Force yielding up its vantage-ground to craft.
The mine that works its central, winding way
Volcanic, and, built deep by artifice,
Like Mongibello, shows not its effect
In those abysses where its pregnant powers
Lie hid, concealing all their horrors dark
E’en from the fire itself; but there begins
The task which here in ruin ends and woe,—
Lightning beneath and thunderbolts above.—
Now, if my love, amidst the realms of air,