Here Atlas reign’d, of more than human size, And in his kingdom the world’s limit lies. Here Titan bids his wearied coursers sleep, And cools the burning axle in the deep: The mighty monarch, uncontroll’d, alone His sceptre sways: no neighb’ring states are known: A thousand flocks on shady mountains fed, A thousand herds o’er grassy plains were spread: Here wondrous trees their shining stores unfold, Their shining stores too wondrous to be told, Their leaves, their branches, and their apples, gold. Then Perseus the gigantic prince address’d, Humbly implored a hospitable rest: “If bold exploits thy admiration fire,” He said, “I fancy mine thou wilt admire: Or, if the glory of a race can move, Not mean my glory, for I spring from Jove.” At this confession Atlas ghastly stared, Mindful of what an oracle declared, That the dark womb of time conceal’d a day, Which should, disclosed, the bloomy gold betray; All should at once be ravish’d from his eyes, And Jove’s own progeny enjoy the prize. For this, the fruit he loftily immured,