"And as a fire upon A huge wood, on the heights of hills, that far off hurls his light; So the divine brass shin’d on these thus thrusting on for fight, Their splendour through the air reach’d heav’n. And as about the flood Caïster, in an Asian mead, flocks of the airy brood, Cranes, geese, or long-neck’d swans, here, there, proud of their pinions fly, And in their falls layout such throats, that with their spiritful cry The meadow shrieks again; so here, these many-nation’d men Flow’d over the Scamandrian field, from tents and ships; the din Was dreadful that the feet of men and horse beat out of earth. And in the flourishing mead they stood, thick as the odorous birth Of flow’rs, or leaves bred in the spring; or thick as swarms of flies Throng then to sheep-cotes, when each swarm his erring wing applies To milk dew’d on the milk-maid’s pails; all eagerly dispos’d To give to ruin th’ Ilians. And as in rude heaps clos’d, Though huge goatherds are at their food, the goatherds eas’ly yet Sort into sundry herds; so here the chiefs in battle set Here tribes, here nations, ord’ring all."