Not less concerned, nor at a later hour, Rose from his downy couch the forging power. Sacred to Vulcan's name, an isle there lay, Betwixt Sicilia's coasts and Lipare, Raised high on smoking rocks: and, deep below, In hollow caves the fires of Ætna 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 through fuming tunnels soar. Hither the father of the fire, by night, Through 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-- Consumed 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 axle-trees, and blunted war, And send him forth again with furbished 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 rolled; Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare, Alone sufficient to sustain the war. Seven orbs within a spacious round they close: One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows. The hissing steel is in the smithy drowned; 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. While, at the Lemnian god's command, they urge Their labours thus, and ply the Æolian forge, The cheerful morn salutes Evander's eyes, And songs of chirping birds invite to rise. He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet Above his ankles; sandals sheath his feet: He sets his trusty sword upon his side, And o'er his shoulder throws a panther's hide. Two menial dogs before their master press'd. Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest. Mindful of promised aid, he mends his pace, But meets Æneas in the middle space. Young Pallas did his father's steps attend,