Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/421

CANTO IV.] LXV.

Far other scene is Thrasimene now;

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain

Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;

Her agéd trees rise thick as once the slain

Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en—

A little rill of scanty stream and bed—

A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain;

And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead

Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.

LXVI.

But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave

Of the most living crystal that was e'er

The haunt of river-Nymph, to gaze and lave

Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear

Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer

Grazes—the purest God of gentle waters!