Then o’er the genial board, to her who reigns
In woodland heights, Diana, child of Jove,
I waked the choral strains.
But soon there flew a dismal sound
Pergamus’ wide streets around:
The shrieking infant fondly strove
To grasp the border of a mother’s vest,
And with uplifted hands its little fears expressed:
Mars from his ambush by Minerva’s aid
Conspicuous issued and the fray began,
Thick gore adown our altars ran,
And many a slaughtered youth was laid
A headless trunk on the disfigured bed,
That Greece might shine with laureate wreaths arrayed,
By Troy while fruitless tears are shed.