An island rises Near the Sicanian coast and Lipare, Aeolian land, steep over smoking rocks. Below them roars a cavern, hollow vaults Scooped out for forges, where the Cyclops pound On the resounding anvils; lumps of steel Hiss in the water, and the blasts of fire Pant in the furnaces; here Vulcan dwells, The place is called Vulcania, and here The Lord of Fire comes down. In the great cave The smiths were working iron; a thunderbolt Such as Jove hurls from heaven, was almost finished, Shaped by the hands of Brontes, Steropes, And naked-limbed Pyracmon. They had added Three rods of twisted rain and three of cloud, And three of orange fire and wingèd wind, And now they were working in the flash, the sound, The fear, the anger, the pursuing flame. Elsewhere a chariot for Mars was building To harry men and cities; and for Pallas An awful shield, with serpent scales of gold, Snakes interwoven, and the Gorgon’s head, Awaiting polish. The neck was severed, the eyes Already seemed to roll, when Vulcan came Crying, “Away with this! Another task Demands your toil, your thought. Arms for a warrior! Use all your strength, you need it now; exert The flying hands, ply all your master skill, Break off delay!” And all, obedient, bent To the great task; the bronze, the golden ore Run down like rivers, and the wounding steel Melts in the furnace as they shape the shield, Welding it, orb on orb, a sevenfold circle Made one, for all the weapons of the Latins. Some keep the bellows panting, others dip The hissing bronze in water, and the anvil Groans under the hammer-stroke. In turn they raise Their arms in measured cadence, and the tongs Take hold of the hot metal, twist and turn it. So sped the work on Lemnos.