_Chorus:_ O father of the earth and sky, Before whose rising beams the night 790 With all her glories flees away; Oh, whither dost thou turn thy course, And why, midway of heaven, does day To darkness turn? O Phoebus, why Dost turn away thy shining face? Not yet has evening's messenger Called forth the nightly stars; not yet 795 The rounding of thy western goal Bids loose thy horses from their toil; Not yet, as day fades into night, Sounds forth the trumpets' evening call. The plowman stands in dumb amaze, 800 With oxen still unspent with toil, To see the welcome supper hour So quickly come. But what, O sun, Has driven thee from thy heavenly course? What cause from their accustomed way Has turned thy steeds? Is war essayed Once more by giants, bursting forth From out the riven gates of Dis? 805 Does Tityos, though wounded sore, Renew his ancient, deadly wrath? Perchance Typhoeus has thrown off His mountain, and is free once more; Perchance once more a way to heaven 810 Those giants, felled in Phlegra's vale, Are building, and on Pelion's top Are piling Thracian Ossa high. The accustomed changes of the heavens Are gone to come no more. No more The rising and the setting sun Shall we behold. Aurora bright, 815 The herald of the dewy morn, Whose wont it is to speed the sun Upon his way, now stands amazed To see her kingdom overturned. She is not skilled to bathe his steeds, A-weary with their rapid course, Nor in the cooling sea to plunge 820 Their reeking manes. The sun himself, In setting, sees the place of dawn, And bids the darkness fill the sky Without the aid of night. No stars Come out, nor do the heavens gleam With any fires; no moon dispels 825 The darkness' black and heavy pall. Oh, that the night itself were here, Whatever this portends! Our hearts Are trembling, yea, are trembling sore, And smitten with a boding fear Lest all the world in ruins fall, 830 And formless chaos as of yore O'erwhelm us, gods and men; lest land, And all-encircling sea, and stars That wander in the spangled heavens, Be buried in the general doom. No more with gleaming, deathless torch, 835 Shall Phoebus, lord of all the stars, Lead the procession of the years And mark the seasons; nevermore Shall Luna, flashing back his rays, Dispel the fears of night; and pass In shorter course her brother's car. 840 The throng of heavenly beings soon Shall in one vast abyss be heaped.