And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain:
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries
From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise;
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare,
And where the ground is reddest—he is there.
Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host,
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.
They perish’d—not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,