“Know ye not, how—when quaked the solid earth,
“And shook the seven hills, as at Titan’s birth,—
“When the proud forum yawned—a gulf so wide
“Rome’s navy in its space secure might ride—
“When pale-eyed prophets did the fate declare,
“That dread abyss should yawn for ever there,
“Till Rome’s best jewel, darkly tombed within,
“The gods should soothe, and expiate the sin!—
“Know ye not, how their robes of Syrian hue
“To the sad King the trembling matrons threw?