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Enceladus - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Enceladus - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under Mount Etna he lies,
         It is slumber, it is not death;
For he struggles at times to arise,
And above him the lurid skies
         Are hot with his fiery breath.

The crags are piled on his breast,
         The earth is heaped on his head;
But the groans of his wild unrest,
Though smothered and half suppressed,
         Are heard, and he is not dead.

And the nations far away
         Are watching with eager eyes;
They talk together and say,
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,
         Euceladus will arise!"

And the old gods, the austere
         Oppressors in their strength,
Stand aghast and white with fear
At the ominous sounds they hear,
         And tremble, and mutter, "At length!"

Ah me! for the land that is sown
         With the harvest of despair!
Where the burning cinders, blown
From the lips of the overthrown
         Enceladus, fill the air.
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