Whole flocks and herds lie bleeding on the plains,

And, all amidst them, dead, the shepherd swains!

The bellowing oxen the besiegers hear;

They rise, take horse, approach, and meet the war,

They fight, they fall, beside the silver flood;

The waving silver seem'd to blush with blood.

There Tumult, there Contention stood confess'd;

One rear'd a dagger at a captive's breast;

One held a living foe, that freshly bled

With new-made wounds; another dragg'd a dead;

Now here, now there, the carcases they tore:

Fate stalk'd amidst them, grim with human gore.

And the whole war came out, and met the eye;

And each bold figure seem'd to live or die.

A field deep furrow'd next the god design'd,(256)

The third time labour'd by the sweating hind;

The shining shares full many ploughmen guide,

And turn their crooked yokes on every side.

Still as at either end they wheel around,

The master meets them with his goblet crown'd;

The hearty draught rewards, renews their toil,

Then back the turning ploughshares cleave the soil:

Behind, the rising earth in ridges roll'd;

And sable look'd, though form'd of molten gold.

688

The Iliad of Homer