For their bristling ranks enclose us,
And our hearts do quake with fear,
And their steeds with ringing bridles[n10]
Knell destruction o’er the land;
And seven chiefs, with lance in hand,
Fixed by lot to share the slaughter,
At the seventh gate proudly stand.
Save us, Pallas, war-delighting
Daughter of immortal Jove!
Save us, lord of billowy ocean!