Each sacrifice, each pious rite,
Hence vanished, with th’ harmonious choirs
Whose accents soothed the languid ear of night,
While to the gods we waked our sounding lyres;
Their golden images no more
Twelve times each year, on that revolving eve
When shines the full-orbed moon, do we adore.
Harassed by anxious fears, I grieve,
Oft thinking whether thou, O Jove, wilt deign
To listen to our piteous moan,
High as thou sitt’st on thy celestial throne;
For Troy, by fire consumed, lies level with the plain.