E’en thus by too severe a doom,
To Greece, O Jove, hast thou betrayed
Our shrines, our altars, dropping rich perfume,
The lambent flame that round the victims played,
Myrrh’s odorous smoke that mounts the skies,
Yon holy citadel, with Ida’s grove
Around whose oaks the clasping ivy plies,
Where rivulets meandering rove
Cold and translucent from the drifted snows;
On that high ridge with orient blaze
The sun first scatters his enlivening rays,
And with celestial flame th’ ecstatic priestess glows.