Of manhood bloom’d, it wither’d in an hour. Their frantic follies wrought them pain and woe: Nor mutual outrage could their hands forego: Nor would they serve the gods: nor altars raise That in just cities shed their holy blaze. Them angry Jove ingulf’d; who dared refuse The gods their glory and their sacred dues: Yet named the second-blest in earth they lie, And second honours grace their memory. The Sire of heaven and earth created then A race, the third of many-languaged men. Unlike the silver they: of brazen mould: With ashen war-spears terrible and bold: Their thoughts were bent on violence alone, The deeds of battle and the dying groan. Bloody their feasts, with wheaten food unblest: Of adamant was each unyielding breast. Huge, nerved with strength each hardy giant stands, And mocks approach with unresisted hands: Their mansions, implements, and armour shine In brass; dark iron slept within the mine. They by each other’s hands inglorious fell, In freezing darkness plunged, the house of hell: Fierce though they were, their mortal course was run; Death gloomy seized, and snatch’d them from the sun. Them when th’ abyss had cover’d from the skies, Lo! the fourth age on nurturing earth arise: Jove form’d the race a better, juster line; A race of heroes and of stamp divine: Lights of the age that rose before our own; As demi-gods o’er earth’s wide regions known. Yet these dread battle hurried to their end: Some where the seven-fold gates of Thebes ascend: The Cadmian realm: where they with fatal might Strove for the flocks of Œdipus in fight. Some war in navies led [47]to Troy’s far shore; O’er the great space of sea their course they bore; For sake of Helen with the beauteous hair: And death for Helen’ sake o’erwhelm’d them there. Them on earth’s utmost verge the god assign’d A life, a seat, distinct from human kind: Beside the deepening whirlpools of the main, [48]In those blest isles where Saturn holds his reign, Apart from heaven’s immortals: calm they share A rest unsullied by the clouds of care: And yearly thrice with sweet luxuriance crown’d Springs the ripe harvest from the teeming ground. Oh would that Nature had denied me birth Midst this fifth race; [49]this iron age of earth: That long before within the grave I lay, Or long hereafter could behold the day! Corrupt the race, with toils and griefs opprest, Nor day nor night can yield a pause of rest. Still do the gods a weight of care bestow, Though still some good is mingled with the woe. Jove on this race of many-languaged man, Speeds the swift ruin which but slow began: [50]For scarcely spring they to the light of day Ere age untimely strews their temples gray. No fathers in the sons their features trace: