No man is now, nor shall be, portionless
Of trouble: yet on Battus’ line
Still waits the olden bliss, though happiness
And grief may intertwine.
Kyrene’s warder-tower is this, a light
Of splendour on the stranger shed.
Yea, thunder-throated lions in affright
From Battus’ outcry fled—
That voice from overseas! Your founder Apollo
Thrilled them with dread, that on the word
Of prophecy might sure fulfilment follow
For him, Kyrene’s lord.