Mingling her own with heavenly blood,
When triumph-flushed from Geryon slain
Aleides touched the Latian plain,
And bathed Iberia’s distant kine
In Tuscan Tiber’s flood. 5
Long pikes and poles his bands uprear,
The shapely blade, the Sabine spear.
Himself on foot, with lion’s skin,
Whose long white teeth with ghastly grin
Clasp like a helmet brow and chin, 10