The palace flames on high, while far and near
The stately city of Assaracus
Is wrapped in gloomy smoke. Yet e'en the flames
Keep not the victor's greedy hands from spoil;
And Troy, though in the grasp of fiery death,
Is pillaged still. The face of heaven is hid
By that dense, wreathing smoke; the shining day,
As if o'erspread by some thick, lowering cloud,20
Grows black and foul beneath the ashy storm.
The victor stands with still unsated wrath,