Then Ocnus of Falerii
      Rushed on the Roman Three;
    And Lausulus of Urgo,
      The rover of the sea;
    And Aruns of Volsinium,
      Who slew the great wild boar,
    The great wild boar that had his den
    Amid the reeds of Cosa’s fen. 
    And wasted fields and slaughtered men
      Along Albinia’s shore.

    Herminius smote down Aruns;
      Lartius laid Ocnus low;
    Right to the heart of Lausulus
      Horatius sent a blow. 
   “Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate! 
      No more, aghast and pale,
    From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark
    The tracks of thy destroying bark,
    No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
    To woods and caverns when they spy
      Thy thrice accursed sail.”

    But now no sound of laughter
      Was heard among the foes. 
    A wild and wrathful clamour
      From all the vanguard rose. 
    Six spears’ length from the entrance
      Halted that deep array,
    And for a space no man came forth
      To win the narrow way.

    But hark! the cry is Astur: 
      And lo! the ranks divide;
    And the great Lord of Luna
      Comes with his stately stride. 
    Upon his ample shoulders
      Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
    And in his hand he shakes the brand
      Which none but he can wield.

    He smiled on those bold Romans,
      A smile serene and high;
    He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
      And scorn was in his eye. 
    Quoth he:  “The she-wolf’s litter
      Stand savagely at bay;
    But will ye dare to follow,
      If Astur clears the way?”

    Then, whirling up his broadsword
      With both hands to the height,
    He rushed against Horatius,
      And smote with all his might. 
    With shield and blade Horatius
      Right deftly turned the blow. 
    The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
    It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: 
    The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
      To see the red blood flow.

    He reeled, and on Herminius
      He leaned one breathing space;
    Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds,
      Sprang right at Astur’s face. 
    Through teeth, and skull, and helmet,
      So fierce a thrust he sped,
    The good sword stood a handbreadth out
      Behind the Tuscan’s head.

    And the great Lord of Luna
      Fell at the deadly stroke,
    As falls on Mount Alvernus
      A thunder-smitten oak. 
    Far o’er the crashing forest
      The giant arms lie spread;
    And the pale augurs, muttering low,
      Gaze on the blasted head.

    On Astur’s throat Horatius
      Right firmly pressed his heel,
    And thrice and four times tugged amain
      Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
   “And see,” he cried, “the welcome,
      Fair guests, that waits you here! 
    What noble Lucumo comes next
      To taste our Roman cheer?”