 | Poems |  |
Who is now our aid?
Who for our defence arrayed?
Of all the gods on high
On whom shall we rely?
Shall we to the shrines repair,
And clinging to the statues, there
Supplicate with earnest prayer?
Oh ye who from the blissful plains
Descend to illume our sacred fanes,
By fixing there your bright abodes—
Our own, our chief, our guardian gods!
Oh is not this the time to clasp
With entreating trembling grasp,
Made by depth of terror bold,
Those statues of terrestrial mould
In which revering mortals see
Personified divinity?
Who for our defence arrayed?
Of all the gods on high
On whom shall we rely?
Shall we to the shrines repair,
And clinging to the statues, there
Supplicate with earnest prayer?
Oh ye who from the blissful plains
Descend to illume our sacred fanes,
20
Our own, our chief, our guardian gods!
Oh is not this the time to clasp
With entreating trembling grasp,
Made by depth of terror bold,
Those statues of terrestrial mould
In which revering mortals see
Personified divinity?
| Poems | |