A Lay Sung at the Feast (3)

    Now on the place of slaughter Are cots and sheepfolds seen, And rows of vines, and fields of wheat, And apple-orchards green； The swine crush the big acorns That fall from Corne's oaks. Upon the turf by the Fair Fount The reaper's pottage smokes. The fisher baits his angle； 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； How in the slippery swamp of blood Warrior and war-horse reeled； How wolves came with fierce gallops, And crows on eager wings, To tear the flesh of captains,

    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 flight； And how the Lake Regillus Bubbled with crimson foam, What time the Thirty Cities Came forth to war with Rome.