He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven; Snow-white are the locks of his head, Locks so famous for shaking Olympus; He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt, And in his face lie misfortune and grief, And yet without change his olden pride. Those times indeed were better, O Zeus, When thou didst take pleasure divinely In youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs! But even the Gods can reign not for ever, The younger press hard on their elders, As thou didst once on thy grey-headed father And all thy Titan uncles hard press, Jupiter Parricida! Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here! Spite of all thy jealous anxiety, Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d, And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens, And fixed is now thy beaming eye, And powerless lie thy lily-white arms, And never more thy vengeance can reach The God-impregnated virgin, And the wonder-working son of the deity. Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene! With shield and wisdom couldest thou not Avert the destruction of deities? Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite! Erst the golden one! now the silver one! True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle, Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty, And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms, Like heroes before me, of fear I should die; To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses, Venus Libitina! No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking, Yonder, the terrible Ares; And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo, The stripling. His lyre is silent That sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods. Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus, And truly, the lame one! no longer Fills he the office of Hebe, And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation, The nectar delicious--And long is extinguish’d The inextinguishable laughter of deities. O ye Gods, I never could love you, For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians, And e’en the Romans I greatly hate. Yet holy compassion and shuddering pity Stream through my heart, When I now behold you on high, Godheads deserted, Dead and night-wandering shadows, Misty and weak, scared by the very wind-- And when I bethink me how airy and cowardly The godheads are, who overcame you, The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads. The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness, Then over me steals a glorious resentment, And fain would I break the new-born temples, And fight on your side, ye ancient deities, For you, and your good ambrosial rights, And before your lofty altars, The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming, Fain would I kneel down and pray, And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.--