While,—gold-besprinkled stations

Where the hands' filth is rife,

With backward-turning eyes

Leaving,—to holy seats she hies,

Not worshipping the power of wealth

Stamped with applause by stealth:

And to its end directs each thing begun.

Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son!

How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee,—nor yet overhitting

Nor yet underbending the grace that is fitting?