There was a hart most excellent, a noble hornèd thing, That Tyrrheus' sons had stolen from its own dam's cherishing, And fostered: he, their father, had the kingly herd to heed, And well was trusted far and wide, the warden of the mead. But to their sister Sylvia's hand the beast was used, and oft She decked him lovingly, and wreathed his horns with leafage soft, And combed him oft, and washed him oft in water of the well. Tame to her hand, and used enow amid manfolk to dwell, 490 He strayed the woods; but day by day betook him evermore, Of his own will at twilight-tide, to that familiar door. Him now Iulus' hunting hounds mad-eager chanced to stir Afar from home, and floating whiles adown the river fair, Or whiles on bank of grassy green beguiling summer's flame. Therewith Ascanius, all afire with lust of noble fame, Turned on the beast the spiky reed from out the curvèd horn; Nor lacked the God to his right hand; on was the arrow borne With plenteous whirr, and smote the hart through belly and through flank; Who, wounded, to the well-known house fled fast, and groaning shrank Into the stalls of his abode, and bloody, e'en as one 501 Who cries for pity, filled the place with woefulness of moan. Then first the sister Sylvia there, smiting her breast, cried out, Calling to aid the hardy hearts of field-folk thereabout; And swifter than the thought they came; for still that bitter Bane Lurked in the silent woods: this man a half-burned brand did gain For weapon; that a knotted stake: whate'er came first to hand, The seeker's wrath a weapon made: there Tyrrheus cheers his band, Come from the cleaving of an oak with foursome driven wedge, Panting and fierce he tossed aloft the wood-bill's grinded edge. 510 But she, that Evil, on the watch, noting the death anigh, Climbs up upon the stall-house loft, and from its roof on high Singeth the shepherd's gathering sign, and through the crookèd horn Sends voice of hell: and e'en therewith, as forth the notes were borne, The forest trembled; the deep woods resounded; yea afar The mere of Trivia heard the sound, and that white water, Nar, That bears the sulphur down its stream; the Veline well-springs heard: Mothers caught up their little ones, and trembled sore afeard. Then hurrying at the voice sent forth by the dread war-horn's song, The hardy-hearted folk of fields from everywhither throng, 520 With weapons caught in haste: and now the Trojan folk withal Pour from their opened gates, and on to aid Ascanius fall. And there the battle is arrayed; and now no war they wake, Where field-folk strive with knotty club or fire-behardened stake; But with the two-edged sword they strive: the meadows bristle black With harvest of the naked steel: the gleaming brass throws back