Where Ilium's towers once rose and stretched her plain,
What forms, beneath the late moon's doubtful beam,
Half living, half of moonlit vapor, seem?
Surely here stand apart the kingly twain,
Here Ajax looms, and Hector grasps the rein,
Here Helen's fatal beauty darts a gleam,
Andromache's love here shines o'er death supreme.
To them, while wave-borne thunders roll amain
From Samos unto Ida, Calchas, seer
Of all that shall be, speaks: "Not the world's end