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 And win with tears the husband and the son Back to his home, from this polluted scene? And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb; why cannot they assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age?

Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down o'er fields he hath not plough'd. Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd, In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain.

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze Fix'd on his mothers lips, intent to know By names of insult, those, whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.

Woe to the victors and the vanquish'd, woe! The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain, Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. But from th' embattled front already, lo! A band recedes—it flies—all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.

As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish'd, in their wild despair, Chas'd—sever'd—scatter'd—o'er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight—and hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit!—still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear.

The day is won!—they fall—disarm'd they yield, Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying! Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field,