Noon smote down on the field, Burning on spears and helms, Shining from Theseus' shield. As a wave of the sea that whelms A rock, and its crest uprears, Through the wreck of the trampled wheat The charge of the charioteers Thundering broke. A sleet Veiled light, and the air was alive, As with hissing of snakes, as with swarms Of the Spring by a populous hive, As with wind, and the clamour of storms: So hurtled the arrowy hail Loosed from the Amazon ranks, Smote ringing on brazen mail, Struck fanged through the shuddering flanks.