On new-raised anvils: Tibur proud, Atina stanch to do,
Ardea and Crustumerium’s folk, Antennæ castle-crowned.
They hollow helming for the head; they bend the withe around
For buckler-boss; or other some beat breastplates of the brass,
Or from the toughened silver bring the shining greaves to pass.
Now fails all prize of share and work, all yearning for the plough;
The swords their fathers bore afield anew they smithy now.
Now is the gathering trumpet blown; the battle-token speeds,
And this man catches helm from wall; this thrusteth foaming steeds
To collar; this his shield does on, and mail-coat threesome laid