A mighty train
Comes sweeping onward from its spectral clime,
August and king-like! Lo! from out the Main
One rears aloft a port and brows sublime,
Yet faded much with tearful wo and time;
And one with lightnings quivering in his hand,
And eye that speaks the thunder of command,
Walks steadfastly, and, seeming as in ire,
He lists attentively a harper, who,
Bending above the bright chords of a lyre,
Tells how neglect from certain era grew
In mortal breasts t’wards the Olympian Sire.
I hail ye Gods! Your reign, though haply brief,
Showed that poor man at least had _some_ belief.
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