But fainter, ever fainter grow their cries,
Fainter, and fainter still, their groans arise;
Weaker and weaker are their throes, until
With one last quivering throb, they too, are still.
I see the vultures, as they scent afar
Their portion in the reeking spoils of war;
Far in the distance scattering specks appear,
Which multiply in size as they draw near,
Until they balance with their pinions spread,
Or circle 'round the dying and the dead.