Whether through poz’d conviction, or disdain,

      They guarded silence, when Oceanus

      Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell?

      But so it was, none answer’d for a space,

      Save one whom none regarded, Clymene;

      And yet she answer’d not, only complain’d,

      With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild,

      Thus wording timidly among the fierce:

      “O Father, I am here the simplest voice,

      And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,

      And this thing woe crept in among our hearts,

      There to remain for ever, as I fear:

      I would not bode of evil, if I thought

      So weak a creature could turn off the help

      Which by just right should come of mighty Gods;

      Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell

      Of what I heard, and how it made me weep,

      And know that we had parted from all hope.

      I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore,

      Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land

      Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers.

      Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief;

      Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth;

      So that I felt a movement in my heart

      To chide, and to reproach that solitude

      With songs of misery, music of our woes;

      And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell

      And murmur’d into it, and made melody —

      O melody no more! for while I sang,

      And with poor skill let pass into the breeze

      The dull shell’s echo, from a bowery strand

      Just opposite, an island of the sea,

      There came enchantment with the shifting wind,

      That did both drown and keep alive my ears.

      I threw my shell away upon the sand,

      And a wave fill’d it, as my sense was fill’d

      With that new blissful golden melody.

      A living death was in each gush of sounds,

      Each family of rapturous hurried notes,

      That fell, one after one, yet all at once,

      Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string:

      And then another, then another strain,

      Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,

      With music wing’d instead of silent plumes,

      To hover round my head, and make me sick

      Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame,

      And I was stopping up my frantic ears,

      When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands,

      A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,

      And still it cried, ‘Apollo! young Apollo!

      The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo!’

      I fled, it follow’d me, and cried ‘Apollo!’

      O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt

      Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thou felt,

      Ye would not call this too indulged tongue

      Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard.”

      So far her voice flow’d on, like timorous brook

      That, lingering along a pebbled coast,

      Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met,

      And shudder’d; for the overwhelming voice

      Of huge Enceladus swallow’d it in wrath:

      The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves

      In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks,

      Came booming thus, while still upon his arm

      He lean’d; not rising, from supreme contempt.

      “Or shall we listen to the over-wise,

      Or to the over-foolish, Giant-Gods?

      Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all

      That rebel Jove’s whole armoury were spent,

      Not world on world upon these shoulders piled,

      Could agonize me more than baby-words

      In midst of this dethronement horrible.

      Speak! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all.

      Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile?

      Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm?

      Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves,

      Thy scalding in the seas? What, have I rous’d

      Your spleens with so few simple words as these?

      O joy! for now I see ye are not lost:

      O joy! for now I see a thousand eyes

      Wide glaring for revenge!” – As this he said,

      He lifted up his stature vast, and stood,

      Still without intermission speaking thus:

      “Now ye are flames, I’ll tell you how to burn,

      And purge the ether of our enemies;

      How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire,

      And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove,

      Stifling that puny essence in its tent.

      O let him feel the evil he hath done;

      For though I scorn Oceanus’s lore,

      Much pain have I for more than loss of realms:

      The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled;

      Those days, all innocent of scathing war,

      When all the fair Existences of heaven

      Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak: —

      That was before our brows were taught to frown,

      Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds;

      That was before we knew the winged thing,

      Victory, might be lost, or might be won.

      And be ye mindful that Hyperion,

      Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced —

      Hyperion, lo! his radiance is here!”

      All eyes were on Enceladus’s face,

      And they beheld, while still Hyperion’s name

      Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,

      A pallid gleam across his features stern:

      Not savage, for he saw full many a God

      Wroth as himself. He look’d upon them all,

      And in each face he saw a gleam of light,

      But splendider in Saturn’s, whose hoar locks

      Shone like the