Classic Poem

Or the black centaurs, statuesquely still,
Whose moving eyes devour the snuffling mares,
And watch with baneful rage their nervous strides
Whip the dark river white, lest unawares
Some danger seize them. . . . Statuesquely still,
Behind the waving trellises of cane,
The centaurs feel their hearts (besieged with blood)
Stagger like anvils when the sled-blows rain
Shower on shower in persistent flood. . . .

Now Cornus, he, the oldest of the group,
With many wounds, strong arms, and clay-rolled hair,
Coughs for a signal to his dreadful troop,
And springs, wide-fingered, from the crackling lair.
Loudly the victims neigh, they thrash the stream,
They tear their foemen's beards with frothy teeth,
And fill the banks with sparkling spires of steam
That heavenward roll in one tumultuous wreath.

Within the branches of an ancient oak,
A Mother-Satyr, sleeping with her young,
Smit by a sudden stone, upbraids the stroke,
Then turns to see from whence it has been flung.
Scarce does she view the cursed Centaur-pack,
Than, standing clear, she blows a whistle shrill,
Which, like an echo, straight comes flying back
Louder and louder down the empty hill.
A roar of hooves, a lightning-view of eyes
Redder than fire, of long, straight whistling manes,
Stiff crests, and tails drawn out against the skies,
Of angry nostrils webbed with leaping veins,
The stallions come . . .