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, "Tomorrow, perhaps today, Enceladus 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.
Where ashes are heaped in drifts Over vineyard and field and town, Whenever he starts and lifts His head through the blackened rifts Of the crags that keep him down.
See, see! the red light shines! 'Tis the glare of his awful eyes! And the storm-wind shouts through the pines, Of Alps and of Apennines, "Enceladus, arise!"
When Horace in Venusian groves Was scribbling wit or sipping "Massic," Or singing those delicious loves Which after ages reckon classic, He wrote one day--'twas no vagary-- These famous words:--_Nil admirari!_
"Wonder at nothing!" said the bard; A kingdom's fall, a nation's rising, A lucky or a losing card, Are really not at all surprising; However men or manners vary, Keep cool and calm: _Nil admirari!_
If kindness meet a cold return; If friendship prove a dear delusion; If love, neglected, cease to burn, Or die untimely of profusion,-- Such lessons well may make us wary, But needn't shock: _Nil admirari!_
Ah! when the happy day we reach When promisers are ne'er deceivers; When parsons practice what they preach, And seeming saints are all believers, Then the old maxim you may vary, And say no more, _Nil admirari!_
The Emperor Titus, at the close of a day in which he had neither gained any knowledge nor conferred benefit, was accustomed to exclaim, "Perdidi diem," "I have lost a day."
Why art thou sad, thou of the sceptred hand? The rob'd in purple, and the high in state? Rome pours her myriads forth, a vassal band, And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate; Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate.
"_Perdidi diem!_"--Pour the empire's treasure, Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow dye; Unlock the fountains of a monarch's pleasure To lure the lost one back. I heard a sigh-- One hour of parted time, a world is poor to buy.