notes whose lulling spell

Gods and the race of mortals love so well,

When through thy caves thou hearest music swell?

But an awful pleasure bland

Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face,

When the sound climbs near his seat,

The Olympian council sees;

As he lets his lax right hand,

Which the lightnings doth embrace,

Sink upon his mighty knees.

And the eagle, at the beck

Of the appeasing, gracious harmony,

Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feathered neck,

Nesthng nearer to Jove's feet;

While o'er his sovran eye

The curtains of the blue films slowly meet.

And the white Olympus-peaks

Rosily brighten, and the soothed gods smile

At one another from their golden chairs,

And no one round the charmed circle speaks.