O for the thousand flowers that erst did bloom
In that Sicilian Valley wild,
Where golden Ceres left her Child
Conceal’d from all the Sons of Jove,
So to elude th’ inevitable doom
Of Fate, and stronger Love!
In vain.—The grisly Monarch of the Dead,
Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head
Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap
Around old Ætna’s smould’ring top;
There, as the wandering Nymph he view’d,
Awhile in blank amaze he stood
Till Love to fury roused his blood.
He call’d his ebon Car and Steeds of fire:
They came, and with the headlong torrent’s speed
Down to the lily-spangled mead
They bore their mighty Sire:
Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took,
Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.