Chapter III

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.