Whate'er the bound to earth ordain'd,There let her reach the arm of power,Travelling, where raves the fire unrein'd,And where the storm-cloud and the shower.Yet, warlike Roman, know thy doom,Nor, drunken with a conqueror's joy,Or blind with duteous zeal, presumeTo build again ancestral Troy.Should Troy revive to hateful life,Her star again should set in gore,While I, Jove's sister and his wife,To victory led my host once more.Though Phoebus thrice in brazen mailShould case her towers, they thrice should fall,Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wailHusband and son, themselves in thrall.”—Such thunders from the lyre of love!Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrainTo tell the talk of gods above,And dwarf high themes in puny strain.