The Argonauts

ACTUS PRIMUS 15 Before that glittering woof the Sun Shrinks back abashed in shame, The splendour of the shining one, One torrent-fleece of flame! What heart may think, what tongue may sing The glory of the golden thing? About the grove the scorpion coils Inextricably wind Within the wood’s exceeding toils, The shadow hot and blind; There lurk his serpent sorceries, The guardian of the Golden Fleece. The dragon lifts his nostrils wide And jets a spout of fire; The warrior questing turns aside, Not daring to desire; And Madness born of Ares lurks Behind the wonder of his works. Be sure that were the woodland way Tracked snakewise to the core, The dragon slain or driven away, The good Fleece won by war, Not yet should Ares sink his spear, Or fail of flinging forth a fear. The torch of Madness should be lit, And follow him afar;