Enceladus

Under Mount Etna he lies,         It is slumber, it is not death;     For he struggles at times to arise,     And above him the lurid skies         Are hot with his fiery breath.     The crags are piled on his breast,         The earth is heaped on his head;     But the groans of his wild unrest,     Though smothered and half suppressed,         Are heard, and he is not dead.     And the nations far away         Are watching with eager eyes;     They talk together and say,     "To-morrow, perhaps to-day,         Euceladus will arise!"     And the old gods, the austere         Oppressors in their strength,     Stand aghast and white with fear     At the ominous sounds they hear,         And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"     Ah me! for the land that is sown         With the harvest of despair!     Where the burning cinders, blown     From the lips of the overthrown         Enceladus, fill the air.     Where ashes are heaped in drifts         Over vineyard and field and town,     Whenever he starts and lifts     His head through the blackened rifts         Of the crags that keep him down.     See, see! the red light shines!         'T is the glare of his awful eyes!     And the storm-wind shouts through the pines     Of Alps and of Apennines,         "Enceladus, arise!"