II.

East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,

And tower and town and cottage

Have heard the trumpet's blast Shame on the false Etruscan

Who lingers in his home,

When Porsena of Clusium

Is on the march for Rome.

III.

The horsemen and the footmen

Are pouring in amain

From many a stately market-place;

From many a fruitful plain;

From many a lonely hamlet,

Which, hid by beech and pine,

Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest

Of purple Apennine;

IV.

From lordly Volaterræ,

Where scowls the far-famed hold

Piled by the hands of giants

For godlike kings of old;

VII.

But now no stroke of woodman

Is heard by Auser's rill;

No hunter tracks the stag's green path
Up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatched along Clitumnus

Grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharmed the water fowl may dip

In the Volsinian mere.

VIII.

The harvests of Arretium,

This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep And in the vats of Luna,

This year, the must shall foam

Round the white feet of laughing girls,

Whose sires have marched to Rome.

IX.

There be thirty chosen prophets,

The wisest of the land,

Who alway by Lars Porsena

Both morn and evening stand: