Lo! 'tis battle's stern array, No village brawl, where churls dispute the day With charred oak-staves and cudgels.

Broadswords clash With broadswords, and War's harvest far away Stands, bristling black with iron, as they dash Together, and drawn swords in doubtful conflict flash.
LXXI.

And brazen arms shoot many a blinding ray, Smit by the sun, as clouds that fill the sky, Disparting, show the splendours of the fray.
As when a light wind o'er the sea doth fly, And the wave whitens as the breeze goes by, And by degrees the bosom of the deep Heaves up and swells, till higher and more high The billows rise, and, gathering in a heap, From Ocean's caves mount up, and storm the ethereal steep.
LXXII.

First falls the son of Tyrrheus, stretched in death, Young Almo.

In his throat the deadly bane Stuck fast, and choked the humid pass of breath, And clipped the thin-spun life.