Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound, A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies! On every side hoarse echoes from the ground To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep--and banners, all around, Meet hostile banners waving to the skies; Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line. Lo! half the field already from the sight Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes! Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight, And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows! Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save Their native soil, or make its dust their grave? One race, alas! these foes--one kindred race, Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers--and each face That brotherhood reveals;--one common tongue Dwells on their lips--the earth on which we trace Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth--this chosen land, Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand. Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare, Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? Think’st thou they know?--they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d! --Sold to a leader, sold _himself_ to die, With him they strive--they fall--and ask not why. But are there none who love them? Have they none-- No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 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 mother’s 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.