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