LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones? Are gently prest with far more reverent tread LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, O* LXIII. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV. The Earth to them was as a rolling bark From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en— A little rill of scanty stream and bed— A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. |