Now on the place of slaughter¹ Are cots and sheepfolds seen, And rows of vines, and fields of wheat, And apple-orchards green； The swine crush the big acorns² 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 moulder³ deep below. Little they think how

    sternly That day the trumpets⁴ pealed⁵； How in the slippery swamp of blood Warrior⁶ and war-horse reeled； How wolves came with fierce gallops⁷, And crows on eager wings, To tear the flesh of captains,

    And peck the eyes of kings； How thick the dead lay scattered⁸ Under the Porcian height； How through the gates of Tusculum Raved⁹ the wild stream of flight； And how the Lake Regillus Bubbled with crimson¹⁰ foam¹¹, What time the Thirty Cities Came forth¹² to war with Rome.