But in the centre thickest Were ranged the shields of foes, And from the centre loudest The cry of batle rose. There Tibur marched and Pedum Beneath proud Tarquin's rule, And Ferentinum of the rock, And Gabii of the pool. There rode the Volscian succors： There, in the dark stern ring, The Roman exiles gathered close Around the ancient king. Though white as Mount Soracte, When winter nights are long, His beard flowed down o'er mail and belt, His heart and hand were strong： Under his hoary eyebrows Still flashed forth quenchless rage： And, if the lance shook in his gripe, 'Twas more with hate than age. Close at his side was Titus On an Apulian steed, Titus, the youngest Tarquin, Too good for such a breed.