Sacred to Vulcan’s name, an isle there lay, Betwixt Sicilia’s coasts and Lipare, Rais’d high on smoking rocks; and, deep below, In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow. The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal; Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel, Are heard around; the boiling waters roar, And smoky flames thro’ fuming tunnels soar. Hither the Father of the Fire, by night, Thro’ the brown air precipitates his flight. On their eternal anvils here he found The brethren beating, and the blows go round. A load of pointless thunder now there lies Before their hands, to ripen for the skies: These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast; Consum’d on mortals with prodigious waste. Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more, Of winged southern winds and cloudy store As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame; And fears are added, and avenging flame. Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair His broken axletrees and blunted war, And send him forth again with furbish’d arms, To wake the lazy war with trumpets’ loud alarms. The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold. Full on the crest the Gorgon’s head they place, With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face. “My sons,” said Vulcan, “set your tasks aside; Your strength and master-skill must now be tried. Arms for a hero forge; arms that require Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.” He said. They set their former work aside, And their new toils with eager haste divide. A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold, And deadly steel, in the large furnace roll’d; Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare, Alone sufficient to sustain the war. Sev’n orbs within a spacious round they close: One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows. The hissing steel is in the smithy drown’d; The grot with beaten anvils groans around. By turns their arms advance, in equal time; By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime. They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs; The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.