promontories,

Lies the world’s hope, the seed of all the glories

That are to be; there, too, must surely live

She who alone can medicinably give

Ease with her beauty to the Thunderer’s pain.

Downwards he bends his fiery eyes again,

Glaring on Hellas. Like a beam of light,

His intent glances touch the mountain height

With passing flame and probe the valleys deep,

Rift the dense forest and the age-old sleep

Of vaulted antres on whose pebbly floor

Gallop the loud-hoofed Centaurs; and the roar

Of more than human shouting underground

Pulses in living palpable waves of sound

From wall to wall, until it rumbles out

Into the air; and at that hollow shout

That seems an utterance of the whole vast hill,

The shepherds cease their laughter and are still.

Cities asleep under the noonday sky

Stir at the passage of his burning eye;

And in their huts the startled peasants blink

At the swift flash that bursts through every chink

Of wattled walls, hearkening in fearful wonder

Through lengthened seconds for the crash of thunder—

Which follows not: they are the more afraid.

Jove seeks amain. Many a country maid,

Whose sandalled feet pass down familiar ways

Among the olives, but whose spirit strays

Through lovelier lands of fancy, suddenly

Starts broad awake out of her dream to see

A light that is not of the sun, a light

Darted by living eyes, consciously bright;

She sees and feels it like a subtle flame

Mantling her limbs with fear and maiden shame

And strange desire. Longing and terrified,

She hides her face, like a new-wedded bride

Who feels rough hands that seize and hold her fast;

And swooning falls. The terrible light has passed;

She wakes; the sun still shines, the olive trees

Tremble to whispering silver in the breeze

And all is as it was, save she alone

In whose dazed eyes this deathless light has shone:

For never, never from this day forth will she

In earth’s poor passion find felicity,

Or love of mortal man. A god’s desire

Has seared her soul; nought but the same strong fire

Can kindle the dead ash to life again,

And all her years will be a lonely pain.

Many a thousand had he looked upon,

Thousands of mortals, young and old; but none—

Virgin, or young ephebus, or the flower

Of womanhood culled in its full-blown hour—

Could please the Thunderer’s sight or touch his mind;

The longed-for loveliness was yet to find.

Had beauty fled, and was there nothing fair

Under the moon? The fury of despair

Raged in the breast of heaven’s Almighty Lord;

He gnashed his foamy teeth and rolled and roared

In bull-like agony. Then a great calm

Descended on him: cool and healing