Doth mark the ultimate leagues of this fair land;
Scarce we beheld the foe we struck, or wist
Which party had advantage: like thin wraiths
Fit to throng Lethe banks the warriors
Struck and o’ercame, or fell, unseen, unwept;
And alien hopes, lives, peoples, alien faiths
Were all confounded on those desolate shores.
And ever the mist seethed, and the waves kept
A hollow chanting, as they mourned the end
Of all mankind, and of created time.