ODE TO DON JOHN OF
When from the vaulted sky,
Struck by the bolt and volleyed fire of Jove,
Enceladus, who proudly strove
To rear to heaven his impious head,
Fell headlong upon Etna’s rocky bed;
And she, who long had boldly stood
Against the powers on high,
By thousand deaths undaunted, unsubdued,
Rebellious Earth – her fury spent,
Before the sword of Mars unwilling bent:
In heaven’s pure serene,
To his bright lyre, whose strings melodious rung,
Unshorn Apollo sweetly sung,
And sprang the joyous numbers round,
His youthful brows with gold and laurel bound,
Listening the sweet, immortal strain,
And all the lucid spheres, night’s wakeful train,
That swift pursues their ceaseless way,
Forgot their course, suspended by his lay.
Hushed was the stormy sea,
At the sweet sound the boisterous waves were laid,
The noise of rushing winds was stayed;
And with the gentle breath of pleasure
The Muses sang, according with his measure.
In wildest strain of rapture lost,
He sung the victory,
The power and the glory, of the heavenly host;
The horrid mien and warlike mood,
The fatal pride, of Titanian brood:
Of Pallas, Attic maid,
The Gorgon terrors and the fiery spear;
Of him, whose voice the billows fear,
The valor proved in deadly fight;
Of Hercules the strength and vengeful might.
But long he praised thy dauntless heart,
And sweetest prelude made,
Singing, Bistonian Mars, thy force and art;
Thine arm victorious, which o’erthrew
The fiercest of the bold Phlegrean crew!
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