From the dark rock toward lofty cloud, he fastens The talons deep, and rips, and the feathers flutter, All blood-stained, down the sky. On high Olympus Jupiter watched the scene of battle, rousing Tarchon the Etruscan with the spur of anger, And through the slaughter and the yielding columns That warrior rode, calling each man by name, Driving his ranks to battle with fierce outcry, Rallying beaten men to fight:--“What terror, O Tuscans, causes you such utter panic? Will nothing ever hurt you? Does a woman Chase you all over the field in this confusion? Why do we carry swords? What silly weapons Are these in our right hands? You are swift enough For wrestling in the night time, or for dances When the curved flute of Bacchus does the piping! You have, it seems, one pleasure and one passion, Waiting for feasts and goblets on full tables When priests announce the sacrifice propitious And the fat victim calls to the deep woodlands.” So Tarchon had his say, and spurred his charger, Himself not loath to die, fell like a whirlwind On Venulus, and swept him from the saddle, And lifted him with his right hand, and held him Before him as he rode, and all the Latins Cheered with a noisy din that reached the heaven. The arms and man in front of him, over the plain Rode Tarchon, swift as fire; broke off the point Of Venulus’ spear, and sought a place unguarded Where he might thrust a deadly wound; the other Struggled against him, kept the hand from the throat, Matched violence with violence. An eagle, Soaring to heaven, carries off a serpent In just that manner, in the grip of talons, And the wounded reptile writhes the looping coils And rears the scales erect and keeps on hissing, While the curved beak strikes at the struggling victim, So, from the battle-line of the Etruscans, Tarchon swept off his struggling prey in triumph, An inspiration to his rallied people.