Classic Poem

The great Enceladus you might him deem,
Or grim Typhaeus fellest of the fell;
Ne mortal being mote you him esteem,
But some curs'd sprite escap'd from deepest hell;
So strong and firm he sat in lofty sell,
A thousand swords, a thousand spears him smote;
Myself beheld, ne forged tale I tell,
Albe around him burn'd the battle hote,
Ne once empierced was his target or his coat.