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,
Oh! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
