And now the strand, and now the plain, they held;

Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill’d;

Their nimble tongues they brandish’d as they came,

And lick’d their hissing jaws, that sputter’d flame.

We fled amaz’d; their destin’d way they take,

And to Laocoön and his children make;

And first around the tender boys they wind,

Then with their sharpen’d fangs their limbs and bodies grind.

The wretched father, running to their aid

With pious haste, but vain, they next invade;

Twice round his waist their winding volumes roll’d;

And twice about his gasping throat they fold.

The priest thus doubly chok’d—their crests divide,

And tow’ring o’er his head in triumph ride.

With both his hands he labours at the knots;

His holy fillets the blue venom blots:

His roaring fills the flitting air around.

Thus, when an ox receives a glancing wound,

He breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies,

And with loud bellowings breaks the yielding skies.

Their tasks perform’d, the serpents quit their prey,

And to the tower of Pallas make their way:

Couch’d at her feet, they lie protected there,

By her large buckler and protended spear.

Amazement seizes all: the general cry

Proclaims Laocoön justly doom’d to die,

Whose hand the will of Pallas had withstood,

And dar’d to violate the sacred wood.

All vote to’ admit the steed, that vows be paid,

And incense offer’d, to the’ offended maid.

A spacious breach is made: the town lies bare:

Some hoising-levers, some the wheels, prepare,

And fasten to the horse’s feet: the rest

With cables haul along the’ unwieldy beast.

Each on his fellow for assistance calls:

At length the fatal fabric mounts the walls,

Big with destruction. Boys with chaplets crown’d,

And choirs of virgins, sing and dance around.

Thus rais’d aloft, and then descending down,

It enters o’er our heads, and threats the town.

O sacred city, built by hands divine!

O valiant heroes of the Trojan line!

Four times he struck: as oft the clashing sound

Of arms was heard, and inward groans rebound.

Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate,

We haul along the horse in solemn state;

Then place the dire portent within the tower.

Cassandra cried, and curs’d the’ unhappy hour;

Foretold our fate; but, by the gods’ decree,

All heard, and none believ’d the prophecy.

With branches we the fanes adorn, and waste,

In jollity, the day ordain’d to be the last.

Meantime the rapid heavens roll’d down the light,

And on the shaded ocean rush’d the night:

Our men, secure, nor guards nor centries held;

But easy sleep their weary limbs compell’d.

The Grecians had embark’d their naval powers

From Tenedos, and sought our well-known shores,

Safe under covert of the silent night,

And guided by the’ imperial galley’s light;