Whether the image was divine,
Drew from terrestrial particles its birth,
Or from the middle region, how define
By curious search, ye sons of earth?
Far from unravelling Heaven’s abstruse intents,
We view the world tost to and fro,
Mark strange vicissitudes of joy and woe,
Discordant and miraculous events.
Thou, Helen, art indeed the child of Jove.
The swan, thy sire, inflamed by love,
To Leda’s bosom flew:
Yet with imputed crimes malignant fame
Through Greece arraigns thy slandered name.
Of men I know not whom to trust,
But what the gods pronounce have I found ever just.