A spacious breach we make, and Troy’s proud wall
Built by the gods, by our own hands doth fall;
Thus, all their help to their own ruin give,
Some draw with cords, and some the monster drive
With rolls and levers:  thus our works it climbs
Big with our fate; the youth with songs and rhymes,
Some dance, some hale the rope; at last let down 230
It enters with a thund’ring noise the town. 
Oh Troy! the seat of gods, in war renown’d! 
Three times it struck; as oft the clashing sound
Of arms was heard; yet blinded by the power
Of Fate, we place it in the sacred tower. 
Cassandra then foretells th’event, but she
Finds no belief (such was the gods’ decree). 
The altars with fresh flowers we crown, and waste
In feasts that day, which was (alas!) our last. 
Now by the revolution of the skies 240
Night’s sable shadows from the ocean rise,
Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involved,
The city in secure repose dissolved,
When from the admiral’s high poop appears
A light, by which the Argive squadron steers
Their silent course to Ilium’s well-known shore,
When Sinon (saved by the gods’ partial power)
Opens the horse, and through the unlock’d doors
To the free air the armed freight restores: 
Ulysses, Stheneleus, Tisander slide 250
Down by a rope, Machaon was their guide;
Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas,
And Epeus who the fraud’s contriver was. 
The gates they seize; the guards, with sleep and wine
Oppress’d, surprise, and then their forces join. 
’Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repair
Our bodies spent with toil, our minds with care,
(The gods’ best gift), when, bathed in tears and blood,
Before my face lamenting Hector stood,
His aspect such when, soil’d with bloody dust, 260
Dragg’d by the cords which through his feet were thrust
By his insulting foe; oh, how transform’d,
How much unlike that Hector, who return’d
Clad in Achilles’ spoils! when he, among
A thousand ships (like Jove) his lightning flung! 
His horrid beard and knotted tresses stood
Stiff with his gore, and all his wounds ran blood: 
Entranced I lay, then (weeping) said, ’The joy,
The hope and stay of thy declining Troy! 
What region held thee? whence, so much desired, 270
Art thou restored to us, consumed and tired
With toils and deaths?  But what sad cause confounds
Thy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?’
Regardless of my words, he no reply
Returns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry,
’Fly from the flame, O goddess-born! our walls
The Greeks possess, and Troy confounded falls
From all her glories; if it might have stood
By any power, by this right hand it should. 
What man could do, by me for Troy was done.