Phœbus, thou god who with a mound
Of stately towers didst Ilion’s rock surround;
And thou, O Neptune, ruler of the main,
Borne swiftly by thy azure steeds
In a light car, who cleav’st the watery plain;
After exerting with unwearied toil
Such skill as human works exceeds,
’Gainst wretched Troy when Mars his javelin bore,
Why, faithless to that chosen soil,
Left ye your city drenched in gore?