But you, O king, preserve the faith you gave,

If I, to save myself, your empire save.

The Grecian hopes, and all the’ attempts they made,

Were only founded on Minerva’s aid.

But from the time when impious Diomede,

And false Ulysses, that inventive head,

Her fatal image from the temple drew,

The sleeping guardians of the castle slew,

Her virgin statue with their bloody hands

Polluted, and profan’d her holy bands;

From thence the tide of fortune left their shore,

And ebb’d much faster than it flow’d before:

Their courage languish’d, as their hopes decay’d:

And Pallas, now averse, refus’d her aid.

Nor did the goddess doubtfully declare

Her alter’d mind, and alienated care.

When first her fatal image touch’d the ground,

She sternly cast her glaring eyes around,

That sparkled as they roll’d, and seem’d to threat:

Her heavenly limbs distill’d a briny sweat.

Thrice from the ground she leap’d, was seen to wield

Her brandish’d lance, and shake her horrid shield.

Then Calchas bade our host for flight prepare,

And hope no conquest from the tedious war,

Till first they sail’d for Greece; with prayers besought

Her injur’d power, and better omens brought.

And, now their navy ploughs the watery main,

Yet, soon expect it on your shores again,

With Pallas pleas’d; as Calchas did ordain.

But first, to reconcile the blue-eyed maid

For her stol’n statue and her tower betrayed,

Warn’d by the seer, to her offended name

We rais’d and dedicate this wondrous frame,

So lofty, lest through your forbidden gates

It pass, and intercept our better fates:

For, once admitted there, our hopes are lost;

And Troy may then a new Palladium boast:

For so religion and the gods ordain,

That, if you violate with hands profane

Minerva’s gift, your town in flames shall burn;

(Which omen, O ye gods, on Graecia turn!)

But if it climb, with your assisting hands,

The Trojan walls, and in the city stands;

Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn,

And the reverse of fate on us return.’

With such deceits he gain’d their easy hearts,

Too prone to credit his perfidious arts.

What Diomede, nor Thetis’ greater son,

A thousand ships, nor ten years’ siege, had done—

False tears and fawning words the city won.

A greater omen, and of worse portent,

Did our unwary minds with fear torment,

Concurring to produce the dire event.

Laocoön, Neptune’s priest by lot that year,

With solemn pomp then sacrific’d a steer:

When (dreadful to behold!) from sea we spied

Two serpents, rank’d abreast, the seas divide,

And smoothly sweep along the swelling tide.

Their flaming crests above the waves they show;

Their bellies seem to burn the seas below;

Their speckled tails advance to steer their course,

And on the sounding shore the flying billows force.