Disclose what Ages have forgot, holy muse, what songs
did chariots a thousandfold thundering forever drown,
before the world was waxen old.
the time when blades forged of Atlantean smithy overturned
the bronze thrones of kings,
heralding the mighty empires,
and tell the passing of those grim heroes into stony halls
where warlords long past their bright treasures stored,
relics from the wide world, the ages of battle,
to be guarded by some grim netherworm.
booty for their monstrous foes and powers dreadful,
huge tombs bound and inexorable,
sorcerel glyphs that doom the raider,
and the hollow warp of the worlds,
doors sealed to the vaulting deeps
Where ancient blade once rung,
the clangor of contest mighty.
For thither came Tithonus’ son Laomedon of fierce aspect
Long since to Hades hurled
by Achilles’ red hand.
Who unleashed anew fell spirits from thier dismal lairs
such kinds as are unnamed and unsung,
enemies of God and man,
murderers from the beginning,
who vain revolt against holy power
and divine dominion broke forth,
Who planned to unchain the defiant titans long in Erebus bound.
Spirits who in subterraneous wastes
let slip a thousand circling suns:
spirits to strive in combat invisible

So the martyr’s blood must now in streams pour forth.
But whose holy word first banished anew the specters.
priestly Nilus it was who pressed the spirits of devilry
back to the deep prisons of this world,
and they were thankful to hide again
in their dark places and not be even further hurled.

So let this the song, angelic muse, start from what stock
Memnon the king drew his might,
what soul overcame Egypt entire,
and found his way to Troy,
and at Troy met Achilles,
the blinding agent of his doom.
O Libyan monarchs
and mark of brazen spear!
How sweetly sirens to sailors sing,
and by thy terrors they go adrift.
And ears of frail men who have thirsted for drops of knowing,
their flesh torn asunder rolling on the rocky surf tossed and rolling.
Sing anew the strange and dread song,
for his saintly hand strikes down unclean sirens,
lest men by enchanted verse to ruin come,
and with minds entranced their lives are done.

And do not forget, my muse, to say what generation was it
that bore such stock and reared high-sung valor
of native hue not seen since:
The bronze race of heroes it was,
who from unsung Atlantys issued forth
And overcame Tartessos with mighty ash spear.
Oh ancient folly of the world,
thou urged doom-bearing men to sail impiously
Over stretches of unforgiving Ocean and covet gleaming gold ring,
Seeking bronze hauberk or bright amber adornments for envious wives
Or to shackle conquered men
and burden them with labor huge,
Or to draw huge stones from bellies of high-reaching mountains
And construct massive tombs to shame the giants of old.
In Tartessos first labored they the deep-minded sons of Atlas:
To measure and bind with old star-lore Heaven’s dome,
And so navigate the vast orb with insolence of easy conquest.
They constructed far-faring ships
to carry armies of bloody war,
Bristling with Atlantean spear
to subdue the world entire.
Yet it was not to unfold to their lasting glory,
for the gods, or nature, or some incensed angel from Heaven,
designed with just measure
the doom of that haughty isle.
Ocean’s deep vastness opened
and covered her over in a single night,
and to endless sleep onto cruel Sea’s floor she went,
There sunk low to leviathan’s bones,
there sunk down her lost splendor.
Now so dim in the memories of men, she seems a realm fabled,
And bards of distant origin come might tell you of her day,
How it was in that bronze cradle of time, the Age of Heroes,
As the last clouds of Vulcan's black fury still lingered upon the rolling sea,
and did swag over great waves like a ghost...

(The remainder has not been located)
           (accompanied web VERSION)