This passion lifted him upon his feet,

      And made his hands to struggle in the air,

      His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,

      His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.

      He stood, and heard not Thea’s sobbing deep;

      A little time, and then again he snatch’d

      Utterance thus.– “But cannot I create?

      Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth

      Another world, another universe,

      To overbear and crumble this to nought?

      Where is another chaos? Where?” – That word

      Found way unto Olympus, and made quake

      The rebel three. – Thea was startled up,

      And in her bearing was a sort of hope,

      As thus she quick-voic’d spake, yet full of awe.

      “This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,

      O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;

      I know the covert, for thence came I hither.”

      Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went

      With backward footing through the shade a space:

      He follow’d, and she turn’d to lead the way

      Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist

      Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.

      Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,

      More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,

      Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe:

      The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,

      Groan’d for the old allegiance once more,

      And listen’d in sharp pain for Saturn’s voice.

      But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept

      His sov’reignty, and rule, and majesty; —

      Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire

      Still sat, still snuff’d the incense, teeming up

      From man to the sun’s God; yet unsecure:

      For as among us mortals omens drear

      Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he —

      Not at dog’s howl, or gloom-bird’s hated screech,

      Or the familiar visiting of one

      Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,

      Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;

      But horrors, portion’d to a giant nerve,

      Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright

      Bastion’d with pyramids of glowing gold,

      And touch’d with shade of bronzed obelisks,

      Glar’d a blood-red through all its thousand courts,

      Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;

      And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds

      Flush’d angerly: while sometimes eagle’s wings,

      Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,

      Darken’d the place; and neighing steeds were heard,

      Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.

      Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths

      Of incense, breath’d aloft from sacred hills,

      Instead of sweets, his ample palate took

      Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick:

      And so, when harbour’d in the sleepy west,

      After the full completion of fair day, —

      For rest divine upon exalted couch

      And slumber in the arms of melody,

      He pac’d away the pleasant hours of ease

      With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;

      While far within each aisle and deep recess,

      His winged minions in close clusters stood,

      Amaz’d and full of fear; like anxious men

      Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,

      When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.

      Even now, while Saturn, rous’d from icy trance,

      Went step for step with Thea through the woods,

      Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,

      Came slope upon the threshold of the west;

      Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope

      In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,

      Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet

      And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies;

      And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,

      In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,

      That inlet to severe magnificence

      Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.

      He enter’d, but he enter’d full of wrath;

      His flaming robes stream’d out beyond his heels,

      And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,

      That scar’d away the meek ethereal Hours

      And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared,

      From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,

      Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,

      And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,

      Until he reach’d the great main cupola;

      There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,

      And from the basements deep to the high towers

      Jarr’d his own golden region; and before

      The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas’d,

      His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,

      To this result: “O dreams of day and night!

      O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain!

      O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!

      O lank-eared Phantoms of black-weeded pools!

      Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why

      Is my eternal essence thus distraught

      To see and to behold these horrors new?

      Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?

      Am I to leave this haven of my rest,

      This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,

      This calm luxuriance of blissful light,

      These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,

      Of all my lucent empire? It is left

      Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.

      The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry,

      I cannot see – but darkness, death and darkness.

      Even here, into my centre of repose,

      The shady visions come to domineer,

      Insult,