nil fixum cordi: pugnant exire pauentque,

concurrit summos animosum frigus in artus.

qui dominis idem ardor equis; face lumina surgunt,

ora sonant morsu, spumisque et sanguine ferrum

uritur, impulsi nequeunt obsistere postes,

claustraque compressae transfumat anhelitus irae.

stare adeo miserum est, pereunt uestigia mille

ante fugam, absentemque ferit grauis ungula campum.

circumstant fidi, nexusque et torta iubarum

expediunt firmantque animos et plurima monstrant.

insonuit contra Tyrrhenum murmur, et omnes

exsiluere loco. quae tantum carbasa ponto,

quae bello sic tela uolant, quae nubila caelo?

amnibus hibernis minor est, minor impetus igni,

tardius astra cadunt, glomerantur tardius imbres,

tardius e summo decurrunt flumina monte.

Nothing is fixed in their hearts: they fight to get out and they fear, a spirited shiver runs through to the tips of their limbs. In the masters, in the horses, the same burning; their eyes shoot flame, their mouths sound with biting, the iron is burnt with foam and blood, the posts cannot stand in their way as they push against them, breath of compressed anger smokes across the bolts. To stand is so wretched that a thousand footsteps perish before their flight, the heavy hoof is striking the absent plain. The faithful stand around, sorting out reins and the twisted crests, strengthening spirits and offering much advice. The trumpet blast sounded opposite, and all leapt out from their places; what sail on the sea, what weapon in war flies so fast, what cloud in the sky? The force of the winter floods is less, the force of fire is less, more slowly fall the stars, the rain storms gather more slowly, more slowly from the mountain-top torrents run down.