Ipse; sed horrificis iuxta tonat Aetna ruinis;
Interdumque atram prorumpit ad aethera nubem,
Turbine fumantem piceo et candente favilla,
Attollitque globos flammarum et sidera lambit;
Interdum scopulos avolsaque viscera montis
Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras
Cum gemitu glomerat, fundoque exaestuat imo.
Fama est Enceladi semiustum fulmine corpus
Urgueri mole hac, ingentemque insuper Aetnam
Impositam ruptis flammam exspirare caminis;
Et fessum quotiens mutet latus, intremere omnem
Murmere Trinacriam, et caelum subtexere fumo.
Publius Vergilius Maro.

From The Æneid

(Etna)

'HE port is large,

THE

SICILY

BOOK III

And sheltered from the winds. But Etna near, With frightful desolation roars, at times Sending up bursts of black clouds in the air, With rolling smoke of pitch, and flashing sparks, And globes of flame that lick the very stars. Then, from the bowels of the mountain torn, Huge stones are hurled, and melted rocks heaped

up,

A roaring flood of fire.

'Tis said that here Enceladus, half blasted by the bolts

Of heaven, was thrust beneath the mountainous

mass;

And mighty Etna, piled above, sends-forth
His fiery breathings from the broken flues;
And every time he turns his weary sides,
All Sicily groans and trembles, and the sky
Is wreathed in smoke.

Tr. by C. P. Cranch.

Morning on Etna

(Etna)

THE

(From Empedocles on Etna)

HE mules, I think, will not be here this hour; They feel the cool wet turf under their feet By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes

In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, And scarcely will they budge a yard.

O Pan, How gracious is the mountain at this hour! A thousand times have I been here alone, Or with the revellers from the mountain towns, But never on so fair a morn; — the sun Is shining on the brilliant mountain crests, And on the highest pines; but farther down Here in the valley is in shade; the sward Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs; One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet grass, One's breath curls in the air; and on these pines That climb from the stream's edge, the long gray tufts,

Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. Matthew Arnold.

Callicles' Song of Apollo

(Etna)

(From Empedocles on Etna)

On the sward at the cliff-top

ON

Lie strewn the white flocks;
On the cliff-side the pigeons

Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,
Soft lull'd by the rills,
Lie wrapt in their blankets
Asleep on the hills.

What forms are these coming
So white through the gloom?
What garments out-glistening
The gold-flower'd broom?

What sweet-breathing presence
Out-perfumes the thyme?
What voices enrapture

The nights' balmy prime?

'Tis Apollo comes leading
His choir, the Nine.
The leader is fairest,
But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows!

They stream up again! What seeks on this mountain

The glorified train?

They bathe on this mountain,
In the spring by their road;

Then on to Olympus,

Their endless abode !

Matthew Arnold.

Occultas egisse vias subter mare; qui nunc
Ore, Arethusa, tuo Siculis confunditur undis.

Arethusa

(Syracuse)

Publius Vergilius Maro.

A

RETHUSA arose

From her couch of snows

In the Acroceraunian mountains;
From cloud and from crag
With many a jag,

Shepherding her bright fountains.

She leapt down the rocks,

With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams;

Her steps paved with green

The downward ravine

Which slopes to the westward gleams;

And gliding and springing,

She went, ever singing,