Chapter 3 No.3

Now on the place of slaughter

Are cots and sheepfolds seen,

And rows of vines, and fields of wheat,

And apple-orchards green; 40

And swine crush the big acorns

That fall from Corne's[18] oaks.

Upon the turf by the Fair Fount[19]

The reaper's pottage smokes.

The fisher baits his angle; 45

The hunter twangs his bow;

Little they think on those strong limbs

That moulder deep below.

Little they think how sternly

That day the trumpets pealed; 50

How in the slippery swamp of blood

Warrior and war-horse reeled;

How wolves came with fierce gallop,

And crows on eager wings,

To tear the flesh of captains, 55

And peck the eyes of kings;

How thick the dead lay scattered

Under the Porcian height:

How through the gates of Tusculum

Raved the wild stream of night; 60

And how the Lake Regillus

Bubbled with crimson foam,

What time the Thirty Cities[20]

Came forth to war with Rome.