Classic Poem

No, they are come; their horn is lifted up;
They stand, they shine in the sun; Fame has foregone
All quests save the recital of their greatness;
Their clarions from all corners of the field
With potent lips call down cemented towers;
Their harness beams like scythes in morning grass;
Like flame they gather on our cliffs at evening,
At morn they come upon our lands like rains;
They plough our vales; you see the unsteady flare°
Flush thro' their heaving columns; when they halt,°
They seem to fold the hills with golden capes;
They draw all coverts, cut the fields, and suck
The treasure from all cities, etc.