ith bitter feet to tear,
While blood and riven feathers fall from out the upper air.

Nathless the Sower of manfolk and all the Godly Kind,
Upon Olympus set aloft, to this was nothing blind,
And Tarchon of the Tyrrhene folk he stirreth up to war,
And stingeth all the heart of him with anger bitter-sore;
Who, borne on horse 'twixt death of men and faltering war-array,
Goads on his bands unto the fight, and many a word doth say, 730
And calleth each man by his name, and bids the beaten stand:

"What fear, O hearts that nought may shame, O folk of deedless hand,
What dastardy, O Tyrrhene folk, hath now so caught your souls?
A woman drives us scattering wide, and back our war-wall rolls.
Why bear our hands these useless spears, this steel not made for fight?
Ye are not slack in Venus' play or battle of the night,
Or when the crooked fife gives sign that Bacchus' dance is toward
Well wait ye onset of the feast and cups of plenteous board:
Your love, your hearts, are there, whereas the lucky priest doth bid
The holy words, and victims fat call to the thickets hid." 740

He spake, and, fain of death himself, against the foemen spurs,
And full in face of Venulus his eager body bears,
And catcheth him by arm about, and tears him from his horse,
And bears him off on saddle-bow in grip of mighty force:
Then goes the clamour up to heaven, and all the Latin eyes
Turn thitherward: but fiery-swift across the field he flies,
Bearing the weapons and the man; then from his foeman's spear
Breaks off the head, and searches close for opening here and there
Whereby to give the deadly wound: the foe doth ever fight, 749
Thrusting the hand from threatened throat, and puts back might with might.
As when a yellow erne aloft skyward a dragon draws,
And knits him up within her feet and gripping of her claws:
But still the wounded serpent turns in many a winding fold,
And bristles all his spiky scales, and hissing mouth doth hold
Aloft against her; she no less through all his struggles vain
Drives hooked beak, and still with wings beats through the airy plain;
E'en so from those Tiburtine ranks glad Tarchon bears the prey:
And, following on their captain's deed, fall on amid the fray
Maeonia's sons.
But Arruns now, the foredoomed man of fate,
Encompass