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.