To men though terrible, to him was gentle,
Smoothing his rugged nature into laughter
When the boy stole his club, or from his shoulders
Dragged the huge paws of the Nemæan lion.
The thick, brown locks, tossed backward from his forehead,
Fell soft about his temples; manhood’s blossom
Not yet had sprouted on his chin, but freshly
Curved the fair cheek, and full the red lip’s parting,
Like a loose bow, that just has launched its arrow;
His large blue eyes, with joy dilate and beamy,