Before the second town two armies lay, In arms refulgent; to destroy the town Th’ assailants threaten’d, or among themselves Of all the wealth within the city stor’d An equal half, as ransom, to divide. The terms rejecting, the defenders mann’d A secret ambush; on the walls they plac’d Women and children muster’d for defence, And men by age enfeebled; forth they went, By Mars and Pallas led; these, wrought in gold, In golden arms array’d, above the crowd For beauty and stature, as befitting Gods, Conspicuous shone; of lesser height the rest. But when the destin’d ambuscade was reach’d, Beside the river, where the shepherds drove Their flocks and herds to water, down they lay, In glitt’ring arms accoutred; and apart They plac’d two spies, to notify betimes Th’ approach of flocks of sheep and lowing herds. These, in two shepherds’ charge, ere long appear’d, Who, unsuspecting as they mov’d along, Enjoy’d the music of their past’ral pipes. They on the booty, from afar discern’d, Sprang from their ambuscade; and cutting off The herds, and fleecy flocks, their guardians slew. Their comrades heard the tumult, where they sat Before their sacred altars, and forthwith Sprang on their cars, and with fast-stepping steeds Pursued the plund’rers, and o’ertook them soon. There on the river’s bank they met in arms, And each at other hurl’d their brazen spears. And there were figur’d Strife, and Tumult wild, And deadly Fate, who in her iron grasp One newly-wounded, one unwounded bore, While by the feet from out the press she dragg’d Another slain: about her shoulders hung A garment crimson’d with the blood of men. Like living men they seem’d to move, to fight, To drag away the bodies of the slain. And there was grav’n a wide-extended plain Of fallow land, rich, fertile, mellow soil, Thrice plough’d; where many ploughmen up and down Their teams were driving; and as each attain’d The limit of the field, would one advance, And tender him a cup of gen’rous wine: Then would he turn, and to the end again Along the furrow cheerly drive his plough. And still behind them darker show’d the soil, The true presentment of a new-plough’d field, Though wrought in gold; a miracle of art. There too was grav’n a corn-field, rich in grain, Where with sharp sickles reapers plied their task, And thick, in even swathe, the trusses fell; The binders, following close, the bundles tied: Three were the binders; and behind them boys In close attendance waiting, in their arms Gather’d the bundles, and in order pil’d. Amid them, staff in hand, in silence stood The King, rejoicing in the plenteous swathe. A little way remov’d, the heralds slew A sturdy ox, and now beneath an oak Prepar’d the feast; while women mix’d, hard by, White barley porridge for the lab’rers’ meal.