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While writhing coils of hydra-headed wrong,
Listening, and wondering at that heavenly song,
Deemed they had drunk of some foul mixture brewed
In Circe’s maddening cup, with sorcery imbued.
Alas ! if from an alien to his clime,
No bas-relief may grace thy front sublime,
Stern block, in some obscure disaster hurled
From the rent heart of a primeval world,
Through storied centuries thou shalt proudly stand
In the memorial city of his land,
A silend monitor, austere and gray,
To warn the clamorous prood of harpies from their prey.
Traduction de Mrs Louise Chandler Moulton
FOR THE POE MEMORIAL
Into himself resolved by Death’s great change,
The poet rouses with his clear, free tone,
