To death first she dooms them, then bears off her prey
To partake of the bliss of the skies;
Not a thought doth the haughty one deign to bestow
On the tear of the bride, on the mother’s deep woe.
Now thickens the combat! now onward they dash
At the bugle’s sound savage and shrill!
Bows twang! arrows whiz! lances shiver! glaives clash!
Unyielding each host struggles still!
Now blood runs in torrents adown the green mead,
And the rivers are choked with the limbs of the dead!