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;