Now with his hunters meditates in wrath
The conflict, whetting his white tusks aslant:
Foam drops around his churning jaws; his eyes
Show like to glimmering fires, and o’er his neck
And roughen’d back he raises up erect
The starting bristles, from the chariot whirl’d
By steeds of war such leap’d the son of Jove.
’Twas in that season when, on some green bough
High-perch’d, the dusky-wing’d cicada first
Shrill chants to man a summer note; his drink,