20 25 30 35 409 45 50 When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. The horsemen and the footmen From many a stately market-place; Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest From lordly Volaterræ, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, From the proud mart of Pisa, Tall are the oaks whose acorns Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path 55 бо 65 70 75 20 85 [The augurs have foretold good luck, and the muster is complete] There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white And with one voice the Thirty To Clusium's royal dome; And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten; Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena 90 95 For all the Etruscan armies To join the muster came Prince of the Latian name. [At the tidings Rome is stricken with dread. The roads are thronged with country people, fleeing to it for safety. But safety depends on the destruction of the bridge over the Tiber before the enemy arrive.] |