Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast—
The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!
O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent:
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot—
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent;
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!