When knightly valour’s own right hand
Sought fame, and spoil, and high command!
Say, as they pass in bright review,
What favourite takes precedence due!
They come—the pride and pomp of war
Mark their disastrous course afar.
Ah, while the mad’ning trumpet brays,
Fields reek with blood and cities blaze;
Fell cries for glory or a crown
The skrieks of wives and orphans drown.