Are trembling, yea, are trembling sore,

And smitten with a boding fear

Lest all the world in ruins fall,830

And formless chaos as of yore

O'erwhelm us, gods and men; lest land,

And all-encircling sea, and stars

That wander in the spangled heavens,

Be buried in the general doom.

No more with gleaming, deathless torch,835

Shall Phoebus, lord of all the stars,