Restless, at last, a private Place he found,
Then dug a Hole, and told it to the Ground;
In a low Whisper he reveal'd the Case,
And cover'd in the Earth, and silent left the Place.
In Time, of trembling Reeds a plenteous Crop
From the confided Furrow sprouted up;
Which, high advancing with the ripening Year,
Made known the Tiller, and his fruitless Care:
For then the rustling Blades, and whisp'ring Wind,
To tell th' important Secret, both combin'd,
The Building of Troy.
Phœbus, with full Revenge, from Tmolus flies,
Darts thro' the Air, and cleaves the liquid Skies;
Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the Plains
Where great Laomedon sole Monarch reigns;
Where, built between the two projecting Strands,
To Panomphæan Jove an Altar stands,
Here first aspiring Thoughts the King employ,
To found the lofty Tow'rs of future Troy.
The Work, from Schemes magnificent begun,
At vast expence was slowly carry'd on:
Which Phœbus seeing, with the Trident God
Who rules the swelling Surges with his Nod,
Assuming each a mortal Shape, combine
At a set Price to finish his Design.
The Work was built; the King their price denies,
And his Injustice backs with Perjuries.
This Neptune cou'd not brook, but drove the Main,
A mighty Deluge, o'er the Phrygian Plain:
'Twas all a Sea; the Waters of the Deep
From ev'ry Vale the copious Harvest sweep;
The briny Billows overflow the Soil,
Ravage the Fields, and mock the Plowman's Toil.
