To him was consecrated the horse, and in his honour were celebrated the
Isthmian games. His throne was a chariot drawn by four fiery steeds; his
stature is grand, and his appearance imposing; he wears the look of an old
man, his long beard and hair, wet with the vapour of the water.
In his hand he holds the trident, which bids the waves of ocean to rise,
and causes the thunder of its tempests. With this trident also, he shakes
the world, and bids the earth to tremble.
During the _Consualia_ of the Romans, horses were led through the streets,
finely equipped, and crowned with garlands, as the God in whose honour the
festivals were instituted, had produced the horse, an animal so beneficial
for the use of mankind.
As monarch of the sea, he is supposed to have had possession of the deep,
and all the treasures which the stormy winds sent to his domain.
"What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding, and mysterious main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-coloured shells,
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain;
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea.
We ask not such from thee!
"Yet more, the depths have more! what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining thro' their stillness lies;
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal argosies;
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main;
Earth claims not these again!
"Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have rolled,
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'er-grown the halls of revelry.
Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay
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Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle thunders will not break their rest;
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave,
Give back the true and brave!
"Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long;
The prayer went up thro' midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,
But all is not thine own!
"To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,
Yet must thou hear a voice--restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
Restore the dead thou sea!"