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, Chased, 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, Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d! E’en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs--he speeds--with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way. Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, O eager multitudes! around him pressing? Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing! Know ye not _whence_ th’ ill-omen’d herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?-- Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,-- Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains: E’en now the homicides assail the sky With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains! But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below. Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending. Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending! Victors! why pause ye?--Are ye weak and few?-- Ay! such he deem’d you, and for _this_ descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell. O thou devoted land! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun! And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.