Trail’d by the feet amid the throng of war:
And o’er her shoulders was a garment thrown
Dabbled in human blood: and in her look
Was horror: and a deep funereal cry
Broke from her lips. There indescribable
Twelve serpent heads rose dreadful: and with fear
Froze all, who drew on earth the breath of life,
Whoe’er should match their strength in brunt of arms,
And face the son of Jove: and oft as he
Moved to the battle, from their clashing fangs