Or those whom fair Abella sees
Down-looking through her apple-trees, 40
All wont in Teuton sort to throw
Nail-studded maces ’gainst the foe;
Their helm of bark from cork-tree peeled,
Of brass their sword, of brass their shield.
Thee too steep Nersæ sends to war 5
Brave Ufens, born ’neath happy star:
Hard as their clods the Æquian race,