XXXVI.
Ay, thousand corses, shroudless, graveless lie,
And flout Heaven’s nostril with their carrion hue.
The iron hail is scattered far and nigh,
And earth unnumbered fragments sadly strew:
Wrecked lares—torn apparel—arms that slew
Till butchery broke them, headgear, shell, and shot,
But ah! no living thing—yes, one I view—
A haggard maniac, crouched in loneliest spot.