Were sundered Gaza’s bars;
Then, ’mid the smitten Hydra’s loosened rings,
His slayer rested, in the Lernean fen.
Thou sway’st the heart’s red tides, until they bear
The kindled spirit on their mounting wave,
Up to the notch of Glory; in thy glare
Age thaws his ice, and thrills beside the grave.
Not Bacchus, by his span of panthers borne,
And flushed with triumph of the purple vine,
Can give his sons so fierce a joy as thou,