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,