Trailing behind him a splendour, a marvel to men which mark
How he darteth in shattering glories athwart the firmament’s dark,
Even so seemed Aison’s son on the Earth-born rushing: he bare
His sword from the scabbard outflashed; and here he smote them and there, {1380}
Mowing them down: full many on belly or flank did he smite
Which had won to the air waist-high, and some which had risen to light
But shoulder-high, and some as they stood but now upright,
And other some, even as their feet ’gan strain in the onset of fight.
And like as, when round the marches the war upstarteth from sleep,
A husbandman, fearing lest foemen the toil of his hands may reap,