But ghastlier portents lay behind, Our unprophetic souls to bind. Laocoön, named as Neptune's priest, Was offering up the victim beast, When lo! from Tenedos--I quail, E'en now, at telling of the tale-- Two monstrous serpents stem the tide, And shoreward through the stillness glide. Amid the waves they rear their breasts, And toss on high their sanguine crests: The hind part coils along the deep, And undulates with sinuous sweep. The lashed spray echoes: now they reach The inland belted by the beach, And rolling bloodshot eyes of fire, Dart their forked tongues, and hiss for ire. We fly distraught: unswerving they Toward Laocoön hold their way; First round his two young sons they wreathe, And grind their limbs with savage teeth: Then, as with arms he comes to aid, The wretched father they invade And twine in giant folds: twice round His stalwart waist their spires are wound, Twice round his neck, while over all Their heads and crests tower high and tall. He strains his strength their knots to tear,* While gore and slime his fillets smear, And to the unregardful skies Sends up his agonizing cries: A wounded bull such moaning makes, When from his neck the axe he shakes, Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks. The twin destroyers take their flight To Pallas' temple on the height; There by the goddess' feet concealed They lie, and nestle 'neath her shield. At once through Ilium's hapless sons A shock of feverous horror runs: All in Laocoön's death-pangs read The just requital of his deed, Who dared to harm with impious stroke Those ribs of consecrated oak. "The image to its fane!" they cry: "So soothe the offended deity." Each in the labour claims his share: The walls are breached, the town laid bare: Wheels 'neath its feet are fixed to glide, And round its neck stout ropes are tied: So climbs our wall that shape of doom, With battle quickening in its womb, While youths and maidens sing glad songs, And joy to touch the harness-thongs. It comes, and, glancing terror down, Sweeps through the bosom of the town. O Ilium, city of my love! O warlike home of powers above! Four times 'twas on the threshold stayed: Four times the armour clashed and brayed. Yet on we press with passion blind, All forethought blotted from our mind, Till the dread monster we install Within the temple's tower-built wall. E'en then Cassandra's* prescient voice Forewarned us of our fatal choice-- That prescient voice, which Heaven decreed No son of Troy should hear and heed. We, careless souls, the city through, With festal boughs the fanes bestrew, And in such revelry employ The last, last day should shine on Troy.