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To the pleased gods had Juno said

In conclave: “Troy is in the dust;

Troy, by a judge accursed, unjust, And that strange woman prostrated.

“The day Laomedon ignored

His god-pledged word, resigned to me

And Pallas ever pure, was she, Her people, and their traitor lord.

“Now the Greek woman's guilty guest

Dazzles no more : Priam's perjured sons

Find not against the mighty ones Of Greece a shield in Hector's breast :

“And, long drawn out by private jars,

The war sleeps. Lo! my wrath is o'er :

And him the Trojan vestal bore (Sprung of that hated line) to Mars,

“To Mars restore I. His be rest

In halls of light: by him be drained

The nectar-bowl, his place obtained In the calm companies of the blest.

“While betwixt Rome and Ilion raves

A length of ocean, where they will

Rise empires for the exiles still : While Paris's and Priam's graves

"Are trod by kine, and she-wolves breed

Securely there, unharmed shall stand

Rome's lustrous Capitol, her hand
Curb with proud laws the trampled Mede.

“Wide-feared, to far-off climes be borne

Her story; where the central main

Europe and Libya parts in twain, Where full Nile laves a land of corn:

“The buried secret of the mine,

(Best left there) let her dare to spurn,

Nor unto man's base uses turn Profane hands laying on things divine.

“Earth’s utmost end, where'er it be,

Let her hosts reach ; careering proud

O'er lands where watery rain and cloud, Or where wild suns hold revelry.

“But, to the warriors of Rome,

Tied by this law, such fates are willed ;

That they seek never to rebuild,
Too fond, too bold, their grandsires' home.

“With darkest omens, deadliest strife,

Shall Troy, raised up again, repeat

Her history; I the victor-fleet Shall lead, Jove's sister and his wife.

“Thrice let Apollo rear the wall

Of brass ; and thrice my Greeks shall hew

The fabric down; thrice matrons rue In chains their sons, their husbands' fall.”

Ill my light lyre such notes beseem.

Stay, Muse; nor, wayward still, rehearse

Sayings of Gods in meagre verse That may but mar a mighty theme.

ODE 4.

COME, Music's Queen, from yonder sphere:

Bid thy harp speak : sing high and higher

Or take Apollo's lute and lyre,
And play, and cease not. Did ye hear?

Or is some sweet Delusion mine?

I seem to hear, to stray beside

Groves that are holy; whither glide Fair brooks, where breezes are benign.

Me, on mount Vultur once-a lad,

O’ercome with sleepiness and play

(I had left Apulia miles away, That nursed me) doves from Fayland clad

With leaflets. Marvelled all whose nest

Is Acherontia's cliff; who fell

The Bantine forest trees, or dwell On rich Ferentium's lowly breast;

How I could sleep, unharmed by bear

Or dusky serpent. There I lay,

In myrtle hid and holy bay,
A lusty babe, the Great ones' care.

Yours, Sisters, yours, the Sabine hills

I climb: at cool Præneste yours,

Yours by flat Tibur, or the shores Of Baiæ. I have loved your rills,

Your choirs : for this Philippi's slaughter,

When fled our captains, harmed not me;

I died not 'neath the cursed tree, Nor sank in Palinurus' water :

Be with me still : and, fears at rest,

I'll launch on raving Bosphorus, stand

Upon Assyria's sultry sand,
With Britons mate, who slay the guest,

Sit down with Spaniards, wild to sate

Their thirst with horses' blood; or roam

Far o'er the quivered Scythian's home By Tanais' banks, inviolate.

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