I.

Prepare, O Muse, prepare a song Expressive of the fall of Troy; The sympathetic dirge prolong And banish every note of joy. I with loud voice of Ilion’s fate will speak, Sing how the foe our ramparts stormed Through the machine their treachery formed, The vehicle of many a daring Greek, Who burst like thunder from that wooden steed, With gorgeous trappings graced, in mimic state, Concealing armed bands, which passed the Scæan gate, They whom such semblance could mislead, The unsuspecting crowd, As on Troy’s citadel they stood, Exclaimed; “Henceforth our toils shall cease, Come on, and to Minerva’s fane convey This holy image, pledge of peace.” What veteran paused? what youth but led the way? Enlivening songs breathed round in notes so sweet, That gladly they received the pestilential cheat.