Close to the limits of the trench and mound, The fiery coursers to their chariots bound The squires restrain’d: the foot, with those who wield The lighter arms, rush forward to the field. To second these, in close array combined, The squadrons spread their sable wings behind. Now shouts and tumults wake the tardy sun, As with the light the warriors’ toils begun. Even Jove, whose thunder spoke his wrath, distill’d Red drops of blood o’er all the fatal field;[220] The woes of men unwilling to survey, And all the slaughters that must stain the day.