Six moons were gone and past, when still from far Victoria hover’d o’er the doubtful war. So long, to both inclined, the impartial maid Between them both her equal wings display’d.

High on the walls, by Phoebus vocal made, A turret of the palace raised its head; And where the god his tuneful harp resign’d, The sound within the stones still lay enshrined: Hither the daughter of the purple king Ascended oft, to hear its music ring, And, striking with a pebble, would release The enchanted notes, in times of happy peace. But now from thence the curious maid beheld Rough feats of arms, and combats of the field; And, since the siege was long, had learn’d the name Of every chief, his character, and fame; Their arms, their horse, and quiver, she descried, Nor could the dress of war the warrior hide.