Evening of Battle

Severe the battle's shock: Centurions
And tribunes, rallying their men, once more
Breathe from the air that trembles with their roar
The scents and ardors of red slaughter's sons.

With gloomy eyes, computing their lost ones,
The soldiers see Phraortes' archer corps
Whirl like dead leaves afar, and streaming o'er
Their tawny cheeks the perspiration runs.

And then appeared, with arrows bristling round,
Red from vermilion stream of many a wound,
'Neath floating purple and the brass's glare,

To sound of trumpet's flourish, grand of mien,
Quelling his plunging horse, and bathed in sheen
Of fiery sky, the Imperator there.