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.