White-browed kings of the hills where old Titans feast, Running
—Cheiron ordered the charge with a neighing cry, of the
And the thousand hunters tramped like a single beast! Centaurs.
Beautiful monstrous dreams they seemed as they ran,
Trees come alive at the nod of a god grown mute!
Their eyes looked up to the sun like a valiant man;
Their bows clashed shrill on the loins and limbs of the brute!
Laughing, rejoicing, white as a naked birch,
Slim as a spear in a torrent of moving towers,
Itys, the prince, ran gay in the storm of their search,